Momaical is a humorous look at trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Cursing & copious coffee involved.

Momaical: [mom-mahy-uh-kuhl] = (Hybrid of Mom and Maniacal.)


I'm NOT Your Venus

I have been using the Venus razor since it came out, like a million years ago at this point.  I love it.  It's really the only razor that I can use on my ridiculously sensitive skin without looking like I was on the losing end of a fight with a feral tabby. And, once I find something that works for me, I stick with it until the end of time.

The other day I was hopped up on coffee with some slightly turned milk and went shopping at Target.  In my curdled milk stupor I got all crazy and bought some different Gillette Venus blades to go on my plain old Venus razor instead of my usual standby razor blades.  These Embrace blades promised to make my skin smooth, silky and clean the bathroom when I was done showering.    I mean, FIVE blades for a dramatically smooth shave plus a ribbon of moisture?!?  And, at the low, low price of $600 a blade I was practically making money!  Sign me right the freak up!

The following day I jumped in the shower, excited to start my morning routine.  I lathered up my gam in preparation for sheer awesomeness.  Was I ready for this level of fantastic this early in the morning and with only 3 solid hours of sleep?  Yes I was. 

I placed the blue and green slice of perfection on my lower leg and pulled up slowly to my knee.  Well.  It was like shaving with a snail.  It was super hard and crunchy until it warmed up or did razor stretches or whatever it needed to do to get ready.  Then it left a slime trail wherever it touched. Embrace?  It was like embracing the ass end of an octopus.

And, of course I hacked up my leg in the process of trying to multitask shaving while simultaneously removing the slime trail.  I gave that blade it's slithering papers. That's when I remembered why I never try new things. 

Here's a picture of the snail on my front steps (about four hours after it got booted):

Maybe it will meet up with some other snails in my yard and produce wonderful Venus offspring that I can shave with.  However, more likely it will start a snail gang and start sliming cars in the neighborhood.  

PS - Yes. This really is on my front steps.


Woo Hoo!!!

One of my posts has been featured on  I'm so excited!

Please take a moment to check it out and see some posts from fantastic women bloggers. 


There Goes The Neighborhood

There's a noise outside that arouses me from my seven hour coma.  I am in that blissful place between sleep and early morning sobriety (kind of like when you're all hopped up on nitrous oxide at the dentist office and don't want to finish getting that root canal if it forces you to return to the real world).   As I hear the noise again, I glance at the clock.  It's 7:30!  This is the latest my children have ever collectively slept!  My first thought is: Wow! What a glorious start to Memorial Day!  Quickly followed by my second thought of: I hope the girls weren't abducted by aliens since they never sleep past 6:00.   I ignore the noise outside as it grumbles closer.  My husband sits straight up and yells "Motherfucker!  It's the garbage truck!"

It can't be.  It's Memorial Day.  It's an actual holiday - not a holiday that only the state of Rhode Island celebrates or some obscure religious holiday that you pretend to follow to try to get out of work.  I mean, for God's sake - they "forgot" our entire street once but here they are at 7:30am on a holiday???

We dash downstairs to bring the cans to the street.  We are big time screwed if we miss it since we had a holiday weekend cookout.  The raccoons are already camping out around the bin like they're waiting for the doors to open at an all you can eat BBQ buffet.  And, these are brazen raccoons.  You go near them to shoo them away and they are like "Bitch.  Stand in line.  I was here first."

We drag the bins down to the street just in time.  Which is no easy feat - as there are three bins in California: one for trash, one for recycling and one for green waste.  We are trying to catch our breath for a moment when I notice the neighbors across the street. They're sitting on their porch enjoying their morning coffee out and apparently watching the show.  That's when I realize that I'm standing there in a t-shirt, underwear and a hot pair of fluffy slippers. 

I do the only thing I can think of.  I wave and say "Happy Memorial Day."

They wave back. "Welcome to the neighborhood." 

I can hear the raccoons say "I told you this neighborhood was going downhill."

5.25.2012 of four. Nevermind. Make that Donner party of three...

The girls are starving.  My husband and I know we have only a few seconds before Emmeline takes a bite out of Lena so a dinner decision needs to be made with haste.  We opt for sushi.  The girls like to get a bowl of soup, add rice, chicken and gyoza for dinner.  It's fast, filling and will stop the cannibalism before it gets out of hand.  Plus, eating with "chomp sticks" is an added bonus sure to stave off potential toddler tantrums.

It's early - only 5 pm - and most people are not out for dinner yet.  We try to hit restaurants at a time that is the least populated to avoid pissing off the patrons or the wait staff.  Thankfully there are only a handful of people eating at this time.  We saddle up to our booth.  The dinner "music" begins.  We pay extra for it, but it's worth it.

"Why don't we have waaaaater yet?  We are thirsty!  We are thirsty!  We need a drink!"

(Backup singer croons) "Yes, firsty.  So firsty.  Need dwink."   She is off key and wearing an outfit that is one wardrobe malfunction after another.  I consider asking the waitress for a refund on the tickets.

"What is taaaaaaaking so long? I'm starving.  So starving.  I might just die."  "Me aunt a yemin.  Yeeeeemmmmmiinnnn in my dwink!"

The entertainers are getting stares from a few of the audience members.  Perhaps they are not fans of sushi ordering / beatnik poetry slams? Boy did they choose the wrong dinner theatre.   I shoot them "I wonder who their parents are because someone should do something about this" looks.  They roll their eyes at me.

The waitress hurries to take our order.  Weird.  My husband orders things.  I have no idea what I ordered but it has to be better than the bitter taste Bob Marley and the Wailer are leaving in my mouth.  The "chomp sticks" arrive.  For those of you that don't know, "chomp sticks" also double as weapons - which is good because you never know when you need to get all Chris Brown on someone's ass at dinner.

Emmeline takes full advantage of my set immediately.  She roars and rips them apart.  They break in the wrong place - sending splinters everwhere.  Emmeline then takes these weapons and deliberately pokes herself in the eye with one.   The waitress gasps in horror.  I ask for another pair because I prefer my sushi with wasabi, not bodily fluids.  She runs away from us.

The sushi chefs are yelling things to each other.  I'm pretty sure it's compliments about my superior mothering skills and impeccable manners of my children.  One rushes over with the soup, rice and gyoza.   This quells the storm for 3.2 seconds.  Emmeline then decides that she is going to eat her soup with the straw from her drink and stick her face in the bowl of rice because "I a doggy-wog."  When she comes up for air, she now has new white eyelash extentions, white eyebrows and a few rice piercings.  Her nose is stuffed like a Spider Roll.  Which, as you can imagine, is extraordinarly appetizing. 

The restaurant is filling up more quickly than we are getting served. Some poor bastards get stuck in the booth right behind us - they must have left a crappy tip for the waitress in the past.   Emmeline couldn't possibly eat another bite - mostly because she has poured her bowl of rice all over the booth and the floor.  It looks like a maggot parade.    Bored, she decides that she is going to entertain herself by poking the guy in the booth behind us with her épée.   If he were any kind of sportsman he would have heeded her "en guarde" and responded with his rapier instead of eating his California roll with it.  He tries to ignore her.  She taunts him with gyoza.  It sticks in his hair.  She breathes rice on him.

Whatever the heck I ordered shows up.  I say a quick prayer that it's not laced with Miralax in retaliation for my children's behavior and dive in.  I need to eat and get the hell out before something really embarrassing happens.

Too late.  Emmeline starts blowing raspberries on the plastic back of the booth.  The lovely noises are echoing throughout the small restaurant.  As everyone becomes deadly silent, Emmeline yells "Dat guy is doin poopin' farts!  Him is poopin' fartin'!"  And, in case anyone is wondering who she is referring to she pokes him in the head with her chomp sticks.  My mouth is full and I can't swallow it without choking.  I am half laughing, half drowing in masago.  Mute, I am unsuccessfully trying to get her to stop which just makes her increase her volume.  Even Lena is horrified.   Mouth full of some roll-like-thingy, I tuck Emmeline under my arm and make a mad dash for the door.  Everyone yells goodbye to us.

We do laps around the plaza while we wait for the remainder of our party to finish eating.  Emmeline has decided she's ready for second dinner.  She grabs the door of the Chinese restaurant in the next section of the plaza.  The door is locked.  Apparently they were warned.  I figured we would have at least a few weeks before which restaurants locked their doors upon our arrival.  And yet, I can't kick these last 5 lbs.  Sigh...


Norman Rockwell Doesn't Live Here

Recently I received an email from a friend saying I am not a good friend for multiple reasons - but especially because I only communicate via text or email.  She states that these methods of conversation are impersonal.   The email then goes on to explain how she is a far superior friend and describes in detail over multiple paragraphs the depth of my suckitude. Which apparently is giving the Mariana Trench a run for it's money.  My feelings would probably be hurt if I had three free seconds to care.  I want to care.  I really do.  It's just that I am tired.  Way. Too. Tired.  If you can't accept the limited conversations I offer, then feel free to unfriend me from your life. 
One of the many things I sacrificed in order to maintain a semblance of sanity is phone conversations.  They are a luxury I cannot afford.  The second that I place a phone to my ear a microphone descends from somewhere and the announcer tells the girls to "Get Ready To RUMBLE!!!"  As their theme song cues, they are doing chest bumps and lining up lawn furniture to hurl at each other.  I am trying to navigate my way through some kind of computer who can't understand my request to speak with a human.  "I'm sorry - I do not understand your selection" keeps being repeated as Lena body slams Emmeline into the fire pit. "Girls!  Be quiet while I am navigating the seventh circle of voicemail hell!!"   Voice Mail Bitch: "You need to pay a bill?'

Live phone "conversations" are the worst.  Here's the Norman Rockwell version of a conversation I recently had with my best friend:

Tracy:  Hi Beth!  How are the girls? 
Beth: Terrific!  (Fill in details about girls lives at school, sports, dating, etc).
Tracy: Aw! I miss you guys! Here's the latest on my family (fill in details on kids, school, fabulous free time that we now have since we are no longer moving).
Beth: It was so great to catch up with you!  I'll talk to you again really soon.
Tracy: Send love to everyone in NY!  Air kisses abound.

Phone rings - I miss the call because I am trying to remove a necklace from Lena's pony tail that is causing her to screech like a wounded howler monkey.  I also cannot find my cell phone because Emmeline has hidden it after watching two hours of Super Why.   When I finally find it in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator, I see that Beth has called me - which is rare because she has teenagers that cause her to drive all over the hemisphere and is in a different time zone which never lines up with my 37 seconds of time when I may actually be able to speak in a full sentence without being interrupted.  I call Beth back, knowing there is something she needs to tell me.  Otherwise we communicate via facebook or text.   Because, as another stated, I am an impersonal, sucky friend.

Tracy:  Hey B!  What's up?
Beth: I just wanted to let you know that I ordered...
Tracy: (Interrupting) Emmeline!  We do not write on the couch with marker!  We only write on paper. Sorry, Beth - what were you saying?
Beth: I ordered Emmeline a...
Tracy: (Interrupting yet again) Ladies!  If I have to tell you one more time that stickers only go on paper, not furniture, I will throw them all away and you will have no more crafts!  Ok, you ordered Emmeline a what?
Beth: I sent Emmeline her gift - Lara! I'm on the phone right now.  What is it?  No, I don't know where your mouth guard is for lacrosse.  Did you check your bag?
Tracy: Girls, please don't fight about the Hello Kitty coloring book.  You both have one.  Just choose one.  Really?  Do we need to cry about everything?  You've both been crying since breakfast. My patience is worn out.
Beth: No, I don't know where your lacrosse uniform is.  Did you check the laundry? 
Tracy: Beth - I'm going to have to go.  Emmeline just tried to bite Lena. 
Beth: Lara!  Just give me a minute.  Are you still there?
Tracy: That's it.  If you need to cry, please go to your room.  Otherwise you will be in time out.
Beth: If you can hear me, I'll email you the details. 
Tracy: Can you just email me the details?  I can't hear you over the symphony of wailing.

Now that I think about it, my friend might be right.  I'm pretty sure that she would really benefit from that high caliber conversation. I mean, who wouldn't want to listen to two minutes of me yell at my kids?   That is totally worth the cell phone minutes.  You might even want to FaceTime me.  See the action LIVE and IN PERSON!!!    Hello?  Hold on - Emmeline!  Put down the Red Stripe and close the fridge!  No, it is not a "Fruit Beer" and you cannot have one!   (Smash! Uh oh Mummy...) Gotta go friend that wants a live conversation...Fruit Beer emergency to deal with. 

I bet Norman never painted that scene.


Gettin' A Move On It

You could feel the tension seething out of the house.  It was a snarling, bitter creature.  My nerves were taught and being pulled repeatedly over a child-sized cheese grater.  Two children sized, to be precise.  It was moving day.  And not a second too soon. 

Arguments had begun breaking out amongst the family members about things that no one really cared about like who loved our friend Sloane the most or who ate the most Cheerios for breakfast.   My husband was threatening to sleep at work until the move was completed - as he walked into the vortex of hideous the minute he stepped through the door. Which would have been fine as he was annoying the crap out of me. Apparently he was on strike from housework and menial tasks like replacing rolls of toilet paper. And, then there was that godawful habit he had of breathing in and out and then in again. It was robbing me of my will to live. 

The majority of our belongings had already been carted over and put away in our new residence.  Painstaking effort had been taken to find exactly the right "home" for each item.  Does the rarely used crystal really need to be put with the sippy cups?  There was only a few items remaining in the garage - mostly pictures and things that needed a larger piece of furniture to be brought from it's cocoon of slumber in our former residence.  The "old house" was now a shell - holding only the large items that I got all diva about. (I refused to carry things that weigh more than an armadillo.  They are about 10 lbs, right?).

The skies opened up and five angels appeared with two gigantic trucks.  They were sent from heaven (or as it turns out Mexico City) to move us to our new home.  We stayed out of their way as they systematically dismantled our furniture and unveiled a purgatory of crumbs, legos, crayons and lost hair clips.   We piled the last of the personal items into our cars and began yet another new chapter in our Momaical lives. 

En route, Lena announced she'd sooooo much rather be Matilda because when her parents moved away she got to live with her teacher.  And make her own pancakes when she was 4 years old.  And that I am the meanest, worstest mommy ever because I insist on taking her with me to our new home and never just let her do whatever she wants.  At that point, I was ready to drop her off with the teacher of her choice.  But, that would mean I'd have to dig her out from underneath the printer, stuffed chinchilla, baby blankets and laundry baskets.  So, she continued on with us to her new "prison."  Emmeline just kept saying  "Me hungy" which is not really all that weird as she's always hungry.

The craziness continues as the caravan arrives at our new home.  Not only are the movers here, but so is the cable company, the water delivery guy to set up our new cooler and the AT&T guy who is wearing body odor like it was Chanel No. 5.

I am trying to be in 25 places at once and failing miserably. I can hear the movers freaking out in Spanish because someone put the doors to our Pottery Barn cabinet in upside down.  My husband is freaking out because there is too much stuff still in the garage.  My kids are freaking out because they hate it here and want to go to "home."  Plus, the clock is ticking closer to the time when we are supposed to be at a memorial service for my girlfriends father-in-law who recently passed away.   I would like to freak out but do not have the time for it right now.

I catch Emmeline as she is almost completely inside the crawl space under the house where the cable guy is snaking wires.  Tick tock, tick tock - service is in 45 minutes.  I look like I just crawled out of said crawl space: filthy, hair a nest of hideous, bruises in multiple inexplicable locations.  Forgot to give the babysitter our address.  No, I don't know where a phone splitter is.  Yes, I do want you to put the bar there.  Yes. I am that you mention may look better over there.  No.  I have no idea where the tape measure is. Tick tock, tick tock.  HOW MUCH FOR MY HIGHLY EXPENSIVE ANGELS??????  Dios mio!!! Do you take first born children or husbands instead? 

Miraculously, the plan comes together.  Everyone is out in time.  My babysitter arrives and takes my unruly children off my tired, scraped up, dirty hands.  I manage to locate a somewhat appropriate outfit for the service (but opt for flats instead of the sassy heels because my feet have developed their own heartbeat from running up and down the staircase 7,000 times.) We attend the beautiful service and are reminded that family, friends and love are what makes days like today worth it.

The following morning, I am smiling in the kitchen looking out the window into the back yard.  The house shrouds me in calmness.  I feel as if we are supposed to be here. Then the Mom-guilt begins to creep in and I worry "Are the kids ok?  Did we make the right decision?" 

I look outside where Lena is in the grass pushing her baby stroller. She is singing on the top of her lungs: "When things go wrong, I say dang it!  We don't swear, we say dang it!  Dang, dang, dang it, all day!"

Emmeline is closely behind her.  She is pushing her pram that is overflowing with babies.  She is also singing:  "You say dang it, me say dammit.  Dammit, dammit, dammit, aw day!!!"

And, that's when I knew we were home. 


Q & A with Tracy

Q: I noticed the epic fail on your adaptation of the wreath you saw on Pinterest. (  Have you ever actually successfully produced something you pinned or do you just waste hours looking at it and wishing you had an iota of talent?
--Wanda-ring from Wyoming

A: Dear "Wanda-ring" - as a matter of fact, I have successfully implemented something I discovered on Pinterest:

This is a clip that is attached to my lamp so my iPhone charger doesn't fall off.  Thank you, thank you... Applause is appreciated but unnecessary.


Any burning questions and comments can be directed to Tracy at:


And Boobie Was Her Name-O!!

"If I go swimming one more time without goggles my eyeballs will fall out and I will go blind and never be able to see my family again forever.  So, you have to get me goggles.  Or a dog to help me." I am. Waiting for my family to choose the appropriate eye wear because at $2.99, it's much cheaper than a seeing eye dog and a lifetime of guilt.  Plus, Emmeline looks so adorable in her "gobbles" that she deserves a pair for the cuteness factor alone. 

I am absentmindedly looking at a beautiful one piece bathing suit that is on the size negative 2 display mannequin.   My husband comes up behind me and says "Why don't you get a suit?  You need one."  Shocked, I stare at him for 1.2 nanoseconds then quickly strong arm the display, lest the impromptu invitation to spend money be revoked.   I have not purchased a bathing suit for myself since before my honeymoon (almost 6 years ago).    It was time to invest in a new one.  The elastic on my current suit is so stretched past its limit it has simply given up and leeched out like necrotic pin worms.

The stars had aligned for me.  My husband just gave me carte blanche to purchase a bathing suit on a day I was having an I-feel-thin day.  It was a good time to embark upon the most ego crushing challenge a woman can face: the changing room mirror.  I figure I can maybe pull off a tankini if it has enough spandex in the middle to pull back in what two children stretched to hell and back.  I grab a handful of tops, bottoms and the one piece I was ogling.  I mean, if she can rock this suit with no head, arms or legs - so can I, right?

I always start off this process with flourish. This one looks terrible - but no worries because there are many more!  It's probably just a bad cut for my body type.  A few suits into the experience I meander toward depression and wade full on into suicidal tendencies by the time the last suit hits the floor.

Armed with a multitude of sizes and styles, I carry the suits into the torture chamber and brace myself for mental flagellation.  The fun house changing room mirror makes me look like a small mobile home. The Spanish Inquisition halogens glare at me.  The elastic of the bottoms turns my stomach into a fat souffle.   I am convinced that the plastic hygienic liner is actually placed to absorb all of my self-esteem.  I am frowning at the person in the mirror when all of the sudden, two blonde ponytails appear under the dressing room door. "Open da doow Mommy!  I come too!"  Mint. A clown car changing room of observers in my own private hell. 

I grab the next suit that Lena hands me. It's the one that I drooled over starting this whole debacle.   I can tell right after I put one ankle into it that I will not be happy with the disgusting chick staring back at me from that mirror.   Woman's size medium?  More like 4T - I should give it to Lena to try on!   Sigh...

Emmeline is so excited to be part of this that she shrieks that I am "nakey!" and have "boobies!" The icing on the embarrassment cake is that there is a big meeting for a biking club happening a mere 50 feet from the changing room.  So, the multitude people attending the informational session are also privy to changing room play-by-play from the toddler. With some color thrown in by the 5-year-old.  Yay!

As I am wiggling my hips to try to pull the suit up, my troubadours begin a rousing rendition of
"B-O-B-E-E...B-O-B-E-E...B-O-B-E-E and Boobie was her name-o!"
I (just barely) stifle the urge to scream back at them "That's not how you spell boobie!!!" but instead focus on getting the suit off.

The straps are cutting off the circulation to my lower half.  Lena is poking me in the ass and thigh biscuits caused by spandex turning me into human sausage. Emmeline is still yelling about my nakey boobies in case new cyclists joined the meeting and need to get up to speed.   I can't get the casing off.  Dammit!  Why did I want so much spandex???   I am trying not to verbally assault the kids or collapse in a puddle of self-loathing or beg someone for a few hits of Xanax (which I'm sure everyone at the meeting must carry in their fanny packs).

I look to my husband for some verbal support.   He offers up the following loving words:  "Yeah, I hate that one.  It looks like your boobs ate the top of it."

I finally get the straight jacket off and grab the only suit that sort of fit me without making me throw up in my mouth.  I run away from my family before they start a round of B-O-B-E-E again.  Weaving behind racks of tiny bike shorts to avoid the one-off  Hells Angels meeting, I run to the cashier.   I make sure I understand the return policy for the store and do the only rational thing: I wipe the tears from my eyes with a highly absorbent kleenex/tankini. Then drown my sorrows in a large frozen yogurt topped with hot fudge while being serenaded by Satan's songstresses dressed in pink and yellow "gobbles."  And Boobie was her name-O! 


Ghetto Fabulous Adventures in Dinnerland

So, my writing has really taken a back burner as I pack up everything I own and drive it a few miles down the road just to put it away again.  I'll be glad when life gets back to "normal" and I'm in my cute new pad and can write about super important things like how I want to wring my husband's neck because he keeps looking at houses while I'm in the middle of having a nervous breakdown about THIS move.  Or, my daughter's total freak out because I brought the princess drawing table over to the new house and now she can't use it to stand on and get her bathing suit out of the closet and how she will "NEVER, EVER, EVER BE ABLE TO SWIM AGAIN FOR THE REST OF TIME which will make her "die to death and then be dead" and won't that just make me super duper sad?  Or, how there is no food in our house and what little we do have has to be creatively thrown together and cooked in some ghetto way because half my belongings are in the wrong place when I need them.  Who needs a lid for the frying pan when you can just stack another frying pan on top! Which is why I am taking a moment to write about this: Ghetto Fabulous Adventures in Dinnerland...

I really hate making dinner.  I'm sure that's shocking, as I give off a serious Martha Stewart vibe, right?  By the time dinner rolls around, I'm ready to serve everyone a heaping plate of Leave Me The Eff Alone with a generous side of No, Seriously. 

It's not that I don't like to cook.  I don't.  But that's besides the point.  It's just such a freakin' chore and comes at a time of day when I'm ready to change my name to a symbol so no one can nag me to do something for them. 

I'm not inspired to cook unless it's for some kind of social gathering.  No one here wants the same thing.  I'd like to employ an "Eat it or starve" philosophy but my kids will most likely peck me to death like ducks in their hunger-fueled ire and I'm weak.  By that point of the day I'm too tired to be calm and placate their requests. Or give a crap about things like basic food groups.  Can't they just forage?    Plus, I'm never sure when my husband will be home from work to eat my non-inspired dinners.  And, as previously discussed, he only wants "meats."  None of the "stuff that ruins food" that I add to my meals. The other day he asked me why the hell I added "gumballs to a salad full of yucky stuff".  Sigh.  My attempts to enhance dinners with yummy vegetables like fresh heirloom tomatoes (not gumballs) is sooooooooo unappreciated! 

The girls are even more challenging to feed lately.  Lena eats like a very strange, exotic bird while dancing around the table and changes her mind 54,000 times about what she will actually eat.  Emmeline use to be a dream to feed.  She loved everything I do as well as all the meat my husband craves.  Now, she is just starting to get toddler food-fussy. For those of you who have not been fortunate enough to experience feeding a food-fussy toddler - how lucky for you.  Emmeline has decided she is only surviving on cheese, peanut butter toast and "tweats" - trying to feed her anything other than the aforementioned food is akin to attempting to turn a crocodile into a vegetarian by hand feeding them tofurkey.  I almost lost a hand last week.

So, tonight I decided to feed them a la carte meal.  I cooked sausage because it was the last day before the expiration date hit on it and caused the meat to spontaneously combust in the fridge.  Or subject my family to some kind of gruesome death by consuming expired meat.  Now, really, people who suck at being carnivores shouldn't start cooking meat with sausage. First of all, sausage is made up of creepy parts of animals all the while being phallic.  Secondly, OCD people who don't cook meat make sausage like this (Isn't it pretty?  It looks like a star!):

I was so proud of myself for actually cooking this meat instead of feeding it to the crows at the dump that I sent this picture to my husband (as he is still at work and powerless to do anything about it! Bahahahahaha!). His response to this culinary masterpiece was to text me the following accolades: "WTF Tracy, grill it!"   I laugh until I stop:  I do not grill.  I should not even be allowed anywhere near the grill.  In fact, I believe it is outlawed in most of the continental US.  But, I feel I should be getting mad props for not microwaving the meat this time.

My next a la carte menu item was wheat pasta.  Grains (aka known as horse or pig food in my house) make my husband dry heave.  But, the girls and I like it and he says he only wants meat, right?   So, he is overruled. 

The following a la carte items were also requested by the girls: celery stalks, garbanzo and black beans. Emmeline wanted sauce - so she got diced tomatoes cooked in with some of the pasta.  They also wanted ketchup.  Because, what meal in our house is complete without ketchup?  Gag.

To demonstrate the dichotomy of tastes in my house, the following meals were consumed tonight:

Tracy: Organic greens (kale, mizuna, amaranth, purple kohl and tatsoi), a few slices of sausage (as my husband is convinced I don't get anywhere near enough protein so I chuck some in to avoid listening to it), pasta, beans and sun dried tomato feta.  Tossed with olive oil. 

Emmeline: Pasta tossed with tomatoes and tiny hidden chunks of sausage.  With a giant splotch of ketchup in the shape of Minnie Mouse on top.  Which she stirred up with her celery stalk and then scooped her concoction into her mouth with said celery.  (Note the chewed up Emmeline celery utensil at the bottom of the picture of my dinner).

Lena:  Piled sausage, beans and pasta on top of the celery stalks.  Added a ton of ketchup and voila ~ "Lena hot dogs."  Here's is a "hot dog" of pasta topped with ketchup on a celery bun.  Feel free to send me a request for the recipe should you wish to prepare this for your next important event or prison outing...

Here's my husband's dinner:

A big pile o' meats. In the pan which was actually the ghetto cover for the big pan beneath it as the proper cover is now at the new house.  I'm sure he'll enjoy it when he gets home from work.  Whenever that is...  Should I leave them right in the pan/cover so he can reheat them?  God forbid meat go anywhere near the microwave...

And that, my friends, is why I never want to cook.  I can guarantee Martha doesn't deal with this crap at her house.  I imagine if someone tried to pull one of these evenings on her they would quickly become fertilizer for a new crop of pumpkins. 

Post Script - I was informed that the reason that I didn't cook the sausages the "right way " is because you cook them in the oven if you don't grill - NOT the frying pan.  Never the frying pan.  Nor the microwave. Rules, rules, rules... Sigh...


In Memoriam: The Ass Wreath

Ass Wreath: March - May, 2012
Dear, dear Ass Wreath. Although our time together was short, awkward and slightly embarrassing - I am sad that it came to a violent end.  The coroner swears that it was a wind storm accident.  In fact, he did a lot of swearing about the mess of dirt, thorns and dangerous pointy shards you left in your wake on the patio.  In my heart I know better.  Plants that were created to withstand the harshest of environments couldn't survive in your presence. Their petrified remains grim reminders of your failure. Your soil dried up and blew away.  The moss somehow started to have a slightly fishy aroma.  All that remained of your brood was twine and skeletons.

Don't be sad, Ass Wreath. Your sacrifice was not in vain.  For I have learned a valuable lesson: just because it looks easy on Pinterest, does not make it so. You will be my one and only Ass Wreath. You cannot be replaced (under direct orders of the management).  The shattered remains of your soul are forever with me - since I can't seem to pry that chunk of terra cotta out of my heel.   I hope you're in a better place with other dysfunctional wreathes that don't laugh in your general direction unlike your time here on Earth.  In fact, you look healthier now, flung amongst the rose bushes in your final resting place as my children thought you were better suited as a frisbee than wreath. Perhaps they were right.  Fare thee well, AW.

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