Can I Have Another Cookie, Please?
Let me start by saying I have no business blogging at work, but having spent the past several (and I mean SEVERAL) days staring at endless piles of medical records, I'm entitled to a few minutes of fucking off.
And I have a gripe. (Whoa--stop the presses! Really???)
These "100 Calorie Packs." Specifically, the "Oreo" kind. I put "Oreo" in quotes because they're not really Oreos, they're the diet version of Oreos--crispy little chocolate crackers with some white shit (sugar, maybe?) sprinkled on top.
They're fucking delicious.
Light and crispy, rich and chocolatey just like the real thing. I've always loved Oreos but never have been over the moon about the cream filling--so these are the perfect compromise.
But 100 Calorie Packs--come on, now--could you give me more than six freakin' cookies in a bag? Can't you make a "150 Calorie Pack" or something? "180" would be even better.
Okay. Rant over.
I need to update this thing more. I kind of stopped because it seemed like I just pissed and moaned and whined about the same shit all the time, and it was starting to depress me more than I already was.
But things are, as they tend to do, looking up.
El Nino--who I'm going to re-name "Bob," because that's what Ben calls him and it's easier to type than the other--is adjusting slowly but surely to preschool life. The drugs are not a cure-all, but they've certainly made a difference for him. I think once he was able to slow himself down (via the medication), he was able to start working shit out in his little brain. Which sucks that he has to process anything at the ripe ol' age of 4, but there you go--life sucks sometimes. (As his mother, I wish I could put him in a Rubbermaid box and keep him in storage for the rest of his life so he never has to experience sadness or pain or disappointment or unhappiness...but that would, I'm sure, be frowned upon by the Division of Family Services. And Bob, himself.) Now he's starting to demonstrate normal annoying 4-year-old behavior--bad jokes, stubborness, being pokey as hell every morning, sticking his tongue out at me when I tell him for the 30th time to get his little ass dressed--that sort of thing.
And we're getting married on Saturday. Man, that's wierd. Good wierd. I've already experienced my first round of wierdness when I just reordered checks and realized, hey, I'm going to have these for a while--better put my new name on them. Whoa.
I'm happy as hell about this, no matter how freakin' wierd it is.
My only regret? That they actually print your fucking age on the marriage license. Ugh. Like I want that number slapping me in the face when I look at it. Luckily, they don't put it on the "keepsake" copy. If they did, ours would have a big blob of Wite-Out in the middle of it, and I would mysteriously be ageless.
Nothing new with DB. He's still a DB. We had our court-ordered mediation last Thursday, and never has there been a bigger waste of 3 hours and 300 bucks. DB put on his good ol' boy hat for the first portion of the meeting, then started to figure out the mediator was telling him he could get over his pipe dream of "things going back to the way they used to be" and ended up going off on the mediator for the last hour before I finally said, "I think this conversation has deteriorated, I need to go." The mediator agreed with me. Go figure.
And Bob told me that night over dinner that "Miss Renee"--his shithead father's fat hag of a girlfriend--"put hot sauce on my tongue and it was really hot" because he said "butt." To say I was livid would be the fucking understatement of the century. It was all I could do not to drive to that fat cow's house and snatch her bald. I hate that situation. I'm reasonably sure Bob spends his entire time with DB at "Miss Renee's" house with her and her 4 fucking kids, and I don't like that noise at all. Where does he sleep? Not cool.
Anyway, I can't cut him off, but I can do everything I can do to limit his time with him. Which I plan to do.
In other news...any advice on how I can stop eating myself into a coma every day and get off my fat ass and exercise when it's dark and cold outside would be greatly appreciated. Send comments to imabigfatass@gmail.com.
And I have a gripe. (Whoa--stop the presses! Really???)
These "100 Calorie Packs." Specifically, the "Oreo" kind. I put "Oreo" in quotes because they're not really Oreos, they're the diet version of Oreos--crispy little chocolate crackers with some white shit (sugar, maybe?) sprinkled on top.
They're fucking delicious.
Light and crispy, rich and chocolatey just like the real thing. I've always loved Oreos but never have been over the moon about the cream filling--so these are the perfect compromise.
But 100 Calorie Packs--come on, now--could you give me more than six freakin' cookies in a bag? Can't you make a "150 Calorie Pack" or something? "180" would be even better.
Okay. Rant over.
I need to update this thing more. I kind of stopped because it seemed like I just pissed and moaned and whined about the same shit all the time, and it was starting to depress me more than I already was.
But things are, as they tend to do, looking up.
El Nino--who I'm going to re-name "Bob," because that's what Ben calls him and it's easier to type than the other--is adjusting slowly but surely to preschool life. The drugs are not a cure-all, but they've certainly made a difference for him. I think once he was able to slow himself down (via the medication), he was able to start working shit out in his little brain. Which sucks that he has to process anything at the ripe ol' age of 4, but there you go--life sucks sometimes. (As his mother, I wish I could put him in a Rubbermaid box and keep him in storage for the rest of his life so he never has to experience sadness or pain or disappointment or unhappiness...but that would, I'm sure, be frowned upon by the Division of Family Services. And Bob, himself.) Now he's starting to demonstrate normal annoying 4-year-old behavior--bad jokes, stubborness, being pokey as hell every morning, sticking his tongue out at me when I tell him for the 30th time to get his little ass dressed--that sort of thing.
And we're getting married on Saturday. Man, that's wierd. Good wierd. I've already experienced my first round of wierdness when I just reordered checks and realized, hey, I'm going to have these for a while--better put my new name on them. Whoa.
I'm happy as hell about this, no matter how freakin' wierd it is.
My only regret? That they actually print your fucking age on the marriage license. Ugh. Like I want that number slapping me in the face when I look at it. Luckily, they don't put it on the "keepsake" copy. If they did, ours would have a big blob of Wite-Out in the middle of it, and I would mysteriously be ageless.
Nothing new with DB. He's still a DB. We had our court-ordered mediation last Thursday, and never has there been a bigger waste of 3 hours and 300 bucks. DB put on his good ol' boy hat for the first portion of the meeting, then started to figure out the mediator was telling him he could get over his pipe dream of "things going back to the way they used to be" and ended up going off on the mediator for the last hour before I finally said, "I think this conversation has deteriorated, I need to go." The mediator agreed with me. Go figure.
And Bob told me that night over dinner that "Miss Renee"--his shithead father's fat hag of a girlfriend--"put hot sauce on my tongue and it was really hot" because he said "butt." To say I was livid would be the fucking understatement of the century. It was all I could do not to drive to that fat cow's house and snatch her bald. I hate that situation. I'm reasonably sure Bob spends his entire time with DB at "Miss Renee's" house with her and her 4 fucking kids, and I don't like that noise at all. Where does he sleep? Not cool.
Anyway, I can't cut him off, but I can do everything I can do to limit his time with him. Which I plan to do.
In other news...any advice on how I can stop eating myself into a coma every day and get off my fat ass and exercise when it's dark and cold outside would be greatly appreciated. Send comments to imabigfatass@gmail.com.
posted by Mitzi Green at 2:34 PM
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