Pity Shopping Expedition

Mucinex has a bizarre effect on me that didn’t kick in until later on in the day. This was, mind you, after my afternoon Second Wind that prompted me to say to Kennimus, “Can we go shopping? In Bloomington? Where they have a J.Jill and a Chico’s and I can spend part of my $200 we got from your brother for Christmas?” He was powerless to my sickly hankerings but mostly he was tired of looking at my pathetic tube-top-wearing, ponytail-having self for the past 11 days.

Why don’t we go see a movie instead? We can work up to the shopping. That’s an hour away. You may not be READY for shopping.

How could he have let me talk him into that? I hit the wall after an hour of shopping but had just enough strength to talk about the stupid salesgirl “Well, I would know trendy. I mean, you know, like, I’m totally trendy and all, but they just should NOT bring back this awful broomstick skirt. And yellow. You’d never see me in yellow.” Apparently, Trendy McStickUpHerAss didn’t realize that her BEIGE sweater and BIG BROWN BELT and TAN PANTS weren’t all that trendy. They were “safe” and she didn’t have a trendy bone in her average body. Ass clown.

My strength lasted long enough for the hour ride home where I kicked Kennimus’ butt in the Artist Game. That’s where we put the radio on “scan” and the first one who names the artist of the song gets a point. He was closing in with Pink Floyd, Pet Shop Boys and Heart, but Dido, Vanessa Williams and Hall & Oates were in my back pocket and the whoop ass was on.

For the record, pity shopping is equivalent to make up sex.

Lustiness Leads To Big Stuff. Just Not For Me.

Fighting over Mr. Obama (I have to call him that now. It’s not because there is a restraining order or anything. This is per Kennimus.) helped to inspire Erin aka Queen of Spain to write a letter to Mrs. Obama that prompted some interesting hoopla. She even invited me to read about it when she commented on this post. So comment I did, and though my response to her article was nothing special, I am exasperated by people who sound off about Malcolm X (why were we discussing Malcolm X when this was about Barack Obama?) when they don’t know anything about the man except what they continue to regurtitate from the ignorance that others spout. In my comment I tried to eschew a written smackdown, but I can be blatant here where the hot topics of politics and racism are, well… nonexistent at this time. But I’ll bring it up if I want to!

Her controversial article was first published on The Huffington Post (where she writes) and now it’s been picked up by the Chicago Sun-Times. The comments on The HuffPo were varied and tendentious so I can only imagine the shitstorm coming down after even more people read about it. For good measure, I’ve sent her a huge umbrella. Now, I realize no one influential reads The Complete Oeuvre of Mocha Momma that is this weblog, but I blame Time magazine. They said I was Person Of The Year and now I’m a little full of myself.

I’m Pretending To Write A Resolution. Stay With Me, Folks.

There are some things that are entirely off limits for me when writing. For instance, I’ve promised not write anything that would embarrass my children or get me fired. So far, so good. To have the proper level of enjoyment in writing, I have to ensure that I add a heaping helping of humor, alliteration on occasion, and sometimes write about my career or finishing that damn Master’s degree that vexes me periodically. (Are you keeping count? Because I’ll be done with one of them in 2007. August to be exact.) However, the things I’ve shied away from are probably things that would be helpful to write about both as a form of catharsis and as helpful discourse to others. That is being the parent to two very challenging children. My boys. That is not to say that raising Mallory was/is a piece of cake, but she is a different beast altogether.

So, for my writing to branch out a bit I’ve determined to write more about my struggles as a parent to my sons. This would be impossible to do without also writing about where they get their quirkiness from and how much it drives me crazy, but I must be careful not to breach confidentiality with Kennimus Maximus who is, without a doubt, the Poster Child For ADHD. Sometimes it’s cute. Sometimes, not.

I’ve also resolved to sell the coffee mugs to make money for my students. Artwork, done by the gracious Karen Rani of Troll Baby, can be seen here. Watch for updates.

Finally, I’m going to stop writing about being sick. That is so 2006. I’ve joined (God help me) The Biggest Loser contest at work so I’ll make an ass of myself talking about what I’ve NOT been putting in my mouth and complaining about not having time to exercise. Some things will stay the same: Shoes will be bought and photographed. The tedious recital of my displeasure in education and the need for reform will go on. My predilection for coffee will continue. And once in a while, I’ll pretend to be a coherent grown-up.

But not too much.

Thanks to Kevin, Daisy and SueBob who gave me plenty of great tea suggestions yesterday. Kevin really is sending me that book and it gives me a great excuse to get my patootie back to Chicago for a visit. (Pizza again, buddy? You, Katie, Jen, me? Anyone else?) I’ve ordered the Black Tea sampler and Kevin’s favorite, Japan Sencha. I’d love some Chicago-style pizza, but I’d settle for a field trip to TeaGschwendner.

What? Are you tired of hearing how sick I am? I know. Me, too. I’m sick of me sick. It’s not a pretty color at all on me. I’d much rather be writing about the fantabulous fun that Mallory brings into this house or Mason’s ever-growing snarkiness or Morgan’s willingness to cuddle his momma with the possibility that he could get sick but does it out of love anyway. (Also, he smells good. Really really good. Always has. I can stick my nose in the crook of his neck and sniff for hours. But at age 11 he’s all, “Maaaahhhhhmmm. Come ON.” so I have to take what I can get.)

Before I move on, however, there is an update to my sickness. It’s no longer just a virus! It’s now bacterial! In my chest! (Yes, I realize my love of exclamatory phrases has increased with the illness, but I blame it on my body being inflamed. And not in the good way, either.) At least there is an antiobiotic I can take now that I have a legitimate infection. Oh, and let me tout the wonders of Mucinex: it has guaifenesin in it. That’s “gwye-FEN-e-sin” to the virgin ears. My doctor said it about 14 times when I was in the office before I said, “Please write that out legibly for me.”

Kennimus: That sounds like a meal. “Yes, we’ll have the guaifenesin for two.”

Me: No, it sounds like an appetizer. “We’ll start with the guaifenesin.” Oooh! Or a name! “You tell Guaifenesin to get her ass in here and clean up this mess!“

Plainly, we’re on drugs in this house right now. Mine is in the form of gag-sized pills. His is in the form of Sports Center. Dei gratia, our newest cable channels came with ESPN.

On with the observations from my bed!

1. Mucinex makes my nose feel all gummy inside. Very hard to blow your nose with gumminess supreme covering the inner workings of the nasal cavity.

2. I really should have finished painting the ceiling white 3 years ago. It’s driving me crazy to stare at it now.

3. The cravings for deep-fried something or other is getting to me. Chicken, potatoes, mechanical pencils. I don’t care. I just want it deep fried.

4. When I say I want ‘cranberry juice‘ it’s just the shortened version of ‘cranberry raspberry juice‘, but in my weakened state I don’t feel like saying the whole thing. Actually, it could be ‘cranberry grape‘ or ‘cranberry strawberry‘. Anything but the plain stuff. Way. too. tart.

5. My favorite ’sick clothes’ are tank tops and pajama bottoms. I have settled for this purple tube top that used to be a stretchy mini-skirt when I was in college. I have no shame.

6. I can eat 73 gummy bears and count each one before I’m totally bored and continue to shove them in my mouth without tallying them.

7. The best thing I’ve read this week was Christopher Moore’s The Lust Lizard Of Melancholy Cove. Absolutely hilarious. The town psychiatrist decides to take everyone off their meds and replaces them with placebos. Also, a giant lizard comes out of the water causing everyone to be super horny. Sex is rampant. Thus, yesterday’s post. The lizard/beast has a thing for mounting oil tankers that produce disastrous results. An excerpt: “She purred, taunting and teasing him from the front of the deserted Texaco station. That come-hither rumble. That low, sexy growl. Those silver flanks reflecting fog and the red Texaco sign called to him, begged him to mount her.” Honestly, just read it.

8. My ass is getting sore from being in bed. (That sounded all wrong. Disregard what I’ve been mentioning about sex and REMEMBER THAT I’M SICK WITH A VIRUS.) Bouncing around on the bed (oh, knock it off) helps wake my sleeping butt and the most comfortable spot seems to be near the headboard on Kennimus’ side of the bed. I spent part of the day with my legs in the air resting my feet on the wall.

9. Under normal circumstances, that bed pose coupled with a purple tube top would be sexy.

10. I’m sick, so that pose is not sexy right now.

Could these cooking show people at least do some stuff on tea? And some really good tea? Because I don’t want any more Constant Comment or anything that comes in a teabag. I want something uncommon, rare, delicious… and that I brew as loose leaves. Maybe a Darjeeling or an Oolong. No more boring tea! I’m getting really bitchy as this illness wears on.

It could be that the clip in my hair is too tight, but Kennimus is making some really good meals since I’ve been sick. Unless, of course, this illness was brought on by his cooking in which case I should stop dissing his cooking right now or else he’ll never feed me again. He does have issues with bacon, however, and I want to tell him in front of God and all of you that the bacon is not, I repeat, NOT out to get him.

I turned my back for one minute to cut a potato (to fry in the skillet with lots of grease and salt) and when I turned back it was this! THIS. Look! It’s burned.

Ok, Kennimus. The bacon smote you and you can get back on the horse. It’ll be ok.

Lecturing the children on all things intimate (Honest to God, children. Do you think you could STOP RUINING MY EXPENSIVE BRAS FROM VICTORIA’S SECRET? PLEASE? JUST. DON’T. TOUCH THEM.) has gotten me no where because they no longer dry my bras in the dryer and that’s all good and dandy (it’s ok that I use a word like “dandy” like Granny would use because, let’s face it, I buy sexy bras and that’s how I make myself feel better with these yes-we-were-working-breasts boobs I haul around) but now? Well, they’re washing their very heavy jeans with my bras and when it wraps around the legs of the jeans and rips out the wires and gets tangled.

Right now, at this very moment, the greasy potatoes are making the bra-ruining only slightly more bearable.

Things That Make Me Feel Better When I’m Sick

1. Greasy fried potatoes.

2. Kennimus offering to give me “protein shots”. That come in a series.

3. Kennimus offering to lather up my boobs chest with Vick’s VapoRub.

4. Playing with the Hockneyizer on flickr. See?

5. Time alone with my thoughts. Oh, hell no. That ain’t good.
6. Being ravenously hungry all the time.

This being hungry thing is not so much fun. (Oh, and let me now just announce that I am not pregnant. I’m not voraciously stuffing food into my mouth because there is a baby growing inside me. I do that all on my own and need not be with child for my stomach to cry out that it needs sustenance and could I please OVEREAT so it feels better. So, those evil thoughts you had about me getting knocked up? Stop them. Because I’m not. Not a chance. STEP AWAY FROM MY UTERUS.) Ok, back to being hungry: it sucks. Especially now that we have something extra special and shiny and new in this house that has super much a lot to do with that free TiVo box we got: we got cable channels! With cooking shows! And really pretty, glossy men and women who cook! With accents!

Some of them are just too cute for words. I have always dearly loved Nigella from Nigella Bites mostly because she had hips (I, too, have hips) and breasts (that’s been established, I believe) and didn’t mind sticking her finger directly into a bowl from which she was stirring and that’s so realistic. But this Giada chick? Well, I just can’t take watching her cuteness for too long. She has maximized her Cuteness Potential and I can’t take it. Especially when I’m sick in bed.

What sucks about it is that I can’t get up to create some fabulous dish that these people do in 30 minutes minus commercials and plus the help of some amazing people whose job it is to lovinlgy place the 9 x 13 pan with a rack in it within the space of light whereupon the meat glistens thus making my mouth water. It’s been watering for some time since a co-worker of mine was discussing how much he loves to cook for his wife.

“…and then I take the mahi-mahi that is cut into cubes and put them in the pan to sear them in the hot olive oil. Then I add the spices and some garlic… ooh, I love garlic… and I take the shallots…”

He went on like this for some time. It was all quiet and the five other women sitting at the table with me all leaned in like he was putting us in some trance. A strange, sexualized version of the The Joy of Cooking.

“… and when it’s done I pour it over rice and top it with some fresh parsley and serve it with a dry white wine.”

Honest to God! I was turned on and felt myself fanning my face with paper.

“Whew! I don’t know about you girls, but I’m a little turned on and may need a moment. Would you all excuse us?”

See this? This is why people continue to invite me to meetings. It’s easy to get me all hot and bothered with some damn food talk that has me drooling on the table.

Food and sex seem to be what my thoughts are all about as I lie here. And, ok, my thoughts aren’t all meta and shit, but still… I’m going to make out with this saltine cracker right now.