A mother has free range to get desperate.  You moms out there know what I am talking about.  Non-moms, maybe not so much.  It goes pretty much like this, or at least, it did for me:

Non-mom declaration:

When I have kids they will never drink Coke.

Mom reality:

Only two cans dear. You have to eat some dinner.

Non-mom declaration:

My children, MY children of all children, will never step foot in a McDonalds!

(I can hear my sister-in-law’s laughter all the way from Omaha on this one…)

Mom declaration:

Gimme a Mighty Meal, double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, Coke, and maybe another cheeseburger.

(Note: I still don’t touch the stuff, but they sure do!  Okay, I can’t say no to one or two or three french fries. Damn those french fries are good!)

So you get it. Maybe I was a bit idealistic.  Maybe I wanted to be like …Read on

It was her presence that I first felt: a warm, calm lull that gently nudged my frazzled state and invited me to thirstily drink the serenity that lapped at my doorstep. We stood side by side on a sullen Sunday afternoon in the checkout line of our local supermarket, of all places. Whereas I had barely managed to put on a bra, my hair was greasy, and my makeup was from yesterday, she was illustrious. I knew this before I even looked at her. I waited impatiently in line, subjected to the tiny octogenarian with acrid iron hair and matching rhinestone studded belt/earring/purse combo who boisterously revealed that the secret to her hyperactive libido was attributed to the bags and bags of fava beans groaning down the conveyor belt (if you must know, the beans’ high levels of …Read on

The other day my cell phone rang while driving in the car. It was my sister-in-law checking in from her home for our weekly updates. “Where are you?” she asked innocently, completely unaware of how I was about to spoil her day.”I’m in my car (pause), on the way to the beach (bigger pause), for a picnic” (cut-the-air-with-a-knife pause).Now, I love my sister-in-law. Not only is she one of the few sane, grounded members in my husband’s family, she is a really nice, sane, grounded member whose company I greatly enjoy. Over the years we have become, not just family, but close friends. Still, I’d be lying if I’d say I don’t get a teensy bit of pleasure out of doing this to her. You see, she lives in Omaha, Nebraska.Don’t get me wrong: …Read on

I had all the intentions for a well-balanced meal. I had bought my veal scaloppini for an, albeit, politically incorrect entree, but after an instant sauté carefully paired with fresh lemon sauce, white wine, and plump capers even this milk-fed tender cow would understand why I had to do it. To go with my meat I had lugged out my super-sized industrial rice maker, whose wide and shiny chrome exterior parallels that of a small car. It came from the top shelf of my garage, buried amongst the cemetery of culinary items I thought I couldn’t live without (but turns out I can). Underneath these gadgets is another shelf filled with a rainbow of toxic paints from nine years’ worth of wall history in our house. This is the shelf my husband swears he can’t …Read on