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Pinterest Has A Way Of Turning My Search Of Healthy, Meatless Meals Into Seven Layer Cakes And Chocolate Dipped Bacon

Pinterest-cork

I’ll be on Pinterest on any given night and it starts off pretty controlled. I give myself fifteen minutes, or so I’d like to think but I’ve learned my lesson. Once I’m on Pinterest, it’s like a black hole that sucks me in. It’ll start off with a zucchini noodle lasagne and healthy salads.

I’m sure because Pinterest likes to fuck with people, I’ll scroll down on similar items and bam, there’s a recipe for chocolate fudge. Mmmm, fudge. But, wait! I’m on Pinterest to find healthy meals, not fudge. Although, I haven’t had fudge in a long time, I could pin it and make it for Christmas. Okay, fine! I’m pinning it and going back to healthy salads.

Let’s see… salads. Already pinned that one. And, that one. Ooh, this one looks good, let me check that one out. Looks good. This salad has like 18 ingredients though. Who the hell has time to chop that shit up? It’d be easier to get a salad from Panera. Mmmm, Panera.

I love their chicken ceasar salad and a frozen lemonade. Oooh, frozen lemonade. Let me see what recipes Pinterest has for that.

Oh, look at this one. It’s alcoholic. Pinned! Okay, where was I? Frozen lemonade. Eh, don’t need any more of those. Oh, yeah. Healthy meals. Let’s try vegetarian. That looks good but my kid won’t eat that. Hmmm, maybe I could modify this one a bit. Pinned!

Okay, let’s see what else. Nope. Nope. Not that one. Oooh, creamy sun dried tomato pasta sauce. It’s not exactly healthy but what the hell. Pinned!

Scrolling down… nope, nope, yum, but I’ll never make that. Still… Pinned! Look at that. Chocolate cake. Like I really need that. Eh, I’ll take a look. Yum, Yum, Yum, holy shit, a 7 layer chocolate cake. That’s fucking amazing! I want that in my belly now! Mmmm.

I’m not pinning that though. I’m here to pin healthy meals, damn it! But, I can’t part with this cake. What if it never pops up again if I’m ever looking for cakes. Fine. Pinned!

Okay, back to healthy meals. But, wait. What’s this? Cheesy Buffalo Chicken Dip. Sounds good. But, what the hell would I need it for? I know! A Super Bowl party. But, I’ll never throw a Super Bowl party. I don’t even like football. Don’t think like that. Just think of the cheesy buffalo chicken goodness. Pinned!

Omg, talk about food porn. Chocolate dipped bacon. There’s no reason whatsoever to pin that. But, I must. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. No, I can’t.

I don’t have any boards that chocolate bacon would go under. And, really. I’m never making that. But, what if years from now there is an actual need for chocolate bacon and then I’ll think to myself, damn, I should have pinned that recipe I saw on Pinterest 6 years ago. Okay, I’ll make a ‘Food Porn’ board. Create!

I should be getting to bed but now it’s going to bug me that I only have one pin on my new ‘Food Porn’ board. I need to find a few more pins. It must be the OCD in me. Scrolling…. scrolling. Yum, maple bacon cupcakes. Okay, that actually makes me want to puke a bit from so much sweetness but what the hell. Pinned!

Wait.

What time is it?

12:30 am?

What the fuck just happened?

I need to be in bed.

A very loud alarm is going to be jumping on me and whining about breakfast in six hours.

But, look at that! A two layer buttercream frosting cake with edible gold leaf Baroque paintings and sugared flowers. Ha! Like I’d ever make that in a million years.

Pinned!

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Ink Quills: Don’t Wave Your Poo-Covered Bum So Hard

Please welcome Scurvy Platypus to the Ink Quills. I’m currently setting up the website so the posts will be here for now. If you’re interested in writing for the Ink Quills, contact me.

My wife says that my inner child is a 13 year old Japanese school-girl, trying desperately to get out. I grew up poor and all over the western side of the U.S.; the rest of my upbringing is messed up enough that you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I lived for the past 9 years in New Zealand, along with my wife of 20 years, 3 cats, and 2 newly adopted children. I suffer from depression, and a sense of humour that my wife informs me I’m too poor to call “eccentric”. My interests are geeky, nerdy, wordy, arty, and musical; for anything more, read my bio.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tonight is day five of my captivity; I hadn’t expected to ever be uttering such a phrase before [about poo-covered bums that is], but honestly that’s probably more a failure of imagination on my part than anything. And I’ve got quite the imagination. But, I guess maybe I should back up slightly and explain why I’m captive, and staring at a 3-year-old poo-butt being vigorously waved at me.

…You know, it turns out to be a little bit more difficult to start than I’d thought. The difficulty isn’t really starting, but trying to figure out where to start. Starting at the very beginning would cover some 40 years, a disturbing amount I don’t actually remember, and a whole lot of exposition that would bore the shit out of you.

So, I guess we’ll start in the middle, much like you’re at a cool party and while wandering by, you overhear some lunatic going on about who knows what and you stop to see if it’s an interesting train-wreck that’s happening or just some random ranting. And really, I view my writing much like a conversation; my hope is that someone will actually talk back to me at some point, so I quit being that lunatic talking to himself and instead become the much more socially acceptable lunatic that’s talking to others. Note: You can decide if “others” means other lunatics, or just other people; I’m generous in how I share my conversations and don’t insist on dominating the conversation at all. Unless I actually do and people are just too polite to tell me. I do ramble though, so be prepared for some non-linear conversations and thinking. I like to think of myself as a Salvador Dali of conversations.

At the beginning of April this year, my wife and I received news that we’d been waiting for over two years for… we were being considered as a home for kids. We’re from the U.S. but live in New Zealand as Permanent Residents. We haven’t been successful conceiving, and we’d both agreed that we weren’t willing to do something like IVF. So, we went to Child, Youth, and Family [NZ’s child services] to see what our options were. I’ll skip the details and just note that the way things are done here is really different from what I experienced as a foster-kid and the way the U.S. still does things; I feel like I got the Dark Ages treatment, only without the cool clothes. So, after two years of our lives effectively being on hold, out of the blue we’re told, “We’re considering you for placement and would like to interview you…”

They show up [three social workers], we talk, they show us pictures of a pair of brothers [ages 5 and 3] and they want to know if we’re still willing to take on more than one kid. As the eldest of three brothers that wound up getting split up, I was already committed to that.  A few days after the interview, they ring up and go “Everything seems fine, so we’d like to talk about how we transition the boys into your home. We’re thinking July; we’d rather do it sooner but with the end of the school year approaching, it’d make more sense to do it then. Plus, it’ll give a bit more time for the boys to adjust to the idea, since they’ve been with their current caregivers for a year now.”

First thought: Dude, are they really talking about giving me kids?!?!?
Second thought: Holy shit!! They’re talking about giving me kids!!!
Third thought: Oh shit…they’ve already been in foster care for a year with the same couple…
Fourth thought: I’m not gonna be able to say “shit” anymore. And Gretchin [not my wife’s actual name, but the name her dad called her when she was a kid] is going to have to figure out something to call me besides “asshat”.

We met the kids for the first time in May, a week before the older one turned six. They were living an hour and a half north of us, so each Saturday we’d drive up and spend the day with them. June, they started staying over the weekend with us. After three weekends, the kids were finally told that they were going to be coming to live with us as their “forever home”.

Five days ago, their social worker dropped them off with all of their baggage; that’d be the physical baggage. The emotional baggage is still arriving. It includes an intense sibling rivalry, fear of showers/baths, and attachment issues. Oh yeah, the birth parents are also still involved in the boy’s lives and they’ve got supervised visits with the separated parents every three weeks or so.

Today was the first day of school for the six-year-old [Dee] and since the social worker didn’t get the forms filled in for him [or the forms for kindergarten for the three-year old, Jay], I had to rush around to get him into his new class, get forms filled out and money paid, and then take Gretch to work; I’m taking leave from work right now, so we’ll be switching places come November. Other than the fact that she doesn’t drive, so I’ll still be doing all the transportation…

Weekend visits and a few days of everyone being together still does not prepare you for what I am confronting right now…two formed personalities that I barely know, cultural identities I’m still trying to sort out with adults [I thought baseball was boring until an NZer tried to share their love of cricket with me, which has less happening in it than baseball and can take days for a single game to complete], and a language [English] that I’m only mostly familiar with in comparison to my own [American] that’s filtered through the mouths and brains of children.

All of this is encapsulated by the naked crap-covered butt, currently being gleefully waved at me by an otherwise disgruntled three-year old. After loud protestations that he didn’t need his nappy changed, demands and tears for “grandma” [his previous caregiver] and a glare that could dominate the world if it were weaponised, we make it into the bathroom.

“Alright, assume the position…” Jay wears trainers instead of diapers; so ‘the position’ is hands on the bathtube and legs spread, as if I were a cop searching him; instead of needles and knives, I’ve got to worry about diaper blow-out.

“I dun need a new nappy!”Jay declares grimly, like a hostile teen. The smell, and I’d swear what was an orange mist wafting towards me, indicated otherwise.

“Right. Ok, first come down the pants, and…HOLY?!?…uhhhh…Ok, Houston, we have a problem. Let’s stand nice and quiet for a second while I figure this out buddy…”

“I made a yuck” he announces. His attitude has changed now, shit covered pants around his ankles. He sounds like someone admitting that he was in fact carrying drugs, after a cop finds the stash and shows him. Only nobody would be wanting to buy this particular smuggled package. “I wanna do it myself!!!”

“Yes, you certainly made a WHATAREYOUDOING?!?! FREEZE! Do NOT lift that leg any higher mister!” I’ve caught the offending limb in question and try to delicately extract it from the pants without disturbing the mass. It looks like someone has tried to inexpertly plaster over a wall crack, only featuring a butt instead of a wall and poo instead of plaster. I manage to do the deed and quickly drop the weapon into the rubbish bin outside, just a few steps from the bathroom.

I step back and am confronted by the sight of Jay, giggling like a lunatic and looking over his shoulder at me, as he gyrates and dances in place, hands still firmly gripping the side of the bathtub, and chants “Poo-bum! Poo-bum!” to the beat of whatever internal drummer that boy is marching to.

“Don’t wave your poo-covered bum so hard!!”I’m both amused and aghast.
“Why?” He seems genuinely curious.
“Uhhh….” Oh god, so many reasons…”Because it makes it more difficult to clean your bottom?”
“Ok!” Butt waving immediately recommences.

So now, it’s 02:30 in the morning as I write this and the kids will be awake around 06:00. I’ve got a needy cat trying to walk on my keyboard, a traumatised kitten eyeing me from the couch, and another cat that would like to smack the stupid out of everyone in the house, cat and human alike. It’s winter [Southern Hemisphere y’all, means opposite seasons], I’ve reluctantly concluded I’m probably not going to be able to drink the coffee I made myself this morning [the morning I got up, not in the last couple of hours], and my foot is still sore from the Lego I stepped on earlier.

Holy shit. I’ve got kids…and I am SO unprepared.

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6 Reasons Summer Sucks

I could make a longer list but I’ll spare you.

6. Mosquitos – Mosquitos are assholes that make my sensitive skin pissed off at me. And then I take Benadryl which knocks me out during the day but you know when it doesn’t knock me out? When I need it most… at night. Chronic insomniac here! I’m up half the night on the stuff.

5. The sun – I do like the sun but I’m more of a partly cloudy kind of girl vs. having the sun feel like a tanning bed blasting in my face.

4. 4th of July – I love the 4th of July but what sucks is the assholes in the neighborhood who light fireworks weeks before and weeks after the forth. They tend to do this soon after I put my kid to bed and I want to kill them because yay, my kid is finally asleep but boo, those damn fireworks will wake her up.

3. Kids – The kids are home from school and maybe this is just me but it takes all my strength to keep the hummingbird occupied for an hour. She has energy galore and by the end of the hour, I’m ready for a nap. Thank sweet baby jeebus for summer camp; where other people are paid to play with your children. My 7 year-old has so much fun there but what baffles me is after being there all day, she wants to play soccer, go for a bike ride, go swimming, run a marathon, and pull the car 10 miles when she gets home.

2. Boob sweat – I don’t like to sweat and boob sweat makes it more gross. Wearing a bra sucks as it is but come summer, the boobies be a sweatin’. Some dickhead man must have invented the bra because it sucks and on top of that, in the summer, wearing a shirt makes it hotter and marinates my boobs in boob sweat. Thanks bra inventor asshole.

1. Frizzy hair- I do the Brazilian blowout on my hair but even so, I need to perfect the hair bun because despite straightening my hair, it becomes that of a clown’s wig from Halloween in the summer. Not only that, I’m sweaty and sticky and my hair is all wet from my sweaty boobs. The heat from my boobs radiates to my head and sets my scalp on fire, hence the sweaty, frizzy hair. Or, so I’m assuming.

friends-monica

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The Mall Is A Place That Is Hell On Earth

carousel

I recently took my daughter to the mall and it reminded me why I hate the mall. The hummingbird loves it so I endure it after taking a xanax. Not only is the drive 40 minutes away, and I hate driving, but crowds just aren’t my thing either. But, there’s always queso at the mall so besides dealing with the mall bullshit, I eat my beloved tortilla chips and queso at a restaurant that’s in the mall.

That cheesy, delicious, creamy, spicy queso makes me do it.

Cheese has superpowers over me.

But, I’m getting off topic.

The mall fucking sucks and I hate it but I go because after spending half a day at home with a 7 year-old that’s bouncing off the walls and running me ragged, I need to get the hell out of the house. The library is usually our go to place in that situation but on those beautiful, glorious paydays, I have to buy shit I don’t need.

Enter the mall.

Straight away, I have to get my queso and tortilla chips. If I’m full of cheese, I won’t have as much desire to ram people with my body while walking through the mall. It’s the people who stand there talking and are completely oblivious to the fact that other people exist. This person is usually standing in the middle of the aisle so you can’t get past even though you’ve said excuse me twice. They can also be right in front of a store blocking the walkway but you can’t pass because a herd of people decide to come in the opposite direction.

My daughter usually rides the carousel twice and I stand there waving at my daughter every single time she comes my way and take a picture. And usually, half way through, she starts to ignore me while I continue to wave and take 30 pictures of her, none of which turn out.

Then, she’ll ask for a punching balloon thingamajig and each time, I’ll say no.

On we go to one of the stores but wait, what’s that ahead? It’s the fucking Build-A-Bear. That damn store. The hummingbird tries to drag me in while I drag her away and look at that, a small group of people or a family is standing in front of the store, talking, while in the opposite direction, a crowd of people come by like a swarm of bees so we have no choice but to stop and wait which is just enough time for my daughter to use her super strength to get a few feet into Build-A-Bear and just long enough for me to glance at the prices and think what the fuck, break into a cold sweat because an employee of the store eyes us and starts walking our way, and then over-riding my stuffed to the gills stomach full of queso to find my super strength to zoom out of there.

Finally, we’re a few stores down and safe. Or so I thought. There’s a kiosk that has these smushy balls that are sticky and splat on the table and that sounds perverted. For some unknown reason, there’s a magnetic pull that brings kids to this place. After navigating my way from the sticky balls, we head into one of the clothing stores and even though I say we’re just going to look, there’s a cha-ching of some of that payday money.

We start walking to the next store and things are all shiny and calling my name like Sephora or The Body Shop but my daughter’s whiny “MOM” voice that is so bad, dogs can hear, either gets me out of their quick or makes me avoid those places completely.

But wait.

There’s a lipstick I just have to get and that lip balm that I’ll lose in the next few days smells really good so I can’t leave without that.

“MOM!”

Around this time, my mind tunes the whiny voice out because there’s too many shiny, pretty things to look at. That’s when I do what I said I’d never do as a mom but have done since she’s understood it. Bribing is a beautiful thing when you’re in that kind of situation.

I promise her she can buy one thing at the other clothing store within a certain amount of money “if you give mommy a few minutes more.”

Cha-ching!

Oh, there’s the cocoa butter body butter. I must get that too!

Cha-ching!

Before going into the hummingbird’s clothing store, I remind her that we’re only getting ONE thing. That’s it. Just one thing.

Cha-ching! Cha-ching!

Finally, sweet freedom from hell on earth is just out the door but wait. I get the puppy dog eyes and “please, please, please mom, can I ride the carousel once more?”

Okaaay.

While I’m waiting, we’re by the food court and all the smells start making my stomach rumble. The queso has done it’s job in the beginning but now I’m starving and there’s pizza, and Chinese food, and burgers, oh my.

Once the hummingbird is done, we head to the frozen yogurt place in the food court because it’s so smart to sugar your kid up before our 40 minute drive back home. I’m smart like that.

After that, fresh air and freedom from food court smells, crowds, and spending lots of money, we head to the car.

Oh shit, where is the fucking car. I always make a mental note of where I parked but forget it in less than five seconds. Fortunately, my very hyper, sugared up 7 year-old sees our car and it’s home at last.

But what’s that sound? It’s my bank account gently weeping. If only it knew that if we were to get into the clutches of the Build-A-Bear employees, it would be doing the ugly cry from buying all the overpriced bear shit that the place involves.

So, I reassure my bank account that we won’t experience the mall again for another few months. I do leave out the fact that there’s plenty of stuff just sitting there waiting to be bought in my Amazon shopping cart.

Cha-ching!

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Quinoa

I finally tried quinoa and thought of this haiku…

Quinoa is so gross

A consistency of a bird

Who threw up bird seed

*Miss Jackson

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Meet My Kid, Bean And Cheese Burrito With Sour Cream

pregnancy-cravings

Mine would be:

Bean And Cheese Burrito With Sour Cream, DON’T FORGET THE SOUR CREAM Davis.

Orange Juice Davis

Don’t Fuck With My Apple Juice Davis

and

Grilled Cheese Davis

What are yours?

*Not Ready To Make Nice

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Bullseye

target

Since I’ve been back in college, I have cut my 3-4 times a week trips to Target down to about 1-2. I was going there so much, the workers knew me by name and asked where I’ve been if I went more than two days without going. Yes, Target calls to me. If I have an hour or so to kill, it knows. Target knows what’s up.

Target: Oh, hey! You over there. Didn’t you run out of butter yesterday? Sure, the grocery store is closer but you neeeeed meeee.

Me: Um, look Target. I know you mean well but I can wait until the weekend to get more butter.

Target: Of course. No pressure, girl! I’m just sayin’. And you know what? It’s been kind of chilly. You could come on over and get some fuzzy socks or some cozy slippers.

Me: Target, I know what you’re doing. I’m not falling for it. I don’t need more nice, fuzzy socks. So fuzzy. I… NO! I’m not listening to you.

Target: You know how you bought that lip liner and it’s too dark? Well, Target has what you need. C’mon, I won’t tell your husband. Those fuzzy socks are waiting and if you get that butter, you can start baking.

Me: Well… that would be much more convenient to get everything in one place. But, no. I can’t!

Target. I know how you love to spend time looking through the 30% off rack in the girls section. You’ve found some awesome things for the hummingbird.

Me: I MUST FIGHT THIS! WHERE ARE YOU, WILLPOWER?

Target: Like I said, no pressure. But… the Cadbury mini eggs are now out on the shelves and you can…

Me: Fuck it! I’m going to Target!

2 hours later…

Me: What the hell just happened?

*Wish You Were Here

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