Monday, April 30, 2012

Girl Scouts and the Soap-tastrophe

It's been a long week.

Sky King jetted off for a man-cation to bond with his brothers, leaving me with explicit instructions to NOT LET THE CHILDREN DIE.

He takes really good care of me, which is why I was scared to death when he left me for five days.

In the middle of it, I had to take Princess to a MASSIVE Girl Scout event, with 12,000 of her closest Girl Scout Sisters.  I survived, without alcohol.  (during the event.  There was a significant medicinal dose when I got home)

We keep her in Girl Scouts so she doesn't become a stripper. Or if she does, she's the Lead Stripper, like the one to make up new routines, or create new household items to dance around. She would be an innovative stripper. A groundbreaking stripper.

Meanwhile, I signed her up for Cheer Clinic, which might just cancel out the Girl Scouts.

Things are going alright, the kids are still alive.  I'm out of clean underwear though.

Right after he left, I noticed the dishes in the dishwasher were dirty.  I texted him:

Me: The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty.  What do I do?
Him: You're hilarious.
Me: Srsly.
Him: Ummm, run the dishwasher?
Me: Could you be more specific?
Him: Put some dish soap in it, press start. SMH.

About 2 hours later....

Me: I don't think you know how dishwashers work.  There are bubbles fucking EVERYWHERE.

Me: What do I do now???

Me: Why are you ignoring me?

Me: I'm waiting.....

Him: Sorry, I got your text while I was being screened at the airport, started swearing, got "special screening", almost missed my flight. Are you completely useless?
Me: Hey, that's unfair. The dishes are REALLY clean now.  SO is the floor.  You're welcome. BTW, how do I get crumbs off the floor? I was hungry while the dish machine was working, and my sandwich was messy. I didn't have any clean plates.

So I figured blogging was fairly safe.

How was your weekend?

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Coprophiliacs of the World, Unite!

Can we finally, as a nation, come together on a controversial topic, once and for all?

Poo.  It is NOT a toy.  Despite what Mattel and Goliath will have you believe:

Doggie Doo is a game where you jam a dough-y like substance into the pooch's mouth.  At some point, it comes out the other end.  It's Hungry Hungry Hippo, for coprophiliacs*.  My question is, is the scooper the winner? Does it also sneak through the house at night, eating dirty panties? I would rather buy my daughter a drum set.

Barbie, sacred maker of all that is achievable, realistic, and not misogynistic AT ALL,  gave us Tanner the pooping dog a few years back.  You fed it suspiciously poo-like pellets, and then it shat out poo-like pellets.  Apparently, the poo-like pellets looked A LOT like chocolate Tic Tacs, because little kids across the country were eating the damned things (future coprophiliacs?) and they had magnets in them, to help them "travel through Tanner's inner workings".  Magnets = lead.  Lead is no bueno in the world of edible toys.  After all, lead paint gave us things like Vanilla Ice, The Sonny and Cher Show, and the parents of the Jersey Shore Cast.  This case?  Rested.

I'm not against poo.  I am pro-poo, I really am.  It unclogs the pipes, helps you drop a few pounds.  And if you're Sky King, it gives you a good 30-45 minutes of "Quiet Time" a few times a week.  Which I don't get, but that's another post.  What I am against, is the need to for companies to make pooing into a creative play experience. 

I'm all for pranks.  There's nothing like dropping a fake turd or vomit pile on the ground, and watching the hilarity that ensues.  But that should be the end of poo play. 

These games and toys do NOT embody the reality of poo.  Yellow dough-like goo that smells like plastic?  Not.  Brown plastic pellets that magnetically stick to the pooper scooper?  Not likely.  The reality of poo is much worse.  Much, much worse.

When your sweet little babies are first born, they expel a nasty black stickiness that attaches like tar to their babybits.  It takes remarkable violence to remove it.  And it just goes downhill from there.  Breastfed babies expel green frothy slime that can have the force of Mentos in a diet Coke.  Formula produces giant foul-smelling man-like poo. And for the next 2 and a half years, we wipe wipe wipe, several times each day.  Unless you are fortunate enough to have a child that is perpetually constipated, which will only leave them writhing in pain between bowel movements.  So in that case, you are actually PRAYING FOR SHIT TO HAPPEN. 

Which is all run-of-the-mill. 

There's babies that get into their diapers before a change, using what they find to paint the walls.  There's plenty of excrement flying in the prison system, and not just from mouths. Then, there's major Poo-Tastrophies.

Princess was involved in a Major Poo-Tastrophy.  I was involved, as well.  And it has left vivid stains on my brain.

Back in the days when Sky King was leaving us each morning to run a business and spending weekends managing a Flight School about 3 hours away, I was able to stay home with the kiddos.  Monkey Boy was working his way through a year of Kindergarten, and Princess was giving me glimpses of what I had to look forward to for years to come.  She was keeping me on my toes even at 9 months.

Being a Child Development Professional, I had everything I needed to keep my children safe, including a system of gates.  Princess was a busy busy girl, and Monkey Boy was not very diligent with keeping baby-proof.  He had Legos and action figures, teeny bits of this and that.  And babies?  Love to put shit in their mouths.  Little did I know how literal that phrase would become.

The first problem was, Monkey Boy was not a fan of flushing.  He had issues with loud sounds-helicopters, vacuums, movie theaters, toilets. The sound was loud, and he could not simultaneously hold both ears covered while engaging the flush mechanism.  So he skipped it.

Luckily, I had a gate in the bathroom doorway:

Unluckily, MB would sometimes forget to close the gate.  I would sometimes find Princess playing in the toilet.  Eeeew. 

One day, I came around the corner to find Princess in the hallway, playing with something. She had been quiet, which is Momspeak for Up-to-no-good. She was speaking Up-to-no-good fluently.  The closer I got, it looked like she had been into some candy-she was holding something, it was smeared all over the carpet and bathroom, and she had it all over her face.  Because she was eating it.

The "eating it" factor made me think it was chocolate. 

But it wasn't.  It was poo.

Which became my third call in 3 years to Poison Control, after I cleaned her, the carpet, the walls, the bathroom.  All while fighting my gag reflex.

Me: Umm, yes.  My baby girl ate some poo, and I need to know what to do.
Poison Control Dude: It's fairly common for babies to get into their diapers, there shouldn't be a concern, but you'll wa....
Me: It wasn't her poo.
PCD: What???  Who's poo was it?
Me: Her brother's.
PCD: Are they blood relatives living in the same home?
PCD: This means they likely have the same bacteria in their guts, so there is less of a chance of getting e coli.
Me:  :::alarmed:::  E coli?????
PCD:  Yes.  Just watch her for fever, or any unusual behavior.

Because eating poo?  Apparently not unusual behavior.

For the next 24 hours, she had the nastiest diapers I have ever experienced in my life.  And I have worked with children since I was 18. She pooed a total of 11 times.  Re-pooed, I should say.  And the smell may have peeled the paint off the walls.

Now, I have a great story to tell on Prom Night.  Maybe it will keep the boys from kissing her?

*Just in case my readership is not nearly as pervy as I think, Coprophilia is the scientific name for a poop fetish.  Yes, I had to Google it.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

One of the Most Embarrassing Moments of My Life

For your viewing reading pleasure, I have decided to share an embarrassing moment. Truly, I wish I had photos.  Because then you would spit your beverage all over your keyboard which would cause you to have to buy a new keyboard, which would stimulate the economy.  Because I'm a motherfucking patriot. You're welcome, America.

About 12-ish years ago, I had a little cute baby.  He was round and drool-y, and loved his Mama.  And it was winter.  I had slipped on the way to the car a few weeks prior and broken my ankle.  But it was Christmas, and there was shit to buy. So I muddled along, and dragged my family with me.

Somehow, I had convinced Sky King to take me to the mall the Saturday before Christmas.  I think the deciding factor was that I had a temporary handicapped parking placard. Otherwise, I would have had to offer some serious special husband treats. 

Anyways-I was a nursing Mama, equipped with a massive stroller, a humongous diaper bag, a sweet little baby, a sullen husband, and two of the biggest milk-filled boobies you could imagine.

On a regular day, I have some serious cleavage.  I mean, like, "this bra could double as a swimming cap" big.  When the damned things are filled with milk, I could shade a small village.

Luckily, some third-world children spend their days (and nights) stitching gigantic bras to harness the beasts.

Also luckily, these children have cousins, who in turn stitch fabulous shirts designed to make nursing discreet.

So, imagine a family, much like the ones you see each day, lugging massive amounts of stuff in order to spend 45 minutes in public. Now, imagine that mom on crutches, with a giant "boot" cast. Don't forget the grimace on the sullen husband.

As a helpful person (and fairly overly aggressive), I felt that, given the sea of Christmas shoppers, I should lead the way with the crutches.  People would be forced to move from my heavily-armed path. I figured I would crutch my way through the crowds, leaving a nice opening for the sullen husband and massive stroller.  And requisite baby gear.

It was remarkably easy.  I was thrilled, actually, how courteous my fellow holiday shoppers were. Many even glanced my way with pity, obviously wishing they could take the burden of holiday tasks from my overwhelmed shoulders.  I was touched.

Once we reached the center of the mall, I stopped and turned to discuss the game plan with Sky King.

Me: So I was thinking we could start at Brookstone.  Then if that doesn't pan out, we could.....what???
Sky King: :::eyes bugging out of head, staring at my chest:::
Me: :::looking down to my chest:::


Let me just say, I normally look fabulous in red.  And it cheers me up.  Usually. 

Remember the nursing top, lovingly stitched by some malnourished callous-fingered child? Well, she wasn't at the height of her game.  Or his game.  Whatever.  The point is, the top had a malfunction.  When malfunctions didn't go viral.  Thank God. Typically, nursing tops have some sort of additional layer of fabric, with slits on the bottom layer. But this is a more recent bit of technology.  Back when I was dislodging babies from my undercarriage, the tops merely had side slits, with a slim overlap of fabric.

Nursing tops back in the late 1990s were theoretically fabulous.  But take into account a mom with humongous titties, wearing an equally massive glaring white bra.  Then imagine if you can what happens when a person uses crutches.  The crutches rest in the armpits, and tend to tug at clothing.  The more you crutch, the more your clothing gets tugged.  Until eventually your shirt is stretched so tight, the small village you once shaded with your giant breasts could conceivably use your taut shirt as a tribal drum.

Which might be inappropriate.  But the vertical slits in the nursing top?  Upped the ante. So to be clear, you are envisioning a mom, on crutches with a cast, hobbling through the mall.  She's in a bright red nursing top.  And her crutches have stretched her shirt to within an inch of its' life, exposing the 36I (yes, I as in, "I" need back surgery) white bra.  Most of it, anyway.  The part that counts.

All those courteous fellow shoppers?  Turns out, their looks of pity at my handicapped self were actually massively alarmed looks.  Alarmed at the giant white missiles coming at them, escaping from a horrific shirt that seems to be missing two sail-like swatches of fabric.

At this point, I blacked out. The next thing I remember is being at home, wrapping up a used-twice Belgian waffle iron, in a partially burnt red shirt.

Monday, April 16, 2012

WTF is Chronic Lyme Disease?

The other day, the Lyme Disease community was abuzz with the concept of a major mainstream talk show doing a segment on Chronic Lyme Disease. I managed to be super-duper high tech and download a DirecTV app while out of town, in order to set my DVR (that I FINALLY got) from Tahoe, all to record Dr. Phil.

Then I got to watch it live.  But I figured out something technical, with my Lyme brain that tends to not cooperate.

Anywhooo, it was very exciting for us Lymies.  Why?  Well, some doctors don't believe Chronic Lyme Disease exists, or that long-term antibiotics is the answer.  Which sucks, because those asshats believe that we should take our 28 days of Amoxicillin, and get better over the next few years, or not.

I'm entirely too disagreeable to handle that, so I went on a quest to find a doc that believed me, and would treat me.

Still, there are people even in my own life that don't understand what Chronic Lyme is all about.  So, for them, I have a link to the Dr. Phil segment:

Please check out this link.  It's not terribly long in the grand scheme of things.  But it's important that people believe in Chronic Lyme, spread information, and help us demand treatment, instead of casting us aside to just be sick. 

Bear in mind, some of the images are disturbing, especially if you know me, and worry about me.  I am not as bad as the young lady that is the former model.  But I'm worse than the meteorologist from San Diego.  I have had it cross into my brain, and have memory issues as well as twitching, but not the seizures.  I'm thankful we caught it when we did, and my doctor and I are working towards remission.

I will be back with more inappropriate humor soon, I fucking promise.


Sunday, April 15, 2012

Permanent Re-Assessment, with a Twist

Being so ill has had me reassess so many things in my life.  Work, family time, the energy I put out.  And my ever-changing health has re-prioritized just about everything.  Image has become a side-note. But the quest for shiny-new-fabulousness?  Not gone.  Worse, really.

Since I can't possibly bring home another pair of boots without risking a massive Sky King defection (at least until, oh June-ish?), I have to find other things to keep my attention.  Shiny new wonderfulness.  But since I'm not the size I want to be, it can't be clothing-I cannot justify expensively altered, well-fitting clothing in the double digits.  So, I need other things to keep my interest.

Change.  New fabulous hair (appointment booked, and I might just have an opinion about what I want this time, which shocked the shit out of my stylist) is on the docket.  Maybe some bright red, maybe some side-swept bangs.  Who knows.   Until my appointment, I had to do something.

So, I got a nose ring.  I guess actually a piercing, because it's a turquoise stud, very tiny, in my left nostril.  I love it, I'm glad I did it.  I have always wanted one, but worked with kids, and it was usually frowned upon.  Then, when I began to run my own place, I felt it was not appropriate, like blue hair, and full sleeve tattoos.  Things I like, but didn't feel were appropriate as a Girl Scout leader, or Child Care Runner-Person.

 I'm over it. The piercing didn't hurt like I thought, and all my antibiotics made sure it healed quite nicely.

Lacking funds these days, (can you say, "out-of-pocket medical expenses"?), I had to find things that give me that "new boots" feel, without the "new boots" cost.  So, I worked on revamping my blog.  I didn't quite relate to the Fearless Fibro Warrior much, but changing a name is like moving your business-it always slows things down.  So, I shortened to FFW (a little like FFL, without the sex), made a VERY PROFESSIONAL awesome logo (insert sarcastic eye roll here), and reworked my front page.  See?  Shiny new boots.  Without the new boots.  Hey, wait.....

My next thing?  I've been thinking about it.  For a while---like, 6 months? A new tattoo.

I've always been a, "tattoos should be hide-able" kind of gal.  Not for others, but for me.  I established this philosophy when I wanted to be a high-falutin' Children's Advocate, or Lobbyist, or Children's Lawyer, or "Shit-Ton of Money Maker, or some other important heel-wearing bullshit. 

I'm high-falutin', don't get me wrong.  My husband and I own a business that has managed to feed us and our kids for almost 5 years. 

But there's something about having control over part of my body that is empowering to me.  Something that makes me not care so much about a visible tattoo.  Something that makes me want to be able to explain how bad-ass I am, without wearing an "I am Badass" shirt.

Believe me, I don't have much control.  And as a recovering control freak, this is huge, to be able to let go. 

But I have.  And I feel that I need to do something.  Something big.

So I'm perusing Google images, being a creative motherfucker.  And I'm trying to convince my 12-year-old to sketch something out for me.  Lime green-ish, ribbon-y, maybe with a spoon thrown in. 

And, I want it on my right wrist.  Yep, visible.  Watch out, people.  So, I came up with my own sketch on MS Paint.  It needs a little refining, though.

That's an arm...

I'm damn proud of me (even if my art skills are slightly pathetic).  I have come a long way, changed so much.  Learned to accept my reality, my situation.  And I want a souvenir of my quest, a reminder of how far I've come.

And my 12-year-old boy is standing in my way being a snotty brat, refusing to design a tattoo.  Screw him, pass the tequila.  I got this.

Dumping Our Kids Off

So much of our innocence has been lost.  As a nation, we have become a a paranoid group of helicopter parents.  We stalk our own children, wrapping them in bubble wrap, trying in vain to prevent any injury-physical or emotional-at the risk of retarding their development.
 Its gotten so bad, parents can't even dump their demon spawn in a casino arcade for several hours. For shame.  I learned many valuable lessons in dark closet like arcades.

When I was young, we didn't have much money.  We played cards and did puzzles, and looked forward to Saturday morning cartoon fests, shoveling Sugar Smacks into our faces.  That's right, Sugar Smacks. They are now called Honey Smacks. I have no idea if there is any actual honey in them, I just know there's 15 grams of sugar per 3/4 Cup.

For vacations, we visited family in Reno and Vegas.  This meant all you can eat buffets, sleeping on sofas, and getting dumped in seedy arcades for hours. Anyone that lived anywhere near a casino in the 70's and 80's know exactly what I'm saying.  This is how it went:

Grown-up: here's a roll of quarters.  See you in 2 hours.  Make 'em last.

20 minutes later, I was trying to make friends that had more quarters, searching under games for an errant quarter, and wishing I was better at pinball so I could win a free game.  I'm pretty sure most of my wrist issues came from this early and rampant exposure to pinball.

I would make friends with the other random kids hanging out, and we would make up things to do, games to play.  We would walk circles in the mind-numbing carpet patterns.  We would try to look pathetic to each grown-up that came by.  But the only grown-ups that came by were there to drop their kids of with some godforsaken quarters.

Our biggest adventures were to find a bathroom, and to try to get our parents' attention without getting yelled at by an employee for being to close to the gaming area.

Those arcades were some dank depressing places.

Circus Circus was the cream of the arcade crop-tons of games, shitloads of kids, prizes.  But they must have had shitty slots, because my parents had to be feeling pretty damn generous to brave that hell hole.

Typically, it was local places, like a place we called Carl's Scumbag-it was fairly seedy.  Or Baldini's, that gave out a six-pack for every 4-of-a-kind.  We came home with cases-Cases-of diet Pepsi and Keystone.

But now, we are too paranoid. if you listen to the media, children are snatched from our arms, ripped from our homes, by the dozens.  Thank you, Media, for ruining us all.

The actuality of the situation is that more than 60% of children that are killed each year are killed by their biological parents.  Yes, strangers do horrible things.  But the facts are, our children aren't as at risk as we would be led to believe, unless it's the risk of being over-parented.

This is especially timely today, when I wanted to ditch 6 kids, and bond with my traveling friends over the loss of money at the blackjack tables.  Instead, I had to go with one friend, while the other two parents built up credits to ditch US the next day.  Total suckage.

At least I got a few watered down rum n' cokes out of the deal.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Spring Break Yo-Self

New insurance is on the horizon (start date of May 1, y'all!) and I am happy as a fat kid locked in the Hostess factory.   Mmmm, snackcakes.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  Insurance.  I am switching to a PPO, and will have a pretty small out-of-pocket max.  And!  And, they said that some injectibles (IV antibiotics) can be covered.  This is HUGE!!!

All this, and my regular doc tested me for all kinds of stuff:

I do NOT have syphilis.
I DO have Lyme Disease-oh, the horror.
I'm not anemic.
No prostate cancer.

That's 75% good news, which equates out to a C average.  First time I've been average, I can pretty much guarantee.

To celebrate, we are bringing an unnatural number of kids to the snow.

The good news is, one of my friends said she's concerned about the amount of wine she's bringing over state lines-she thinks she needs a permit. She may just be my favorite person ever.

Too many kids + shit tons of wine = perfect Spring Break.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Weird Kids, Weird Requests

When Sky King and I went off to a Mexican cruise without our kiddos, we were merely being responsible-after all, it is incredibly irresponsible to take them out of school for an entire week.  Especially when the most culture they would have experienced would have been their grandfather taking a header into a tall step on the way to the bathroom due to too much tequila, and the merits of Mexican Dos Equis vs. the American import we usually drink.  Culture?  Not so much.

So my guilt got me, and I wanted to know what each child wanted as a gift.

Princess:  A shark jaw.
Me: What if I can't find a shark jaw?
Princess: Then, a puffer fish.
Me: And if I can't find a puffer fish?
Princess: A sea horse, like the one I already had, but Cleo the dog ate.
Me: Okay.  What if I can't find any sea creature bodies at all?
Princess: Then, another creepy puppet.
Me:  :::smh:::

Monkey Boy: Gum.
Me: Like, Chiclets?
MB: No, Bubbalicious.  Like what I got in Cabo.
Me: You know you can get Bubbalicious at 7-11, right?
MB: No.  Mexican Bubbalicious.  It's different.
Me: So, no sea corpses then?

In Mexico, the main supplier of seas corpses was closed.  We checked back a few times, to no avail. They had a wide variety of corpses-puffer fish, shark jaws, entire fish bodies.  It was sea corpse Mecca.  I was hoping someone would offer to break in just to make a sale, but it was not to be.

Finally, we found a shark jaw, and got it for $10.  Score.

Meanwhile, I went in to every convenience store to look for Bubbalicious.  Nothing. Nada.  I had taken a break, because I just couldn't think of what to bring home for Monkey Boy.

We wandered into a small store, looking for a bottled water to wash down tacos.  All of a sudden, I saw it.  BubbaLoo!  It's like Bubbalicious, but it has a liquid center, like Freshen Up had in the 80s.
A case of Tutti Fruiti, and my mission was complete.

Back at home, Monkey Boy was thrilled, and savored each of the 60 pieces.

Princess said, Oh. Emm. Gee!!!  It's a goblin shark jaw!!!!!  :::squeal:::


Princess: You know, a goblin shark.  I saw it in a book.
Me: You're making that up. How can you tell from the jaw?
Princess: It's the teeth, see?  Can't you tell?
Me:  :::type type type, Google Google Google:::  Holy shit.  You're right.
Princess: Toldja.

Ummm, yeah.

Cheaper than a "My Mom and Dad went on vacation without me, and all they got me was this stupid T-shirt" shirt.  And classier.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

The One Where I'm Offensive to the Cashier

The other day, I was buying shitloads of candy for my kids for our Annual Egg Hunt and Candy-Shoveling.  I was running low on valid reasons to yell at my kids, so I thought I could add, "Quit acting like a sugar whore" and "All that candy is going to turn you into a toothless freak" and "If you don't stop bouncing off the walls, I'm going to slap the shit out of you" into my Mom-of-the-Year verbal repertoire.

I was cruising my local Expired-Christmas-Candy-and-Second-Rate-Plastic-Eggs Store the other day.  Because I love my kids so much, I wanted to get more candy for my money.  And red and green kisses are for Christmas, which is also about Jesus, so it works.

The cashier and I were chatting about how important it is to spoil our kids with massive quantities of High Fructose Corn Syrup in Jesus' name. I figured we were on the same page-you know, the whole "Let's-celebrate-religious-holidays-with-ridiculous-amounts-of-sugar,-thereby-avoiding-the-true-significance-of-the-spirituality-of-the-holiday".  But then he said something to me at the tail-end of our transaction:

Cashier Dude: msfjbnscffdg.gdvfsif ifofdcns
Me: Pardon?  :::leaning back to hear him:::
Cashier Dude: He Is Risen!  :::beaming smile:::
Me: :::"deer in headlights" look::: Um, uh huh!
Him:  :::stunned look:::

Apparently, "Um, Uh huh" is the equivalent of saying "Thank you" in response to a heartfelt "I love you". Cashier Dude gave me the same look he would give a person that stomped on a kitten.  Total response fail.

Please tell me, what would have been an more appropriate response? 

Friday, April 6, 2012

Lizard Hands and Crack Whore Teeth

So. Off Doxycycline, switched to Amoxicillin.  Why?

My teeth are browning on the edges, like a warm fabulous chocolate chip cookie, without the satisfying chocolaty amazingness.  And with more crack-whorishness. My hygenist is going to be so sad. Unless she gets paid more for extra funk.

Also, I broke out in a rash across both hands that burned in the sun and in the shower, itched like an STD, and looked like The Plague.

Oh, and I'm not vomiting anymore.

All side effects from the Doxy.

So, no more Doxy.


To top it all off, my insurance just *might* cover IV antibiotics when the time comes.

We will see what Dr. Lyme thinks in a couple weeks.

I took a recommendation from the lady at my local health food store for hand repair.

Mmmmmm, lanolin.

What are my options for my nasty-ass teeth?

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Just When I Thought I Was Done Decorating...

I bid on this amazing cross-stitch the other day.  It was donated to Band Back Together, and, being a giver, I knew I had to help.

Didn't know I was a fan of cross-stitch?  Well, normally my art tastes are of the more modern variety.  But for a good cause, I will shell out all kinds of outrageous cash, via Sky King's credit card.

What color frame would you use?

Mmmmm, pie.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Ensenada TaCoMa, The Thrilling Conclusion

For the first part of the story, visit here.

It was back to the joy-ride that is driving in Mexico.  We meandered closer to the pinata and sombrero stalls, and my heart returned to a normal beat (normally I'm not this much of a chicken shit.  But when tourists in cruise ports get robbed of their cash and passports, a paranoid bitch like me starts paying attention) I may be a thug-life motherfucker, but I'm not loca en la cabeza.

We pulled up to a structure that seemed to be missing the front wall*.  Sky King's eyes lit up like a street hooker at an antibiotic sale. We walked in and went up to the counter of Taqueria la Comadre-there were simmering pots of yumminess as far as the eye could see, too many condiments sitting at room temperature to count, and the hygiene was definitely suspect-the proprietor spoke only Spanish--Bingo!

First up-3 tacos for him (asada, mole', and carnitas) and two for me (carnitas and mole').  The mole' (moe-lay) was chocolatey and gooey--cooked with chicken.  I had never had a chocolate mole' before, and was excited.  It was rich and flavorful.  The carnitas was also gooey-wet and drippy rather than a drier carnita.  Both were absolutely amazing. The asada was great, as well.

I was happy, satisfied, and proud of myself for embarking on a Taco Adventure with my husband. I figured we were good.  Maybe a few more shops full of crap I didn't need, maybe a dollar margarita or five, then back to the ship. 

How wrong I was. These tacos were just the tip of the taco burg.

It was two more stops before we really got into an appropriate taco seeking groove.  First, we were all rookied out--order tacos, shovel tacos in, speak amongst ourselves, establish a direction to walk.  By the 8th taco, we got smart. We started asking people where they ate.  This became our new mantra....:::gobble, gobble, gobble, "excuse me, when you aren't eating these tacos, where do you go?", schlep, schlep, schlep, order, repeat:::

Next up on the Uh-Mazing Top 5 Tacos was Garibaldi's.  We each had a single carnitas taco--we had finally realized this day was limited tummy space, and had decided to pace ourselves.  While we waited, we watched Sky King's dream girl handcraft tortillas (fucking whore, I could have slapped the tortillas out of her).  We received the carnitas tacos-they were a more traditional carnitas--slow-roasted then fried, to crisp some of the meat.  The flavor was incredible-not too salty, the perfect hint of orange.  Topped with pico do gallo, cilantro and onion, and we were conflicted.  The first round of tacos were amazing and moist, saucy and bursting with flavor. But these were great in a different way.  Alan, the owner--came over, and asked how they were, curious that we only had one apiece.  We explained our mission, and he sent us to our next location, a sports bar up the way.

The next round of tacos were good-but we had had better-in the last 20 minutes.  So it was one last stop, as the sun was setting and the town was becoming deserted of our cruising compadres.

Our last stop was Taqueria Mexico Lindo.  This place was good. Not great (hell, our sample size was LARGE), but they get a special mention or two.  The first, they carry Negro Modelo, which in Sky King's book gets major beer bonus points.  Next, in the middle of our gluttonous scarf-a-rama, a mother with two young children came in to beg-her daughter was tugging on clothing, saying, "por favor?", and asking for a taco.  The owner threw a tortilla on the grill, heated it, and handed it to her in a paper wrapper.  The family walked away sharing the tortilla, but not before Sky King emptied his pockets into the little girl's hands-I think this was one of our biggest expenses-and worth every penny.  Seeing a local businessperson show kindness to this family warmed our hearts--many of the local merchants looked at anyone begging with disdain, so it was especially nice to see an owner treat her and her family with respect.

The skies were darkening, our stomachs were ready to burst, and the scene of abject poverty threw a wet blanket on our taco extravaganza, so it was time to walk off some of the wonderful food.

Expanding waistlines and uncontrollable burping were the least of our concerns-each stomach rumble was a potentially explosive shabart.  We had to move quick. We managed to find our original shuttle driver, who regaled in our tale of outlandish American gluttony.

The next morning day, we woke up full. Foggy-brained, but full.  And excreting chile and cilantro from our pores.

*For reference, all of these locations are in the main tourist-y area, I believe the street has "Primero" in the name.  The owners were all incredibly friendly, about half spoke English quite well, and they all appreciated our need to find massive amounts of authentic tacos.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

And Yet, I Still Speak to my Mother

Way back when I was a wee little 6 year old, I wasn't this outgoing social joy than I am now.  Hard to believe, but true.

In fact, Share Day was filled with apprehension.  I wanted so badly to have an amazing "share", and I would scour my room for the perfect item.  It had to be unique, yet awesome.  Thought-provoking yet not too perplexing. Individual, but not too out-of-the-box.  You know, like a large collection of scratch 'n sniff stickers, or a toy kitten that had a corded remote.  Maybe the kitten would even mew every 5 steps.  Or something else equally epic.

This particular Share Day, I had struggled with my choice.  Nothing seemed good enough.  To top it off, I was running late-likely my mom was ruing the day she made me, while trying to brush the tangles out of my tender scalp.

So there I am, sitting in a line, waiting for my turn.  I have a strange ceramic frog with variegated paint.  Truly, I had dug to the bottom of the "Share" barrel for this one. I have no idea what I was thinking: this frog wasn't going to help my social status. I was on social thin ice as it was. Especially after that whole one-pair-of-left-handed-scissors-debacle.  :::deep sigh:::

This is why this next part is so truly heartbreaking-I was already facing a stunted social life between the fight for the scissors and my stupid ceramic frog.  I'm fairly certain I was intending on lying about the story behind the frog, as I have no idea how it came into my possession.  My spiel would likely include "it's very special to me", and "it's a ceramic frog from my Grandma", and "it's green.  And brown." Truly poetic gold.

Apparently, the age of 6 is rife with all kinds of social rules, most of them imaginary, and residing in only my head.  One of them is letting people know you have bodily functions.  Like, you know, using the bathroom. 

So there I am, holding my frog, sitting 4th in cue.  I'm sitting Indian Style Criss Cross Applesauce (sorry, that's what we called it in the 70's), waiting.  I have jammed my heel into my hoohaw, fighting the inevitable. I'm doing the potty dance while sitting, which is unbelievably difficult, but necessary.

Then, it's my turn.  I slide into the Teacher Chair.

Me: So, this is my frog. It's really special.  It's brown and green.  Umm, that's about....
Bratty little bitch:  Where did you get it?
Me: From my Aunt.  Or Grandma. So, ummmm...I guess that's it...
Some other little whorebag: Do you have any other frogs?
Me: No.
Shithead: Is it your favorite ceramic animal?
Me: Yes.
Fuckwit with a lisp: Is there anything written on the bottom?
Me: No.
Kid that smells like old cheese: What did you name it?
Me: WTF is your problem???
Me:  :::dribble, dribble, dribble:::  I unleashed my entire bladder.  In front of the whole class.  On the Teacher Chair. Slowly, because I'm still in denial that it's even happening.

The rest of the day is a blur, and I have psychologically blocked it.  However, the next morning? Clear as a fucking bell.

Me: I don't feel well.
Mom: You don't seem to have a fever...
Me: It's my stomach.
Mom: Oh.  Wait, I know what's going on here. Sweetie, no one is going to even remember yesterday, I promise.
Me: (imagine overly dramatic whiny high pitched complaining-I know it's a stretch)  Yes they will!!!  They will tease me, and it will ruin my life!!!!
Mom: Now, stop that right now, Missy.  You need to stop being so dramatic.  They will not even remember, and finish getting ready, you are going to be late.

Me:  :::scowl:::

...later that morning...

WHOLE CLASS: OH, LOOK!!! Here comes Potty Pants!!!  Potty Pants, Potty Pants, stinky dinky Potty Pants!!!!  Bahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

I still can't believe my mom lied to me with a straight face. And I still can't believe I believed her.