Coke-Dependency

I love Diet Coke. Love it. It is my strength. It is my weakness. It is the Big Gulp swiggin’ monkey on my back. But Diet Coke really is nature’s perfect drink. No sugar, no calories, no nutrients—just a sweetass canful of chemicals that somehow managed to squeak by the FDA’s stringent approval process and now rests happily in the shaky hands of housewives everywhere. It’s manna from heaven, only in convenient 12-pack form.

My relationship with Diet Coke began many, many years ago, right after I broke up with bitter bastard TAB and rejected his fake, lying ways. I was hurt, I was sad, I was pretty damn close to having a one night stand with that loser Mello Yello. But then, just when I had almost given up hope of ever finding true, no-calorie love, my salvation suddenly arrived, bursting out of a secret Atlanta laboratory and sending a river of tiny, caramel-colored bubbles straight into my thirsty, waiting mouth. It was my carbonated soul mate, my tooth-staining sweetheart, my knight in shining aluminum. And we, Diet Coke and I, were destined to live happily ever after.

Almost.

Because while I’ve been forever faithful to Diet Coke, straying only when I was pregnant and returning just as soon as the epidural wore off, unfortunately, tragically, Diet Coke hasn’t always been so true to me. Alas, DC’s been a bit of a playah. A hustlah. A no-good, unfaithful jackass comin' home late with someone else’s lipstick on its sharp, metal rim. Yep, Diet Coke wanted to play the field. See what else was out there. Maybe experiment a little. So it began to betray me.

First, it stepped out with Caffeine-Free. Then, cheated on me with Splenda. Then finally, one wild weekend in Miami, it went into a dark Cuban bar and hooked up with that brazen hussy Lime. Lime. But each time, each time it left me, I took it back. I said I understood. I said that I knew it was just trying to find itself and we were still meant to be together, right, baby? Right?

But now, now Diet Coke has forsaken me again and this time, I fear my heart won’t recover. Because this time, Diet Coke is gettin' its syrupy ass off the couch and joining a gym. It wants to be healthy. Fit. A little less carcinogenic, if you will. So now DC has added vitamins and minerals into its regular harmful formula and is calling itself Diet Coke Plus. Uh-huh. Vitamins and minerals. In Diet Coke. For the love of God, what's next? Whole grain cigarettes? Anti-oxidant Miller High Life? Slim Jim Soy?

While I'm sure that crap like niacin, B6, B12, zinc and magnesium is actually good for you, does it really belong in a drink that comes with a lid and a straw? That's available in 72 ounces? That explodes when it touches a Mentos? Or should those nutrients instead just be found in, oh, I don’t know, food? I just don't think that everything I eat or drink needs to be healthy-fied. After all, I’m a grown-up and supposedly know what’s good for me (fruit) and what isn’t (heroin) and should be able to choose, right? And my heart wants what it wants--that same ol' no vitamins, no minerals, no purpose bad boy of a drink I first chose all those many years ago.

So, listen up, Diet Coke and stop trying to change. I already know you're no good for me.

But baby, I love you anyway.

Mind Blower of the Week

Mommy! Did you know that Han Solo is also in Indiana Jones?!?!

Lessons Learned Last Week

1. A person should not have to eat 10 boxes of the Girl Scouts' "Thin Mints" before they finally figure out that the cookies are not, in fact, a weight-loss product.

2. When out running errands, it's a good idea to always look your best. Otherwise, certain squinty-eyed salespeople in the Nordstrom purse department may look at your mismatched socks, coffee stained t-shirt and "Monster Garage" baseball hat and just assume that you're a potential shoplifter they need to follow. And then you'll have to buy your new purse at the Dollar Store.

3. If you're planning to watch CNN, make sure your young son is not in the room watching along with you. Otherwise, he may spend the next two days with a blanket over his head, yelling, "Mommy! You have a suspicious package!" and demanding that you go find some dogs to come sniff him.

4. When Mandy Jo in exercise class asks, "Are all y'alls asses on fahr today, too?", what she is actually saying is, "I am experiencing some muscle soreness in my gluteal region this morning. Are you as well?" You should then respond by grabbing your bottom, groaning loudly and yelling, "Oh, hail yeah, Mandy girl! My ass be hurtin' like a bee-yotch today!" Then she will like you and not move your mat to the back of the room next to Stinky Tank-Top Guy.

5. It is better to buy your kids' Valentine's Day candy at Target and not the discount store. Unless, of course, you actually want candy conversation hearts that say things like, "Fax Me!", "Sole Mate" and "I Loe You" and make your kids look like semi-literate playah hatahs.

6. If it buys you an extra 15 minutes of sleep, it's OK to pay your son $1.00 to wipe his own bottom. Two bucks if he doesn't tell you about it afterwards.

The 100 What Bulb

Hey, Mommy, guess what?

What?

Guess what?

What?

Guess...

WHAT?

Mommy, did you know...um, did you know...guess what?

Whhhhaaaaaatttttt?

What'd you say?

I said "what" because you just said "guess what".

What'd I say?

"Guess what?"

What.

"Guess what?"

What?!

No, I'm not saying "guess what". You said "guess what".

Oh. What'd I say that for?

I don't know. Probably because you wanted to tell me something.

Oh. What?

Well, let's see. I think what you wanted to tell me is that you're going to run upstairs right now to pick up the 40,000 Lego pieces that are currently hiding in the carpet, sharpening themselves in preparation for the arrival of my bare feet. Also, you wanted to tell me that you've finally accepted both green and orange vegetables as your personal salvation and will no longer refer to them as "mean mommy food". And, most important, Jack, you really wanted to tell me that when you grow up, you'll never, ever go on a date with someone you meet in a "Dancing With The Stars" chat room.

(long, thoughtful pause) No...that's not it. Hey, Mommy, guess what?

How I Got This Job

I’ve been a mother for 6 years now. It’s an OK gig. Like all jobs, some days it sucks, some days it’s not so bad and some days I try bribing the FedEx guy to stuff me into the back of his truck and smuggle me across the border. It’s definitely not easy. In fact, I’ve even heard it said that being a mother is the hardest job in the world. (Which isn’t true. It’s actually neurosurgery. Or playing William Shatner’s love interest.)

For my entire mothering career, I've been what they call a "stay-at-home mom". As opposed to a "goes-to-work mom".Or a "hangs out in a bar all day trying to hook up with a new baby daddy mom". As job descriptions go, I’ve always thought that SAHM was kind of a condescending title. I mean, it’s not like I’m being held captive in my house or shackled to my oven all day. It just feels that way.

But a career as a full-time mother to Sam and Jack was never in my life’s plan. I’ve worked since I was 16 years-old and my parents told me that if I wanted school clothes from The Limited instead of Kmart, I’d better stop whining and get myself a damn job. (Fashion is nothing if not a great motivator.) Out of the many, many jobs I’ve had in my life, the best one was probably working for Warner Bros. Pictures. The worst one was definitely being the “Oil and Vinegar Midshipman” at the Port of Subs sandwich shop. There’s just no way you can say “Care for a little oil on your ham today, sailor?” and sound cool. Trust me.

And so, when I got pregnant, I just assumed I’d return to my job as a copywriter at an advertising agency and put the baby in daycare. That way, my life wouldn’t change too much. It was all planned out, man. I’d write TV commercials, take naps at my desk and go out for margarita lunches with my co-workers during the day, then at night come home and play with my baby until it was time for “House” to come on.

Yeah. That would have been nice.

The ad agency laid me off when I was five months pregnant. This was completely unexpected because just two months prior, the agency’s president had appeared on “The Today Show” boasting about the company’s “family friendly” policy of encouraging new mothers to bring their babies to the office. Apparently, she meant babies who were no longer inside their mothers’ tummies. But, I guess it’s understandable. Chubby, screaming infants make for better photo-ops than chubby, screaming copywriters any day. Especially ones who’ve missed their naps and margarita lunches.

At first I didn’t accept my fate and tried to find a job at another agency. Of course, it was a bit of a shock to interviewers when I waddled into the room with the opening line of “What? You were expecting a virgin?”, so, not surprisingly, everyone I met with said I “just wasn’t the right fit”. Well, of course I wasn’t. I was a hormonal beached whale with swollen ankles and an ass you could watch a 70mm movie on if I happened to be wearing white pants that day. I didn’t even fit in my king-sized bed, much less a desk chair writing jingles for The Scooter Store.

And so I gave in and decided to make my baby my full-time job. Just minutes after Sam was born, I held him tightly in my arms and softly whispered in his perfect, tiny ear that nothing in the world would make me happier than staying home with him all day.

And then the meds wore off.

Morning Has Broken

Oh, man, it's 7:00 a.m. already?

Mmmph.

Sorry. Did I wake you?

Mmmph.

Go back to sleep. I'll get Sam up for school.

Uhhh.

But just one thing: please don't set the alarm to "radio" again, OK? I don't want the first thing I hear every morning to be two dumbass DJs talking about their sex lives. Like I want to know what kind of kinky things someone named "Lunchbox" is into. Deli meats are not supposed to be used that way, my friend. Although, I do have to admit I wouldn't mind hearing more about that chubby, little weatherman on channel 4. Dude looks like he's got a whole closet full of freak flags he's waiting to fly, don't you think? But maybe that's just because he says "Doppler" a lot, which...

For the love of God, get out of bed.

OK, OK. Give me a minute. Ugh, I'm sooo tired. Why do they have to start school so damn early anyway? I mean, it's not like we're talking Harvard MBA program here. It's Kindergarten. Half of the class still thinks Elmo's a real person.

Somebody please kill me.

Seriously, does it take 8 full hours to learn about nouns? I could teach Sam that in under a minute. Which gives me a great idea, actually. Homeschooling! What do you think? Pro: we could sleep until 9:00 a.m. Con: we'd have to change his name to Ezekiel and start wearing calico. I don't know. It's kind of a toss-up, really.

Just put the pillow over my face and push down hard.

But doesn't the school board realize that little kids need extra sleep for their growing bodies? That it's really hard for them to wake up so early? That their middle-aged mothers may or may not have had a little Pinot Grigio party the night before and now need some extra time to get rid of their facial puffiness so that the smug crossing guard doesn't call them "Mrs. Doubtfire" again? Which reminds me, are we out of peanut butter?

Good God, why am I still breathing?

(sigh) Well, I guess I'll go wake up Sam and take him to school. You just go back to sleep, honey.

Mmmph.

We can talk more after I come home.

(muffled scream)

Because, really, I'm not that much of a morning person.








This post was inspired by the wonderful MadMad, who not only gets up at 6:00 a.m., but then goes running. In New England. In January. No wonder she's so funny.