Monthly Archives: February 2012

I have a theory that the ‘forbidden fruit’ is one of this universe’s most powerful things.

When I was growing up, we rarely had ice cream in the freezer.  And even more rarely ice cream sandwiches.  And when we did find them in the freezer, between my brother graham and I, they were gone in a skinny minute.  And if ever I went to a friend’s house, and they had them, I would marvel that they would actually stay stocked.  Why weren’t they expending all available energy in shoving that sweet icy deliciousness in their cake-hole?  Wonders never ceased.

We had plenty of whole wheat bread.  Wheat Germ.  Tofu.  Crap like that.  Oddly, I never felt the need to binge on those.

And it didn’t hit me until my own kids were born that one of the reasons I went ape-shit (that’s a technical term, it’s not cussing.) over ice cream bars is because they were so rare.  Thus was born my theory of the forbidden fruit.

I bought a big glass jar, and filled it….filled it….with Peanut M&M’s.   It was so pretty and colorful.  I labled the jar “Attitude Adjustments” and put it on the floor where the kids could partake with ease.  Understand, this is a BIG jar.  It takes about 6 large bags of M&Ms to fill it.  And I have a plastic scoop in it, just in case the health department comes.  You can never be too careful.

At first, those M&M’s disappeared quickly.  Troy was one of the largest culprits.  But eventually, the jar took longer and longer to empty.  And now, if you ask the kids if they want an M&M, most likely they’ll go tell you to pound sand.  (And then they get a time out.)  Seriously, they are no longer enamored with them.  Why?  They are not forbidden.

I even try to switch it up a little, to further this experiment.  I color coordinate for the holidays.  But they still don’t get eaten, so I find I have Christmas Colored M&M’s still here in January.  I actually went ahead and took the green ones out to save for St. Patrick’s Day.  (Troy thinks that was time well spent on my part…not.)  Oh, and I’ve changed the label to from “Attitude Adjustments” to  ‘Tokens of Affection’ for Valentine’s Day.  Very Martha Stewart of me, I know.

And you know who eats them?  Playdates.  Occasionally Troy, but only when Dinner is running late, or he’s too lazy to get a beer out of the fridge.  The kids that come over, the kids who’s parents have made M&M’s a forbidden fruit, they go after the jar like I did the ice cream sandwiches in the ’70’s.

It’s an interesting theory I think I’ve proven.

The next leg of this experiment will be making Tofu a forbidden fruit to see if they get to the point that they binge on it.

But I’m not holding my breath.

Can anyone tell me if there is a law against eating while driving?

I mean, I can’t drive without a seatbelt.  I can’t talk on the phone while driving.  I can’t strap my kids to the luggage racks when I need more room for groceries.

I’m starting to feel way over-governed.

I see people eating while driving all the time…and not doing such a great job of either.  It’s certainly no less distracting than putting on make-up, or talking on the phone, or reaching your arm behind you in the hope of slapping bickering children upside the head.

So why do we have laws for some distractions, and not others?  I just don’t get it. Maybe someday eating and driving will be outlawed.

Until then, I’ll happily eat my McDonald’s sausage burritos two-handed while driving with my knees.

And I bet I’ll still be a better driver than those gosh-darn people from Virginia.

(oOOoooOOO!  She went there!  Game on!)

I’m afraid of my closet.  More specifically the hangers in my closet.

Some people fear The Boogie Man, some Chucky.  Me, I fear apparel-organizing tools.

Why is it that I can’t take anything from my closet without getting all caught up in at at least five different hangers? What ought to take a mere second ends up taking about 3 minutes, and a good deal of inappropriate language.

I’m serious!  For me, something as simple as taking out a pair of jeans turns into a WWWrestling match. And something like a three-piece suit that is on one of those multi-leveled hangers….Ugh! Forget it!  I’m like some kind of hanger-wrangler.  I should put on a pair of leather chaps, pointed snake-skin boots, and carry a lasso whenever I go in to grapple with the clothes in there .

Anyone else out there got this problem?  (Crickets chirping.  I get that a lot.)

So here’s one for ya:  While composing this post, I thought I was using the word ‘hanger’ to much.  So I went to an online thesaurus to find other words for my nemesis.  And check it out, there wasn’t one…and then I found that the true definition of the word ‘hanger’ is actually:

Coincidence?  I think not.

I feel so vindicated.

But that doesn’t help me with my current battles with the closet. Is there some kind of support group I can go to for this?  A 12-step program or something where I can say, “Hi, I’m Pam, and I’m “hanger-challenged.””  Maybe I could even get some kind of minority status.

I’ve got no tolerance for people with low tolerance.  I guess that means I actually one-up them.

I feel very superior now.

One of my pet peeves is people who “Should” on other people.  I used to do it, until it was done to me so badly during my divorce, that I swore I’d do my best to avoid doing it to other people.  Experience is such a good teacher.

Don’t know what “Should-ing” on other people is?

Hey, you should quit smoking.  Hey, you should lose weight.  Hey, you should discipline your children better.  Hey, you should believe in my religion.  Hey, you should believe in my politic.  You should dress like me.  You should get a better job.  You should this, you should that……AAAaaaargh!  STOP!

The bottom line is that no one on this earth has all the answers, and to tell anyone what they ‘should’ be doing is ridiculous.  What works for one person may not for another.  We are all so different….not only in appearance, and personality, but also in need and purpose.

God save me from Preachers.  And by that, I don’t just mean those in the pulpits.  Anyone who preaches is so egotistical, they can’t even see the depth of their “should-ing”.

Wait….what am I doing now?  ….uh…. I’m merely voicing an opinion?

How is that different from preaching or “should-ing?  Aren’t you saying they “shouldn’t” preach?

Hey….it doesn’t apply to me.

(That’s the standard Go-To line for all of us Holier-Than-Thou people.)

I came to a couple of realizations today.

The first was when I was talking to the clerk at my post office about underwear.  I was returning a package of bras I’d bought by catalog, which did not fit my comfort criteria, and I was voicing my disappointment .  She felt my pain and commiserated with me right there at the service counter.  She even promised me she would keep a look out for the exchange package, and hoped for my sake it would come quickly.

This led to realization Number One:  I’ve finally reached the wizened stage in life where I care more about comfort, relaxation, and convenience than I do appearances, impressions, or popularity.  Turns out I really don’t care if my breasts are high and perky.  Truth be told, I’d just as soon get them lopped off.  It’d be one less thing I’d have to maintain.  Well, two less things.

I’m all about complacency now.

I paid for the postage, waved goodbye, and walked through the door.  The door of the Post Office.

The.    Post.    Office.

This led to realization Number Two:   I’ve clearly got to get a filter.  Did I really just talk to a veritable stranger about my boobie comfort?  Honestly?  Am I that hard up for conversation, or sympathetic ears?  Did I have to impose my weirdness on this poor woman who is bound by postal employee policy to be polite to me?  Good Grief, she was a prisoner of my blathering, self-righteousness!

Kind of like you are right now.  Well, you’re not exactly a prisoner, but I’m kind of like a train wreck…..appalled as you may be, you just can’t look away.

But Baby, when those new, super-comfortable bras come in, my comfort level will trump your appalled-ness.

Ha.