I've been stuck for an idea to blog. It's not that nothing happens
around here--quite the opposite. I'm busy. But a lot of it is mundane
or just not funny enough to tell the world about.
So, this is a bit of a stretch, but, last time I was home for maternity leave (which was quite a while ago), I had the opportunity to once again agonize over the fare of daytime television in my area. Daytime television is the only thing that makes sense of the phenomenon I experience at work of people coming in wanting as if with their dying breath to become a massage therapist, an aesthetician, or a paralegal. Aha! I see. Their minds have been taken over by the repetitive brainwashing of these mindless commercials that convince them that Easy Street is only a signature (of their life) away.
I have nothing against massage therapists, aestheticians, or paralegals. If only there were jobs for the masses who train in these fields, though!
I also got my fill of court TV shows. These are most interesting as studies not so much of the law, but of human behavior.
One show in particular from that time period sticks out in my mind. It must have been a divorce court type show, because the poor female plaintiff really had her hands full, not so much with the idiot she'd married, but with his mother! Even though her husband must have been at least 35 years old, his mother jumped in to answer every question for him, whether or not the judge allowed her to. And what answers! Even if he'd been Prince Charming, I would have wanted a divorce just to get away from that MIL. My husband and I must have looked at each other with raised eyebrows more during that half hour than we have in all the rest of our married life added up.
The MIL complained that the house was a mess. The wife tried to explain to the court why. She made efforts in the house, yes, but her husband was a pack rat, and she spent most of her time supporting him. It seems that, even though he was home all day, she couldn't get him to help with the housework.
"That's not true!" the MIL exploded, with the husband faintly echoing her. He stated for the benefit of the court, and his wife, and us, that he had actually made a promise to do a certain number of dishes every day until they were caught up. He'd written it down like a contract, and his wife knew it!
"Yes," she said, as calmly as she could. "Please tell the judge how many dishes you said you would do."
Into the microphone, he said in a low voice, "Seven."
My husband and I shot our eyebrows up at each other. Then hooted. Seven dishes a day until they caught up!
This has become a favorite family joke at our house. Sometimes, the children try to figure out just how many dishes the seven of us use during one meal, let alone a day. As they navigate this story problem, I hear things like, "Even if we fasted two meals and then had pizza for dinner, there would be seven plates PLUS seven glasses."
I don't know if others use ridiculous people and stories to teach their children values, or if that's solely my parenting style alone. But they did learn this lesson.
Last night, I came home late from a special dinner at my church, my fifth turkey and mashed potatoes meal in three days. This is because, due to a death in my husband's extended family, we ended up traveling on Thanksgiving Day, and held our "Thanksgiving dinner" this Sunday. The week of Thanksgiving is always a challenge for me, because I try to go light on carbs. There is no such thing as light on carbs when your entire meal is white, and there are leftovers for several more meals. And then, there's the pie. I mean, pies. We had five, for the seven of us. My husband made the traditional pumpkin and his favorite pecan. I made my mother's lemon meringue and the favorite of everyone but my husband--chocolate. The lemon and the pumpkin recipes each made two pies. We do this because he is not willing to give up pecan or pumpkin, and I am not willing to give up lemon or chocolate. But, six pies for seven people is, um, yeah, a lot of pie.
After that initial meal, I went to my closet and reordered all of my clothes--fattest to skinniest.
Which was an ingenious thing to do, actually.
By the time I got home last night, after yet another day of lunch-and-dinner-mashed-
My husband is not stupid. He knows a cue for a husband line when he hears one. "No, you're not," he said automatically.
I looked at him. I can't tell yet if losing my thyroid is impacting my weight, because, well, I'm still not quite up to my pre-surgery workout fervor, and, then, there's the pie. But it's time to find out, so denial is not helpful.
"I've gained five pounds," I told him, then joked, "and I'm just going to keep eating seven desserts a day until I lose it!"
He smiled, and then he did help me. "You could blog about that," he said.
