I just started on the HCG diet again.
I like to disaffectedly refer to it as the Help Control the Gut diet.
I won’t bother describing it. It works, removing fat from all of the right places during an insanely short amount of time.
It sounds awesome, if you don’t mind being perpetually exhausted and on the verge of passing out.
There are a plethora of subversive ways my life plots to derail the diet.
I go to my mother-in-law’s house and the evening begins with beer, nachos and queso. My father-in-law doesn’t even ask, just hands me a beer. I mean, when do I EVER say no to a beer?
Cuban weekends revolve around Corona.
My daughter asks me to blow on her nacho cheese which means I will inevitably have to touch it with my tongue or lips to be sure it’s not too hot. Biggest tease ever.
Thankfully no one notices I am steadily chugging water. I had no idea you could grow to HATE water.
The endless course meal moves on to toasted bread with olive spread. My mother-in-law asks me if I like sun dried tomatoes. I say yes, but I won’t be having any because because I am back on the dreaded diet. (She is aware of how said wretched diet works)
She says, “NO, no, no. I cooked all of this food. You are going to eat. No, no. You have to eat.”
I never know how to respond to statements like that. “Uh, no?” Awkward, awkward, awkward.
Then I get to watch as everyone eats rice and chicken along with assorted goodies, the kids sneaking Hershey’s Kisses and cookies.
Yesterday, I meet my husband and the kids at our favorite waterfront dive for lunch and he immediately slides a beer over and says, “This is yours.”
So sweet, yet so evil.
I had to push it back and instead choke down a drink with Club Soda that tastes like lighter fluid and is actually a “cheat” on the diet.
My daughter is great at sharing. I am so proud and so sick of her trying to force-feed me gold fish, fish sticks and mac n’ cheese.
Now, the world begins to conspire against me. We turn the clocks ahead an hour. My son is up late coughing and crying because he’s sick. My daughter wakes up from a nightmare at midnight demanding milk.
I drive to work, eyes half closed drinking black coffee. (which is allowed, but no other food until noon)
This means I am still falling asleep at work AND the coffee is shredding my stomach.
At lunchtime I have to walk past the vending machines to get to my pathetic portion of meat and veggies in the fridge. I NEVER notice the vending machines until I am on this diet. Now, I would stab a bitch for a corn chip.
Salivating now.
Newsrooms are notorious for cakes, cookies, cupcakes, chocolate and everything bad. People just plunk it down on a desk for anyone to take, free of charge. Today, no naughty free crap trying to lure me away from the diet. But, someone has already offered me a Watchamacallit.
So, I sit here lips burning and fingers sticky from peeling an orange. I hate peeling oranges more than most people hate cleaning the toilet.
This NEVER happens, ok? Never.
I have already started dreaming about carbs. I literally dreamed I was eating Tofu Woon Sen. It’s just vegetables, tofu and clear noodles… a meal most would consider “healthy.”
I could write an epic poem about Tofu Woon Sen.
For me, it’s one more pair of pants I have to abandon forever to the widening abyss of items to donate to Goodwill that is my closet. It’s a living, breathing, gaping chasm, hungry for more.
But, not as hungry as I am right now.
I’ve never done crack or heroin, but carbs can’t be that far behind. I would eat uncooked grains of rice or raw pasta. I would snort bread crumbs.
Keep me away from all sharp objects.
Alma’s picture of herself (on the left) and Huxley on the right. She said we were drawing on “Ricin paper” instead of “construction paper.” Is she trying to poison me? Should I worry?
When I was growing up I had no desire whatsoever to have children.
I was one of those awkward people who didn’t even know how to smile appropriately at a baby.
I had big dreams of being a career-driven, serial monogamist in New York or Chicago.
I was oblivious to the existence of a biological clock until my Freshman year in college. What started it ticking? Those damn Baby Story shows on TLC. You could almost smell those sweet, powdery newborns.
Over the course of the next several years it was an upward trajectory toward parenthood.
You start picturing what your babies might look like.
Ticking.
Then you start picking names for your imaginary babies, usually horrible ones.
Ticking louder.
Then your friends actually start squeezing kids out and you suffer from baby envy.
TICKING LIKE TINNITUS.
You get married and then it becomes an obsession.
Every negative pregnancy test is a visual representation of your eggs shriveling up and turning black.
Every month that passes is a guarantee your child will have some horrible deformity or disability because you waited too long.
Your nightmares resemble the warning on the side of the Accutane box.
Then you get pregnant.
A whole different kind of clock starts ticking.
You spend the first three months anxiously awaiting the ‘safe time’ to break the news to your family, friends and work.
The next three months are waiting to find out the gender.
The next three are spent buying a billion things you will never actually end up using and clothes your child will stain and destroy upon the first wearing. They’re also spent being miserable and uncomfortable. You start to count every second.
Can you tell I’m miserable?
I’m not gonna lie. I ADORED being pregnant. That changed when I realized my baby was pressing up on my hiatal hernia, causing me to have perpetual acid reflux and difficulty swallowing.
Then you count contractions.
Baby is born! Woohoo! Your 6-pound-whatever-ounce reason to live has arrived.
Then you begin marking off your baby’s developmental progress, another way of tracking time.
You worry about whether they’re at the appropriate age to eat rice cereal, whether they’re already teething or just sick, whether they’re behind when it comes to taking those first steps, those first words, those first anythings.
Alma’s first steps
We happened to have two children in quick succession and then realized there was no way in hell we were ever going to have another. We hit the jackpot of crazy kids. Even my own mother recently confessed that both of my toddlers are “exceptionally difficult.” Not the kind of exceptional I was hoping for.
Then, something strange happens. There’s nothing to look forward to. There’s no tracking of time passing. There’s no marking anything off on a planner or calendar.
Now, you’re just supposed to live.
What? How do I do that?
The only internal clock I can find is the one that keeps telling me to bottle up whatever moments I have with my babies.
It’s counting down until they’re too big to sit on my lap, until they don’t call me “mommy” but “mom”, until they start dating and say they hate me.
Eventually, they will leave and I will be left where every parent ends up: crushed by the realization that my babies really aren’t babies anymore, but grownups about to embark on their own journey toward parenthood.
Now, my obsession with time is that I don’t have enough.
Every second slips away while I am stuck in traffic, folding laundry or working.
Don’t mean to talk badly of my profession, but there’s no denying that I would rather be exploring the great outdoors with my kids than writing about a guy accused of raping his pit bull.
Lately Alma has been trying to prove she’s “big enough” to do everything by herself. She’s big enough to get up to the potty by herself, wash her own hands and dress herself. If she tells me she doesn’t need me one more time, I’m going to burst into tears.
This is the beginning of the end.
My powdery fresh newborns are toddlers.
I will never cry tears of joy holding a tiny baby that is my own.
Shit, is this the sound of my real biological clock ticking?
I was born in the 80’s. I grew up in the 90’s. So, what the heck do you call the now’s?
Here’s a quick comparison of the quintessential 80’s toys I remember and what the kids are playing with these days.
1) Popples. Pointless, partially pink, nebulous creatures that you can whip into ball-shaped pink, nebulous creatures.
Today’s version: The Furby. Owl rapes hamster and gives birth to a creature that speaks a made up language so your child will learn absolutely nothing.
2) Tabletop Donkey Kong. Donkeys mysteriously find an endless stockpile of barrels in a jungle in order to thwart attacks by crocodiles.
Today’s version: Angry Birds. Use a slingshot to launch birds at pigs. Because that makes so much sense.
3) Cabbage Patch Dolls: Creepy, cuddly dolls that resemble the girl from Poltergeist and have hard heads that make them perfect weapons when battling big brothers.
Today’s version: Monster High Dolls: Slutty, zombie chicks that look like futuristic strippers. Won’t hurt brothers. Scare adults.
4) The Rubik’s Cube: Spend hours being frustrated so your parents can have some peace.
Today’s version: Leap Pad. Little battery-operated mind suck.
5) Roller Racer: Awkward death trap on wheels.
Today’s version: A Mercedes… for kids. Whose bright idea was this? I know, let’s give reckless, uncoordinated people who are 10 years from getting a license a much smaller, plastic car and let them hit the road.
6) Lite Brite: Most obvious choking and fire hazard ever marketed to children.
Today’s version: Anything made in China that could contain lead, which is everything made in China.
7) Barbie: Inhuman body type, white blonde hair and a permanently surprised look.
Today’s version: Inhuman body type, now available with pink hair and tattoos.
1) 12 Years a Slave: 12 sounds about right. That’s when you can start making kids do their own laundry and load the dishwasher, right?
The “What have I done?” expression Chiwetel Ejiofor’s will have after he has kids.
2) Dallas Buyers Club: I feel like Matthew Mcconaughey’s character.
“Stop right there! Don’t have kids!”
3) Amerian Hustle: I actually look like Christian Bale’s character.
“I’m not pregnant again, so what’s this?”
4) Frozen: My libido. We’ll thaw it out in a few years.
“See this? Nuh uh uh. Maybe when the kids are ready for sleepovers.”
5) Gravity: Where did all my friends go? Oh, wait… I had kids. It’s like being adrift in space.
6) I wore heels to work for the first time in many moons yesterday and bit it hard at the bottom of the stairs ala J-Law. Who needs a fancy gown and an oscar nom to throw yourself to the ground like an a-hole?
7) Ellen: With the current state of my hair growing out process, I look like her only not nearly as beautiful.
Who’s that guy she’s with? I thought she was gay!
8) Blue Jasmine: Didn’t see it, but read a description that included “a fragile socialite experiencing a meltdown.” Replace “socialite” with “working mom” and bingo.
9) I am just about as bad as Bradley Cooper at cutting heads off in selfies and Kevin Spacey could be my doppelganger in 95% of pictures I end up in.
10) Jared Leto. Along with every other woman in the world who tweeted this: I want your hair. Now.
Two thumbs up for deep conditioning!
“I made my bones while you were going out with cheerleaders!”
I take him to the horse track one time and he turns into Moe Greene.
It’s been a real Eeyore meets Daria kind of day.
It escalates in it’s wretchedness, so bear with me.
It begins with my husband waking me with his Cuban whisper, which he got from his mother. I promptly muttered an F-bomb and asked what time it was. 5:55 a.m.
That meant he was heading to Naples and it was time for me to get up so I could faux bathe, slap on a couple barrettes, slam on clothes that don’t need to be ironed and wake my miserable children from what were probably lovely dreams.
Shockingly, Alma was a delight this morning. Which is probably why her little brother was a doddering little terror.
He got apple juice all over his shirt after we were ready to go. When I went to change his shirt, he refused to give up his death grip on a cereal bar. This sent him into a hysterical crying fit.
He was still crying when we pulled into the day care parking lot. I took him out and went to set him down on the ground and he refused to stand. You know that thing toddlers do where they scrunch up their little legs in an air squat so you CAN’T put them down?
He promptly plopped his bum down in a dirty puddle.
Inside the day care, his crying escalated to ear-piercing, purple-faced shrieking.
The day care worker watched as I struggled to change his shorts and keep him from punching me repeatedly in the face. She had a look that could only be described as disdain.
Even after I said loudly, “Huxley, I’ve got to go to work now. I’m late already”… said day care worker continued to stand arms akimbo with no intention of coming to my aid.
I left him bawling and ran through puddles to my car, only to realize he had smeared juicy, drooly cereal bar gunk on my shirt and mysterious white kid goo on my pants.
Gotta keep moving.
Got to work a half an hour late. I proceeded to stack a newscast as quickly as possible, while considering that my anchor prefers me to write everything from scratch and fill an entire hour with compelling content.
Boothing the show, the sound was bleeding through someone else’s mic in the studio so I had the joy of overhearing her complain about my complete incompetence and infuriating inability to produce for the entire hour.
That was enough to crush my spirit for the day and make me weep off all the eye makeup I put on at red lights on the way to work.
During my break, I went to fill up my tank. While I was trying to get the handle to slip into that “hold it while I do other things” clip, the pump shot out of my car spraying me with gasoline from my feet to my chest.
I was soaked in the shit. All I needed was jilted lover with a lighter and I would’ve become a great lead for the 5pm show.
I rushed to Target to spend 60 bucks on an entirely new outfit for the day. When I went to try on the clothes, the woman at the dressing rooms made a stinky face, like… “What on Earth is that ungodly smell?”
I said, “You smell gasoline?” She said, “Yeah, a customer just came up and said she smelled it in another section.”
I said, “Yeah, it’s me. Bad day. That’s why I’m here.”
Bless her heart, she let me change into the clothes and take the tags off and pay for them while wearing them.
I got back to work and had to skip the afternoon meeting in order to eat my lunch. I tried to cover the stench with perfume, but ended up smelling like gas and vanilla.
The pants are cute, but I need a belt. I’ve been showing off my ass crack all day. Not hot, trust me.
People at work were surprised to see me in an entirely different outfit. When I mentioned the gas, they asked if the noon show was really that bad.
“Yeah, I totally doused myself with gasoline and considered lighting myself on fire but then decided to go on a 3-minute shopping spree that nearly ended with a call to the fire department by customer service.”
This, my “friends”, was a very bad day.
It can’t even be resuscitated with a Coke Slurpee. Unless I add Rum.
For the first time last night, I attempted to have a deep, meaningful conversation with my 3 year old daughter. She’s been acting out, refusing to go to bed at night and having meltdowns at school.
Blankie MUST cover head, but not eyes and cover all toes.
I tried to casually and calmly asking her if something has been making her upset lately. She said no.
I said her the teachers have told us she’s been having a bad time at school and I asked if something was bothering her.
She said, “Zach bit me two times. But, that’s it. He doesn’t bite me anymore.”
I said, “Well, you also seem to get very upset about what you’re going to wear for the day. Like, when we tell you that you can’t wear a certain dress… ”
She responded, “I LIKE dresses!”
Me: “Alma, we just want you to be happy and it seems like things really bother you.”
Alma: “Look at the puppet on the shelf! What’s inside this drawer?”
It’s kind of like when I asked her the other day what she wanted to be when she grows up. Her response… “A mommy… and a pumpkin.”
I asked again last night just for shits and giggles and was met with a resounding, “LADYBUG!”
I might as well ask her opinion on the privatization of social security.
Needless to say, our heart to heart did not prevent another major freakout session at bed time.
She demanded a single braid using two rubber bands so she could “look pretty like a fairy.” When I told her no and shut the door, she transformed into some kind of shrieking beast. She seriously sounded like she was screaming in tongues. I expected to open the door to find her crab-walking across the ceiling, spewing green vomit.
My sweet girl has been swallowed up by a chupacabra, one with an insatiable desire for dresses, braids and milk after brushing her teeth.
We’re at the point where we’re trying to teach her that you can’t always get what you want.
In turn, that means we can’t get what we want. (which is really just to watch Juan Pablo get chewed out by some angry Aztec-looking lawyer chick for saying, “It’s Okay” too much on “The Bachelor”. Lofty goals we have.)
Does anybody have a floral-print straight-jacket that doubles as a dress? (but with absolutely no purple… at least not today)
Living The American Scream 