Texting

Mother: "Remember that souvenir bottle of Fountain of Youth H2O we brought Grandma from FL?"

Me: "Yeah."

Mother: "I'm sitting in her office looking at it. It's half gone."

Me: "You're not s'pose to drink it. It says right on the bottle."

Mother: "I know that."

Me: "Looks like she wants to stick around a little longer."

Mother: "Great. I can't handle her crazy for another 10 years."

Mother: "Crap."

Me: "What?"

Mother: "I just super glued my finger to my soda can."

Me: "Nice. Don't you go drinking from that bottle, k?"

Sides Are For Pussies

As I was growing up, my mother cooked about as well as Jeffrey Dahmer did so I eventually taught myself to cook. I couldn't cook cook but I could hold my own with a few key recipes. After I got laid off from my job last year, I needed a hobby that wouldn't land me in jail. Or destroy my liver. So I started watching cooking shows. Granted, I've had a love/hate relationship with them, but I've really learned a lot from them. My recipe repertoire has grown, I've experimented with foods I normally passed over at the grocery store, and I've developed a pretty good taste for seasonings. I'm not Paula Deen yet (thank God) but I can cook some good ass food!

Except.....for side dishes. I spend so much time and energy on the fantabulous main dish that I usually forget to make side dishes. Maybe it's because I usually only cook for myself (although I almost always find sides for The Kid, who doesn't eat what I cook half the time.) But I don't care. The dishes I make taste so good that I don't need side dishes filling me up!

However, The Mother has a problem with it. She is benefitting tremendously from my newfound cooking prowess (i.e., she always finds a reason to be at my house around dinnertime. Moocher.) But she always has to make a comment about my lack of sides.

"Couldn't you have made a salad? Just a salad would be good."

Here's the door. Go find yourself a salad.

Mother knows she has no room to criticize me on my dishes...but she does, natch. It's actually become a joke between us - she whines about salads, I remind her of how she made three of us sick last Easter. Ha ha.

Oh well. If she wants to eat well, she can keep her criticisms to herself. Cause tomorrow night I'm making some kick ass beef burgundy.

With no sides, of course.

No More Valium For Me

I had my six-month dental check today. The hygienist informed me she would need to take x-rays (which is fine because I don't need five people to hold me down like The Kid does.) But today was different because the hygienist asked me to follow her down the hall. Hmmmm.

I entered a room with a panoramic x-ray machine (which goes around your head, unlike bite wings that go into your mouth) and we took panoramic pics of my teeth. Afterward, I asked her why we did the panoramic x-rays instead of the normal bite wings. She said, "Oh, we don't do bite wings anymore. We can see more of the teeth in the panoramic x-ray."

What? WHAT??? SHUT. THE. EFF. UP.

Now some of you may not be familiar with The Kid's aversion to bite wing x-rays. I usually need a valium after he goes for a check up.

I asked if they took children. She said, Absolutely! OH YEAH. The Kid has never thanked me for giving birth to him and having to endure painful constant contractions and a long-ass needle stuck into my back (which I was SO grateful for that I wanted to have the anesthesiologist's child. And she was a woman.) No, not even a "Good job, Mom!"

But this? The Kid is going to bow down and kiss my feet when I tell him he can switch dentists. He SO owes me. Like, for life.

I think I'll start by making him clean my room and paint my toenails.

Hell Hath Frozen Over

So......I got a job! Ironically, it's the job I volunteered for while I was making big money at my former job. I loved my time there, and now I'm getting paid for it!

The problem? I'm earning one quarter of what I was making in my last position. Yep, take what you make per month and throw away three-fourths of it. Hurts, doesn't it? But in the dark reality of minimum wage work there is one glorious shining bright spot about this new job:

I don't have to wear pantyhose.

BOOYAH!!!!!!

The Highlight of My Day

Dickhead creditor: "The last thing you charged on your credit card was a $16.00 purchase from Amazon.com. Why don't you sell some of your stuff to pay off your credit card bill?"

Me: "Yeah, like someone's going to buy Bright Lights, Big Ass for $800 dollars. Why don't you sell one of your balls and buy yourself some brains???"

Me= 1
Dickhead Creditor= 0

Dressing for Success

I made my first visit to the local unemployment office today because I couldn't get through to anyone at the toll-free number. Verrrry inneresting.

Next time I'll leave my one carat diamond stud earrings at home. And my Louis Vuitton purse. And my pearls. Then again, even if I rode the bus there naked I would still stick out.

Reminder: Next time, bring pepper spray.

Sweet, Sweet Nitrous

The dentist appointment got a little hairy until the hygienist turned on the gas. Then it was alllllllllllll good.

Heaven Help Me

It is once again time for one of my most dreaded and horrible duties I have as a mom. It drains me physically and mentally every time I have to do it, and I swear every time I will take every measure to ensure that I don't have to do it anymore. But here we go again.

The Kid has a dentist appointment tomorrow.

I was never afraid of the dentist when I was young because he was my dad. I liked the "Mickey Mouse" gas (nitrous) he gave me, and I knew he wouldn't intentionally hurt me. (Although there was that one time I groaned as he was pulling a loose baby tooth and he said to his hygienist, "Don't mind her. She always complains." Bastard.)

(Side note: I grew up mostly in the 80s so dental regulations weren't exactly adhered to. Or passed yet. My sister, who was around 14 or 15 years old, spent her summer vacation acting as my dad's hygienist. She did a good job...until I came in for a filling. Back then, dentists used the silver fillings that had to set for ten minutes or so. After my dad filled my cavity, he instructed my sister to keep the suction tube in my mouth until he returned from checking another patient. Long story short - I started playing with the filling with my tongue...it slipped down my throat...my sister went after it with the suction tube...and did NOT retrieve the filling. My dad came back in, and we acted like nothing was amiss. That was the last time he left us alone during my dental visits.)

Anyballs, The Kid HATES the dentist. And when I say hate, I mean he would rather chop off his arms and legs and be a flopping bloody torso than go to the dentist. The last two times he had to have x-rays it took five of us holding him down to get the pictures. FIVE.

I don't know why he's so afraid. He can never come up with a valid answer when I ask him. You would think he'd be flossing every night to avoid the dentist, right? NOT. Hence, our pending visit tomorrow to get a cavity filled.

Perhaps when the hygienist isn't looking I'll sneak a whiff off the Mickey Mouse gas. Hell, I'm paying out the ass for it, and I'll probably need it more than The Kid does.

*Dear God, please be with me and The Kid tomorrow. Let the dentist appointment go smoothly and keep us all safe. Especially the poor hygienists. Amen.*

Riches to Rags

So with the dawning of the New Me (on drugs, natch) I felt it was time for a change on the blog. "Regan's Head" is an unimaginative title I tossed on my first blog five years ago. No one ever read it so there was no reason for me to care that it was lame.

I was brainstorming last night on new titles: The Crazy Mama, MILF Central, Single But Not Ready To Mingle Because Men Can Save Their Drama For Their Mama, etc. Then I thought maybe I could play off my childhood nickname - "Rags". (In fact, my father's side of the family still calls me Rags.) A few people have said, "Rags to riches! Hahaha!!!" I'm like, Wow. Cause I've NEVER HEARD THAT BEFORE.

Then it hit me. The story of my life.

Riches to Rags.