The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife

If you've ever wondered why it is that with all the time I've spent in Korea, surrounded by Korean people, immersed in the Korean language that I still don't speak Korean more than to tell a rude cabbie his mother's got a bald pussy then you need to read this post over at my friend Dave's blog. It's hilarious!

Just in case you needed proof that there is really nothing to those little fortune cookies they hand out at Chinese restaurants, here's what I got yesterday night.






Yeah, right. And I've got rock hard abs and sculpted delts and am always mistaken for Jennifer Aniston.

The kids and I just returned from a week long visit to sweet home Chicago. It was a good visit filled with family and friends and more fun than Mickey and his World. Or at least almost as much fun. But regardless of all the fun, there was a death and dying theme to almost every day we were gone. Seems like death has been making abnormally frequent rounds, hovering over like a gray cloud on a windless day.

As usual, it takes a child to point out the most obvious of life's lessons.

The sole purpose of this visit was to see my oldest, dear friend Holly and her kids. They live all the way on the other coast so a meeting half way in Chicago was convenient. Holly, pictured here because she told me that I could NOT put a picture of her on my blog and I really wanted to show her that just like my grandma taught me I can do anything I set my mind to, is a tall, athletically thin, gorgeous blonde who makes this short, squat, dumpy, old fat housewife look even shorter, squatter, and dumpier. She lives in an insanely huge mansion with her close to perfect husband and three great kids. She's got a fabulous, practically together life and I'd be pea green with envy but for the fact that she lost her mom in April to a brain tumor. To me, after, of course, losing a kid or spouse, losing one's mom has got to be the suckiest shit to swallow down.


Now, most of us, at some point, will have to bury our moms. Tis part of the natural course of life. But Holly's mom was 60 -- too old to be young, but too young to be dead. As we frolicked with our kids at Holly's mom's house in the woods, I was plagued by a melancholy itch that her mom should be there, even if just to remind us to keep the kids' shoes off her sofa. She's missing out on grandkids and gray hair, rocking chairs and wrinkles, highballs and hair appointments. She didn't bury her own mother or see her granddaughters graduate from the kindergarten. She missed out on life, good and bad.

I talked to Holly's much older stepdad about his second wade through grief and realized he's still mired in shock at having to bury the young wife he thought would nurse him in his elderly years. His gut is racked and his hands too idle after years of nursing the wives he has outlived. The whole situation just doesn't seem right or fair.



On the last day of our visit, Holly and I took all the kids up to visit the family of an old high school friend. Bob died in September of last year leaving a huge, gaping hole in the lives of his stunningly beautiful wife and two most awesome boys. Coincidentally, it was a brain tumor that also took Bob. When I found out about Bob's passing through an ailing high school grapevine kept alive by the ever so curious Holly, I was stunned with the sorrow that filled my heart. I hadn't talked to Bob in almost 20 years. We both walked out of high school and never turned back, even for the 10 year reunion. I'm sure he thought about me about as often as I did him -- just about never. If even that often. But something about his death just hit me below the belt and I was left gasping.

Around about Christmas, I contacted Bob's widow, Andrea. Immediately we hit it off. I really liked her and, quite frankly, I don't like most people. Our kids connected, too. In fact, it was their sons' picture that Reilly Kate packed with her when she tried to run away. As we sat in Bob's dream home on the 10th hole of a suburban golf course, perusing his senior year yearbook, chatting about life and kids and death and kids, I was struck by how much I missed Bob. Not for me. For him. For his kids. For his wife. I shouldn't be sitting in that kitchen, I thought. He should be. So much was stolen from them all, I wanted to find the culprit.


Andrea and I have remained friends, exchanging occasional emails and visiting whenever I'm in town. Our kids seem strangely close, without the usual fighting over toys or bickering and teasing that accompanies young children thrust together practically unsupervised while their mothers sit chatting. Many times over the past few months I've thanked Bob for bringing us together while whole heartedly wishing he never had.

On the drive back from our visit, Reilly Kate asked me why Nathan and Wesley's dad had to die. "He had a brain tumor," I told her. "Like GG, he got sick and the doctors couldn't make him well and he died."

"But why?" she asked again.

"I guess that's God's plan, baby," I offered.

"I hate God's plan!" she exclaimed at a volume close to a yell. "It's stupid!" she continued while kicking the seat.

"Reilly Kate!" I was shocked not just at her words but by the very real anger that accompanied them.

"I do! I hate it! I hate it and it's stupid. God's stupid!"

I knew I had to do something to try to explain the unexplainable. Five years old is just too young to lose faith in a just and loving God.

"It isn't stupid, sweetie. There's a reason-" I was cut off.

"Yeah, I know," she interrupted. "People die to make room for new people," she said, dripping with disdain. "But he wasn't even old! It's not fair!"

"No, it isn't," I agreed.

"See? That's why it's stupid," she said.

I had nothing to say to that. It is stupid. It isn't fair. It sucks. And sometimes maybe God is stupid.

She settled into her carseat with MP3 player to gaze out the window. About 15 minutes later I heard her singing to her VBS songs.

"I'm trading my sickness...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord..."

I guess her faith isn't shattered after all. I wish I could say the same for mine.

Really, now. What else would you say in front of the White House?

"That lady had wrinkles in the shape of a frown like she had 20 kids or something."

Reilly Kate's description of the woman at Kohl's.

If ever you feel the need to bring down your self esteem, you should give some thought to a visit our way.

Over Memorial Day weekend Reilly Kate's godmother came for a visit. The first morning as I puttering around in the kitchen, I heard from downstairs the glee-filled giggles of my little angels. Andrea was playing with them. Pure joy. Then I listened a little more carefully. I heard Roman's sweet voice: "Giddy up, old lady. Giddy up! Giddy up, old lady."

Andrea, by the way, is an extremely youthful looking 36.

Just a few days ago, Irina's godmother came for a visit. Shortly after arriving we decided to go to a waterpark and Wendy changed into her bathing suit: a flattering blue and white floral tankini. Reilly Kate came up to her, wrinkled her nose like she'd just smelled a pile of wildebeest dung served up on a china plate, and said, "Is that your suit?"

Reilly Kate by the way was wearing a head to toe UV suit that makes her look more like a brightly colored pink spaceman than a 5 year old on her way to the waterpark.

They're lovely children. Really lovely.

Friday morning, right after stepping out from a cool summer morning shower, I turned on NPR and heard the unmistakable voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. Reilly Kate was sitting on our bed playing with the baby. She looked up, listened for a moment, and then asked, "Mom? What's that guy complaining about?"

"That guy is Martin Luther King, my dear. And he's complaining about injustice," I explained.

So began one of those amazing "unschooling" moments when I got to teach my daughter something about history, civic responsibility, racism, sexism, humanitarianism. I told her about peaceful resistance, standing up for what was right regardless of personal danger, and how one person can change the entire world. We talked about MLK's life and his death. We talked about how important it is for good people to speak out against evil. It was a good lesson.

After it ended, I went about my dressing. Ten or so minutes later, Reilly Kate came in and said to me, "When I get big, I'm going to Darfur to stand up for those people. I'm going to stop what happened to Daniel from happening to kids there." [She's referring to the jewish boy, Daniel, in "Daniel's Story", an exhibit at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, who was imprisoned in a concentration camp during WWII]

"Ya know, that's very dangerous, baby. Darfur is a very dangerous place and there are mean people who would not like you trying to stop what they are doing there," I told her.

"I know. I know it's dangerous," she said. "But Mama, somebody has to stand up to those meanies. Who will protect those kids? I'm going to go there. I'm going to go there when I'm a grown up... or maybe when I'm six," she explained as if it were all very clear to her and should be plain to all of us as well.

"Well, if that's what you want to do, even though it is very, very dangerous..." I started.

"I do! I do! When I'm a grown up... or maybe when I'm six. How 'bout when I'm six?" she seemed in a hurry to single handedly end the genocide in a nightmarish corner of the world that she couldn't even find on a globe. Though, I was beaming that my five year old knew more of it than most Americans could be bothered to learn... and then actually wanted to do something about it.

"Well, not when you're six. But if you did go there and stood up for those people, then I would be very proud of you. Remember, it only takes one person to change the world."

"Awww... but I wanna go when I'm six. Mama, please?" she begged.

All I could do was reach down and hold her close, squeezing her a little tighter with each subsequent "please" she'd eek out until, of course, she'd said "please" about 300 times in a two minute span and I snapped at her in a very unmotherly tone.

That kid. If she ain't breaking my heart with her smart mouth and obnoxious antics, she's making it burst with pride, joy, and love.

We were at Kohl's today and after being warned 2,349,182 times NOT to climb on the side of the cart because she might tip it over, Reilly Kate tipped over the cart -- with Irina in it. Fortunately, I was within arms' reach and caught the baby and the cart before either could hit the floor. Given my penchant for histrionics, I screamed as I performed aforementioned rescue, bringing even more attention to the entire scene. Yay me!

I sat Reilly Kate down and gave her a berating in the most civil tone I've ever berated her in. So enraged was I that if I had brought my voice level even one notch above a steady, audible whisper, I'd probably have lost all control and escalated it up to full blown shrieking. After a few minutes, when I could push the cart without shaking, we proceeded with our shopping.

After some time, Reilly Kate started talking very loudly, saying ridiculous stuff to try to embarrass me in retaliation for her berating. A lovely girl, isn't she?

"What?" she screeched. "You don't want me anymore?"

At least she wasn't screaming "Help me! Somebody call the police!" like she's done several times in the past.

"I never said I didn't want you, Reilly Kate," I told her.

"Why? Why don't you want me?" she asked with a wail.

"Well," said a woman standing nearby, "I could give you five reasons and I've only seen you for about 20 minutes."

And there you have it. I wish she'd shared with us her reasons, though. I have about 2,349,182 and could use five more. But I'll keep her just the same. For now.

You have to excuse me. I've been teetering on the edge of insanity lately. Seriously. I gathered every. single. toy. my children own and dumped them all in the middle of my basement. I feel for my cousin and her boys. They're coming to stay with us and will need to learn quickly how to navigate a toy mountain in the dark. I'm not sure if they offer classes for this at sporting goods stores or what. If anyone knows, please post on that.

So as I said, I've been teetering on the edge. But I rallied today and have my brain firmly planted on sane soil. For now. I managed to somehow seal up that incessant blathering my daughter is so prone to. I gave her music and headphones. If you haven't plugged your kid into some music, let me HIGHLY recommend it. Sure, she looks like a 16 year old angst ridden teen, but what the hell do I care if she shuts the fuck up for longer than three minutes?

Ah, yes. The silence was golden. And just what the doctor ordered. Hell, the kids didn't even fight since Reilly Kate wouldn't even acknowledge Roman's existence while she grooved to The Killers, Green Day, and Pink. Not even when he took to throwing sticks at her head. She didn't even pay him so much as a glance for his efforts. Sure, he walked away feeling lonely and dejected, but the hell do I care if it keeps them from screaming at one another for longer than three minutes?

Better to have a well balanced mother, I always say. Even if the balance is fleeting.

Our weekend, in case you were wondering (because I know my enjoyment of weekends is a pressing issue for my blog readership), was hectic but shit tons of fun. Oh, sure, it made me wish my husband had a weekend job in Siberia, but that's par for the course when one has a busy summer weekend planned that doesn't involve guzzling copious amounts of beer. But that's more his problem than mine.

On Saturday, after Reilly Kate's soccer game, we went down to Kings Dominion. Tons of fun for the kids. Roman is, apparently, an adrenalin junkie. He rode on every roller coaster and daredevil ride a person of his stature is allowed. This picture was taken on the kiddie version of The Clipper. It was his first thrill ride ever. I was a wreck, so nervous was I. But my three and a half year old baby ran straight up to the damn thing, demanded to sit in the very last seat, and then proceeded to raise his arms straight in the air. It was only after I just about stroked out (remember, my mental state as of late), that he put his arms down, fingers safely curled around the bar in front of him. My heart, by the way, hasn't stopped racing since. I'm too old and too fat for my kid's adventuresome spirit.


Reilly Kate loved her some race cars. Too bad for her, it appears she has inherited my complete and utter misunderstanding of navigation and vehicle control. Good thing they keep these things on tracks. We avoided the bumper cars completely. Just don't think it's a good idea for her. Do you? At least she kept her eyes open. I mean, no hands is one thing, but with your eyes closed you can't even brace yourself for the impending crash.

And then there was Irina. My sweet little cherub who is quite honestly the easiest baby I could have ever dreamed of. She is the least of my problems, completely absent of worry. She's a true delight. And she's discovered her toes. She's an ardent worshipper of the foot, it seems. Just loves her some foot action. A real foot fetishist, she is. I'll let you guess where she inherited that from. And, ummm, it ain't me so don't guess that.

By the end of the day, the kids were really wanting to win stuffed animals. You know, those damn games that you spend 20 bucks to win a fucking $5 piece of crap made by political prisoners in China. Well, Mike did win one. An ugly Pokemon thing that he gave to me as an apology for the temper tantrum he threw. Yes, Mike. Anyway, the kids were buggin'. I saw one of those Amazing Houdini type things where the park worker is trained to guess your weight or age or whatever. I told Mike that I really didn't think anyone would guess my weight within five lbs. Dumb move on my part because Mike then was insistent that I go and do it and win the kids some animals. So, after discarding my pride in the nearest trash can, I waltzed up to the Houdini, paid my five bucks and had her guess my weight.

"Turn around," she directed.

I did as told, sucking in my gut and wishing I had stuffed my pocket with whatever it is in my purse that makes the fucking thing so god damned heavy.

"I'm going to say... 130," she said.

I laughed. "Is that really your guess?"

"Well, I can't change it now, can I? Get on the scale."

There, in the middle of an amusement park, on a crowded weekend, in front of God and everyone -- oh, and did I mention it was Mike's company picnic? Yes, so in front of God, everyone, and all those that Mike works with, I stepped on the scale.

183.

Yes, I beat that Houdini bitch by 53 lbs. So bad was her beating that I won EACH child a stuffy.

Yep, it pays to be fat. In technicolor monkeys.

There are days I just wish my husband would go away.

Those days are called "weekends."