The War of The Dip

Hey, remember how I said I’d try to keep up with my blog? Neither do I, because GRAD SCHOOL IS INSANE, YO. I have no memory of anything anymore, because my brain has exceeded its limit. It’s overflowing with information and if I don’t empty it soon… well.

I really need to make more of an effort to get back to writing non-college-y stuff because clearly I’m losing my mind. The perfect segue to this story…

So my husband just had a birthday. He wanted a quiet birthday weekend because, you know, he’s old now. But then something happened.

Let me tell you the back story first: a few years ago Baby Mama unknowingly started a downward spiral of events in my house when she gave Eric her recipe for a chocolate chip cream cheese dip. I’m not sure of the exact recipe, but it’s mostly made of cream cheese and the Tooth Fairy’s tears. It’s the most fattening, delicious, sugary dip you’ve ever regretted eating.

My husband gets on these weird snack phases, and as I’ve mentioned before, he’s very protective of his food. So he was making this dip for himself, buying chocolate animal crackers to go with the dip (animal crackers are essential to this treat, apparently) and this became his new snack.

For months this went on. I cannot emphasize enough how fattening this dip is. First of all, a batch of it is meant for like, a large gathering of people, not one single, insane man. Because the other thing about it was, he would not share it. He’d give me and the boys a measly little taste every once in a while, but he watched our every bite.

We even caught him hiding it in the very back of the refrigerator, all wrapped in aluminum foil like some ridiculous dessert camouflage, meant to throw us off. But he wasn’t counting on this former reader of Nancy Drew, no sir. I spied the empty cream cheese packaging, the mixing attachments in the dishwasher and the not-quite-cleaned out mixing bowls. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Pingle.

I really want to put an inappropriate joke here, but I'll restrain myself. — I really want to put an inappropriate joke here about Nancy and Ned, but I’ll restrain myself.

“You hid the dip in the back of the refrigerator?” I screeched. Both boys perked their ears and swiveled their heads first toward me, then Eric. We all stared at him, waiting.

“Uhhh…” he protested unconvincingly.

It was a dark day in the Pingle household.

He eventually weaned himself off (after several interventions), and things settled down.

Well, I hate to tell you but The Dip is back.

It started up again a few weeks ago. The ingredients suddenly appeared in the refrigerator. Animal crackers showed up in the pantry.

The weekend after his birthday a bowl of dip beckoned enticingly from the fridge. I was alone and it was that time of day when it’s too early for dinner but well past lunch. I helped myself to some of the dip to tide me over until dinner.

Later that night Eric opened the refrigerator. “Who ate all my dip?” he roared.

“All your dip? I barely had any!” I said.

“You had a lot.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“There is plenty left! For one normal person, anyway. Maybe not enough for one ridiculous man,” I huffed.

Later, he set the empty (empty!) bowl in the sink. “That was disappointing,” he sniffed.

He would not shut up about it for the rest of the night. And there was enough dip for four people in that bowl, you guys. He’s insane. Insane.

And he’s allll mine. Happy Birthday, Mr. Pingle.

Writing about writing

You guys, I’m starting grad school in two weeks. Two weeks. Where has this summer gone? I should have my book finished by now… it was on my summer checklist and everything. Well, less a checklist and more a note to myself that read, “Finish your book, idiot.”

Also, the entire point of birthing this website was so I would have a full-grown freelance career. But what did I end up with? A blog that spends the entire day picking its nose, taking up Internet space and contributing nothing to the household.

Maybe if I actually, you know, looked for freelance work, this blog would get up off the couch and do something for me. I have a couple articles I began writing that I could pitch… but have I completed those either? I think we all know the answer to that.

SIGH. Will I have time to keep up this blog? I hope so. The thing is, my “writing brain” is always on. I basically have a whirring disco ball full of bumbling characters that have no idea how to function in this imaginary world I’ve stuck them in. Ideas from my blog run into magazine article ideas and later meet up for drinks with movie ideas and then maybe hook up later with book ideas. It’s like an orgy in my head, man. And it never shuts off. It’s like the all-orgy channel.

Okay, that metaphor just went to a weird place. The point I’m laboring to make is if I don’t get those ideas out, they stay stuck in my brain. That’s how people go crazy, probably.

Wait, what am I doing? Dammit, I’m a writer, not a doctor!

So for my own safety, I should probably keep writing. That’s a tagline for writers, right?

Writing: It gets the crazy out.

Well… mostly.

My uterus is still fine, thank you.

So, in case you didn’t read my About page, I married a divorced dad of two boys who didn’t want any more kids. In fact, he took extreme measures to ensure no more youngins would henceforth be birthed from his loins; this involved a doctor, some Valium and a little snip-snip (respectful pause while all men reading this wince and squirm a little).

Despite society’s best attempts to brainwash me, a part of me always knew that the whole Mom thing wasn’t really my jam.

A long time ago my former brother-in-law told me I was “selfish” when I said I didn’t really want to have kids.

Let me set the scene: I’m in my early 20’s, about as far from adulthood as I could possibly be and still feed myself. That evening I was most likely hungover and taking a reprieve from my regularly scheduled debauchery.

My nephew (now 15) was just a baby at this time. I was rocking him to sleep and even as I gazed at his tiny little face with auntly love (how is “auntly” NOT a word? Screw you, Spell Check!), after a few minutes of gentle rocking a part of me thought: Huh. This is kind of boring. I experienced no pangs in my ovaries, no maternal longing. Just… boredom. Plus I was getting sweaty. Holding babies is wonderful until you realize that one baby can reach the approximate core temperature of the sun. And have you ever walked with a baby? How a 10 lb. baby can end up feeling like you’re carrying a lead-based laundry basket full of wet towels is something science should really figure out.

And the longer you’re around babies, you realize that their whole existence consists of forever making noises and smells and spewing liquid goosh from every orifice. Why are you so disgusting, babies?

Anyway, back to my nephew. I told my brother-in-law that I didn’t think I wanted kids. Not that I impulsively decided this while holding my nephew. It wasn’t like, I held him for five minutes and then shoved him back, saying, “Blech! That was awful. You actually like this thing?”

No. But it was something that had been stirring for a while and I finally voiced it, unfortunately to the wrongggg person. I forget his exact words, but it was something along the lines of, “Only a selfish piece of crap would not want children because that means you’re only living to please yourself and you will die alone after a bitter, sterile existence.”

Awesome. Great talk, bro. Okay, back to me.

Now, I know some mothers who used to feel the same way I do. Having your own is a totally different thing, I get that. And I know that if by some weird cosmic force, I became pregnant and had my own baby, I’d pimp-slap anyone who said my baby was less than a miracle delivered by unicorns straight from heaven and wrapped in rainbows.

But—overall I’m thankful that I never hopped on board the Baby Express. My uterus has no regrets.

When my hubby and I first got married, a lot of my girlfriends and even people I didn’t know were aghast when I said we weren’t going to have our “own” kids. Everyone said, “You’ll change your mind!” (I actually wrote a blog post about this a long time ago entitled, “Congratulations On your Wedding, Now What About Your Uterus?” Hence the title of this post. If anyone wants to read it, I can try to dig it up. The blog post, not my uterus.)

Well, it’s been almost 10 years, I’m now 37 and my mind remains unchanged. I get to experience motherhood-by-proxy with my stepsons. They were tiny little guys when Eric and I started dating, just 4 and 7. I feel very blessed that I got to experience most of their childhood “firsts.”

Although I must admit that at the time I mostly thought, “Wow, boys are loud, like, all the time. Why do they get up so early? They sure do talk a lot. Can’t they fix their own breakfast? Is that crying or laughing? What is all that screaming?”

Eric remained maddeningly calm while I clumsily maneuvered my way through stepmotherhood. Eventually I figured it out and now that the boys are teenagers, I can look back on those days with longing (much like every other parent with teenagers, I have forgotten the horrors of raising small children).

Sometimes I ask myself: If my husband didn’t already have kids would we have had our own? It’s an unanswerable question. But I think God put me exactly where I was meant to be. I’m pretty sure He knew I was probably better off not having kids around 24/7.

I picture Him watching 20-something me stumbling out of various clubs, looking blankly at my girlfriends and slurring, “Which one of us drove again?”

Shaking His head in exasperation, “Oh, Me. No, no, no, no, this one should definitely NOT procreate.”

Zap! “Here’s a divorced dad, in like-new condition…. he comes with two pre-packaged kids, no delivery required. His sperm is disabled, but no worries! Everything works properly. I think he’s perfect for you. Now stop that. Stop that, I say.”

It’s like a fairy tale, right? And we all lived happily ever after.

Anything goes… as long as it’s funny

It’s very strange having two kids who are teenagers. When my husband and I got married and I officially became a stepmom, the boys were only four and seven. They were adorable and innocent and now I wish I had started this blog back then so I had a record of all the cute things they used to say.

For instance, whenever they broke something they would say plaintively, “It was on an accident” instead of “It was an accident,” which we always found funny. (They did not, because even though they were cute, they would still get in trouble. Parents are jerks, right?)

Once Gunnar found a stray cat outside our apartment (that he named “Sprinkles” even though it was tiger-striped) and when Eric wouldn’t let him bring the cat inside, Gunnar cried, “You hate God’s creatures!” (Eric countered with, “I don’t hate them; I just find them filthy and dirty.” Gunnar was not appeased.)

When Gunnar experienced the dreaded “special” health class in fifth grade, he came home and said, “I know all about how babies are made.” Then, with a meaningful look at us: “It’s disgusting.” (“Don’t look at me,” I protested. “I’ve never made babies.”)

At our old apartment, our bedroom’s vent connected with the boys’ vent. So whenever they needed us they would just holler through the vent like it was an intercom: “Dadddyyyyyyy… Jesssssieeeee… we’re hungryyyyyyy.”

Of course, this meant they could also hear us. Whether we wanted them to or not, ifyouknowwhatImean. I still remember Caleb saying to us disapprovingly over breakfast, “I could hear you guys kissing.”

And sometimes we’d watch movies that were funny but probably not age-appropriate. For instance, one night when Eric wasn’t home, the boys and I watched “Dodgeball.” Fairly harmless, but I forgot about the ending when Christine Taylor’s character kisses another girl and says, “I’m not a lesbian, I’m bisexual!” and then proceeds to make out with Vince Vaughn’s character. Not exactly pearl-clutching dialogue, but at the time both boys said, “Ewww!”

Then came the inevitable question: “What’s bisexual?” Gunnar asked.

Oh, dear. But, amazingly, I came up with a diplomatic answer: “It’s when you like both boys and girls.”

“Oh,” they said solemnly. Then, “Ewww.” (This was in the good old days when the thought of anyone kissing anyone was gross and hilarious.)

Blondie- Gunnar Thug stance- Caleb Grinning fool- me. — Blondie: Gunnar. Thug stance: Caleb. Grinning fool: me.

Now, if we were to watch it and that scene came on, they’d both be like, “All right!” Then they’d probably rewind it and watch the scene again. Ugh.

I think that’s what bothers me most: not that it’s awkward to watch that stuff with the kids, but now there’s no need to explain/avoid explaining what it means.

The other night we all watched Louis CK perform stand-up. My rule has always been: If it’s funny and not tooooo inappropriate, then it’s okay to watch. Since I’m a comedy writer, I try not to censor too much when it comes to comedies.

For example, Tosh.0 gets on all of my nerves, but I don’t forbid the boys to watch it; I just don’t want to be around when they do. (Although Eric claims he’s heard me laughing while it was on. Filthy lies.) But on the other hand, a few years ago I watched one of Dane Cook’s stand-up routines and not only was it incredibly vulgar, it wasn’t even funny. Unforgivable. So I banned them from watching that.

I have weird rules, you guys. Deal with it.

For some reason that night Caleb was being all grumpy and teenagery. The whole time Louis CK was on he kept interrupting and saying things like, “Oh, it’s funny when he says the “F” word…”

After he had interrupted approximately five million times, Gunnar hit “pause” with pointed emphasis, looked over at Caleb and said sarcastically, “Anything else you’d like to say? Any other comments? Come on! Get ‘em out now!” which for some reason I thought was just as funny as the comedian. It’s hard to convey in blog form how funny Gunnar is because it’s all in his expression and the way he says things. I’d post a picture of him but I think he’d literally kill me. So just trust me… it was funny.

Everyone quieted down and, after glaring at all of us, Gunnar hit “play.” And we watched a brilliant comedian and laughed our butts off… as a family. Anything we can all enjoy together is a rare and precious gift during these dark teenaged times.

So if I have to watch a guy tell hilariously inappropriate jokes just to hang out with my boys… I’ll take it. Even if now the boys insist on explaining the jokes to me.

Ewww.

Present day. (Well, 6 months ago.) *Still* thrilled to have their picture taken, clearly.

And this is why candy is bad for you

So a few nights ago, Caleb decided he wanted to make eggs. At 10:30 at night. For a “snack.”

“You are NOT making eggs for a snack!” Eric and I said.

Caleb was indignant. “Why not?”

“Well, for starters, you had a double Baconator and fries for dinner,” I said.

Caleb waved his hands dismissively. “That was hours ago.”

“No,” I repeated.

“But there’s nothing here to eat for a snack!” said Caleb in the same tone one might say, “But there’s no ammunition left and we’re surrounded by zombies!”

“And,” he went on triumphantly, “it’s too late! I already broke the eggs and put milk in the bowl.”

“Oh, no,” I said in mock horror. “There’s no turning back now!” I jabbed a pointed finger at the bowl. “Just wrap it up and put it in the refrigerator. You can eat them in the morning.”

Gunnar chimed in from across the room. “Won’t that cause problems? I mean, what if he wakes up in the morning and it’s like a mutated chicken?”

“I don’t think you understand how eggs work,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” Eric said suddenly. “Why don’t we have any snack food? Didn’t we have like three containers of ice cream?”

“That was from a week ago,” Caleb claimed.

“No, it wasn’t!” we both exclaimed.

“Caleb, that was Saturday.” I counted on my fingers. “Four days ago!”

Eric’s face turned deadly. “My Reese’s cups better still be in the freezer,” he said threateningly.

Let me pause to explain something here. My 40-year old husband has the sweet tooth of all the children in Willy Wonka combined. Ever since I’ve known him, he has guarded his “snacky treats” with the vigilance of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. His sister loves telling the story of the time she babysat for the boys and Eric forbade her to eat any of his Oreos. He will count them, you guys. And woe to the hapless child (or wife) who eats them without his knowledge. “There were twelve Oreos in here and now there are only eight. Who ate four Oreos?” I’m surprised he doesn’t have a security camera set up in front of our pantry, maybe with an electrified net to catch nefarious cookie-snatchers.

My husband's worst nightmare. — My husband’s worst nightmare.

Okay, so back to the story.

“Oh, I ate one, honey,” I said.

“WHAT?!?”

There are not enough punctuation marks in the English language to convey how angry he sounded in that moment. But luckily I was able to draw a quick sketch:

I stiffened at his tone and turned around. “What?”

He ignored me. “Well, how many are left?!?”

“There are three left. It was a king-sized.” I glared at him. “Are you yelling at me about candy?”

He huffed and puffed. “Well…” he started.

Oh, I don’t think so, mister. “You know that thing you wanted to do tonight?” I asked. “Not happening.” I made a sassy “Nu-UH, honey!” gesture and flounced out of the room.

Gunnar and Caleb looked horrified.

“I don’t think I want a snack after hearing that,” Caleb said.

Typical Evening at the Pingles

Last night I’m drying my hair when I hear a knock at my bedroom door. It’s my youngest stepson, Caleb.

Caleb: Jessie, Colonel Sanders is at the door.

This is said in a quiet, serious tone, as if what he said is a totally normal thing to announce. There is a long pause while I take it in.

Me: (blankly) What?

Caleb: It’s either Colonel Sanders or the old guy from Jurassic Park.

This is Caleb’s idea of explaining something, by the way.

Me: Wha… What? So someone’s at the front door?

Caleb: Yes. But I’m not answering it.

Me: Well, neither am I! I’m in the middle of something.

(Don’t judge me. It takes a long time to dry my hair, you guys. And I can’t just stop in the middle! There’s a process.)

Caleb: I’m gonna tell Gunnar.

He marches to Gunnar’s room and says in the same tone, “Colonel Sanders is at the door.” From the hall I could hear Gunnar say, “What?”

Caleb appears back in the hall with a baffled Gunnar trailing behind him. I’m pretty sure both our face expressions are the same.

“Caleb, is he still out there?” I hiss, for I just remembered that my windows are open.

Caleb: I’ll check.

Most normal people with an unwanted visitor on their doorstep would then quietly tiptoe down the stairs to check on the situation.

Not Caleb.

He thunders down the stairs with all the delicacy of a St. Bernard and thrusts his face against the door to peer through the peephole. “He GONE!” he declares with satisfaction.

I feel bad we left the poor guy standing on the porch. “I’m sure he was a perfectly nice man.”
“I’m sure he was,” Caleb says agreeably. “I’m sure he raises dinosaurs. Or chickens.”

Dear God.

I relay this incident word for word when my husband Eric got home. He’s now irritated we didn’t answer the door because he wants to know who it was.

“I don’t answer the door when you’re not here!” I protest.

“Gunnar and Caleb are here!”

“But I’m the adult! I’m supposed to protect them. What if he was psycho?”

“If the three of you can’t take the old guy from Jurassic Park, then you’ve got problems.”

The Pingles, ladies and gentlemen.

Okay, I lied. I’m back.

This was supposed to be a non-working blog. A place where I display my wares and walk away, like those kiosks in the mall that sell stuff like soap made with salt from the Dead Sea. Then when you pause for a nano-second, because you have an eyelash in your contact or something, they appear from nowhere with a charming yet purposeful air. “May I help you?”

THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME. I’m creepy sea salt lady.

But I couldn’t stay away! You know how hard it is for a writer to have an audience at her very fingertips and not write?

Clearly impossible.

I have too much on my mind to not write. Let me take you on a tour through my thoughts. Watch your step, it’s sticky.

I got into grad school and start in August which is like a FEW MONTHS away and I’m freaking out.

I loved college. Loved it. But I also worked part time on the weekends, lived at home, and graduated over ten years ago. My brain has got a lot slower since then, I work full-time, I have a house, a husband, a family… ahhhhh! What was I thinking? How am I going to do this? What if I fail? What if I’m the class dummy? What if everyone gets it but me????

See above re: freaking out.

I’m trying to write a book and I can’t find the time/energy to work on it.

I wanted to finish my book before I went back to school. I had a plan. I was going to write such-and-such words a day—not an unreasonable amount, either. A totally doable amount. But I haven’t done it. I was on fire for a few weeks, then pffft. I wrote a book in a freaking month for NaNoWriMo, so I know it can be done. So what’s my problem? Blaaaaarg.

Lastly, the whole point of this blog was to garner some freelance work.

I’ve garnered exactly two things: 1) A woman asking if there are any job openings at my place of employment (there aren’t) and 2) another woman who wrote to me for marriage advice after reading one of my xojane articles. Do I look like f%^&ing Dear Abby? Go see a marriage counselor!

WHAT THE CRAP, Y’ALL.