Hi there, Little Dude. It’s been quite a year.

I just wanted you to know, a year ago today I might have said some things I shouldn’t have. Some of those things I hope to never repeat. When I said, “Mom, you need to leave,” I hope you understand that Grandma Herbie really did need to leave, because she may not have realized that the labor and delivery takes place in the same room, and there was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to give birth in front of her. Although if I hadn’t asked her to leave, she may have kept yammering on about her church’s Small Group ministry and not have noticed I was getting ready to push. She also might have stayed to scold me about my sudden onset of religiously themed cursing.

Which brings me to my next point. When the nurse told me not to push yet, and I said, “JesusMaryJosephAndaCamel,” I was trying to think happy Christmas thoughts. I was thinking about the Nativity set I was going to buy you someday, not taking the Son of God’s name in vain. There was nothing vain about it. Trust me. Nothing can be attributed to vanity when my lady parts were open to the breeze while a strange, hunky doctor applied a fetal monitor to your head via my nether regions while asking me if I was in fact lying when I said “I’m OK,” causing me to panic because not only did I not want to meet George Clooney this way but I also realized that George Clooney can READ MINDS.

I’m sure I said some other things, but you’ll have to ask Dad about those. Drugs had some awesome effects on not only the pain you caused me, but they may have permanently made me addle-pated.

Which is why I decided to throw you a first birthday party despite all my past arguing against toddler birthday parties. And it needed to be a pirate theme. I don’t remember why it needed a pirate theme anymore — that was so long ago, at least seven trips to the Dollar Tree and Target ago.

Maybe the pirate theme came to me when I decided we should take everyone swimming. Eat cake and ice cream, then head down to the pool and work off the calories, little children. Then a few days ago I suddenly realized it might rain, and the party would be ruined if I had no back up plan. Problem is, I hate party games. As a child I never got any enjoyment while being forced to see how many marshmallows I could stuff into my mouth while still being able to say, “chubby bunny.” Nor did I ever want to have anything to do with a game that involved relay races with plastic spoons or eggs or whatever passes for fun to deranged people. Humiliating stuff. Also, who wants to pit a group of girls ages 2 to 7 against each other in cutthroat competition? Not I. That is what they call a thing that can only end in tears.

Then I had a spark of an idea. A treasure hunt to find a box, a very special box, hiding special gift bags containing sparkly necklaces and rings and compasses and stickers with Johnny Depp on them! But how to do it …

Here is where I have to give credit where credit is due. Well, not precisely. I did a search on the internet, and Internet suggested something that I tweaked and made my own. Little Dude, don’t ask me what the Internet is. Just know that you are not allowed to use it until you are 32.

In case people are wondering how exactly this qualifies as a craft to make life better in a small space, it TOTALLY qualifies because I defeated negative thinking. The first moment I suggested a treasure hunt, and placing clues around the apartment, my mother — your crazy Grandma Herbie — said, “This place isn’t big enough for that game. Where will you have them go? To the bathroom?”

The answer to the first question is “PISH POSH.” The answer to the second question is “Anywhere!” and the answer to the third question is “YES.”

Here were my materials: party cups with names of party guests pre-written on them: brown paper lunch bags, torn up into pieces small enough for you to choke on, a cool leather box I’ve had in my living room for a hundred years that fit perfectly as a treasure box, party gift bags and a bunch of cheesy plastic jewelry, compasses, fake gold coins, eye patches and other junk.

First thing, I cut some of the brown paper bag in a circle and taped it under the cup of the party guest whom I knew for sure could read well. Yeah, I fixed that aspect of the game, so sue me. What are you going to do, Little Dude? You can’t even talk yet. The first clue, which Lydia read out loud to everyone, was “First, have tea with the Disney Princesses.” The girls all collaborated in the way that girls ages 2 to 7 know how. They shouted out the first things that came to their heads all at the same time until  Your friend Anna outshouted everyone when she remembered admiring my Disney Princess tea set on my baker’s rack.

This clue right here read, “Next, go visit the bathing pond and talk to the turtle.” Yep, the bathroom. Specifically, your favorite bath toy, Mr. Turtle, who provided the next clue:

Mr. Turtle obviously directed your lovely friends to the “Sea Captain’s library, to check out Mother Goose.”

Somehow I skipped taking a picture of the Mother Goose book, located on the bookshelf in the living room, but you get the idea. Perhaps I forgot all about it upon arriving in the living room. That must be what happened because as you can see, the first thing I saw was your daddy’s adorable rear end. There it is, right over there. Take that, Pioneer Woman.

Anyway, the clue in Mother Goose was, “You scurvy dog, you’ll never find my treasure! Take a walk off the plank and get lost in the underwater tunnel.’ That right there, in close proximity to Daddy’s hiney is the plank and the tunnel with fishes on it. Under it was the next clue, which read, “You’ve had a rough journey, why not get some fresh air on the deck?”

This next little clue that I tucked under the plant here, they missed. Not because they weren’t looking, and not because the girls weren’t bright enough to spot it. But probably because these girls were so smart they spotted the location of the Sea Captain’s buried treasure as soon as they stepped out on the deck.

Perhaps the secret stash was too easy to find.

      So there you have it. An easy peasy little game for some smart little girls, avoiding competition, offending no one and rewarding everyone. Perhaps you think it’s a bit New Age-y for me to avoid competitive games at my kid’s party. Surely, you are not as afraid of causing a living room full of crying girls as I am. You are, therefore, a better person than I am.

Now, you may ask yourself, why would I create a game for my guests that you, the birthday boy, cannot play? I say to that, who cares? You are one year old. And you could choke on the plastic jewelry. What’s the matter with you, anyway? But really, the quick little game served as the perfect moment to rush you off to change you into your swim diaper, which, I have to tell you is a BEAR to put on and take off a kid.

So, say it with me, Little Dude! To all the naysayers who said my home was too small for a treasure hunt, we say, WALK THE PLANK.

I just want to say, before you start in on me, I know. You’re going to scroll down and see the crazy, janky thing I made, and I have no explanation for it other than it’s a weirdly shaped thing and it was hard to podge properly. I am not proud. But then again I am in some way.

So here goes. We have these empty canisters that used to house the peach-mango flavored puffs. The melting kind that babies eat to practice chewing and swallowing and lifting small things to their mouth, so as to improve their dexterity enough to feed themselves dog kibble as they amble around on all fours, unsupervised. The Hubs started reusing these canisters for Cheerios. He took the label off and we had blank, boring white canisters. Which to me, looked like a canvas. Which gave me an idea. Why not turn the canisters into something awesome, while still containing plain old Cheerios?

My idea was creating a label and a logo for Astronaut Snacks! That there is an exclamation point, on purpose. You can’t say it without shouting. Try it. “Astronaut Snacks!” It’s too awesome for your inside voice.

The above is a picture of my raw materials. The aforementioned lackadaisical puffs canister, some Rockets & Sprockets scrapbook paper from Michael’s, Mod Podge, a.k.a. the glue that now holds together the cracks of my heart, and a completely insane fake canister label of my own design, comprised of images and text from the NASA website and ad copy from the rustier regions of my brain pan.

I just want to apologize to Captain Mark Kelly, the astronaut whom I’m currently fixated on because I’m fascinated with the story of his marriage to Arizona Senator Gabrielle Giffords. I apologize because I made this crazy thing for my crazy kid, and the canister label in its current form does not do justice to the hunky astronaut. You’ll see in a minute.

Anyway, because the puffs canister is such a weird shape, I cut out all the pieces of the label separately, thinking that would prevent much of the puckering and wrinkling. It’s not unlike old school newspaper design. The kind they used to do until 1997. Yes, kids, we used to cut our copy with a knife and glue it onto sheets of paper. This is why old timey newspaper guys were mostly drunks.

Once I finished cutting, I arranged the scrapbook paper in a ridiculous patchwork fashion, the podged it on. After that dried, I podged over the scrapbook paper with the label pieces, then placed some random foam space stickers here and there to cover up the half-assery, until everything looked like an unholy papier-mache mess, like so:

  I know. It’s terrible. It’s an abomination of the craft of crafting. Mark Kelly’s face got so smooshed it looks like he was attacked by vicious space monkeys aboard the International Space Station. A better crafter than I would chuck this away and start from scratch.

But you know what? I still like it. In fact it is so ugly, I think I kind of love it. And I also kind of think someone else will love it, too.

That special someone would be this ungrateful child: 

At least, he’d better like it. Lately he hasn’t liked much of anything I’ve been making for him or reading to him. It is possible that the terrible twos are coming a year early for Little Dude.

Still. I’m sure as time passes, he will look back on his childhood and realize that the dotty old battleaxe who calls him every Sunday was the same woman who decorated his Lego boxes, who hand knit a terrible sweater for him as an infant, who made homemade robot garlands for his bedroom and who lied to him about Cheerios and convinced him they were Astronaut Snacks! And he’s going to think long and hard before he decides which nursing home to put me in. And finally he’ll realize that the trauma he initially experienced as a child from beholding the Astronaut Snacks! box was far outweighed by the thought and the love and the paper cuts that went into making the ill-conceived thing. And he’ll pick the nursing home with a pool and a swim-up margarita bar.

Because if my generation has anything to say about it, the nursing homes of the future are going to have swim-up margarita bars.

Still I had a couple dozen leftover and no idea where to stick them. Then I had an idea. Why not stick them on cardstock and make a mobile above the crib? I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s difficult and I don’t know how to make a mobile.

Cut to about four months after Little Dude’s birth. That would be the weekend of his baptism, to be precise. Fairy Godmother Heather was visiting and the Hubs gave us the gift of a girls’ shopping trip while he stayed home with the baby for an evening. We drove to the nice outdoor mall to shop for some Yankee Candles, but we arrived just as the stores were closing. That misfortune turned out to be a proverbial door-closing-another-one-opening scenario, as we headed over to the Target. When all else fails, Target never disappoints. It was Halloween season, so we were admiring the cute strings of party lights in the shape of Frankenstein’s monster’s heads, when all of a sudden the slightly more metaphorical light came on over Heather’s head. She was having an idea. She gets that look a lot. When she gets that look, you should pay attention because you are about to witness the birth of crafting genius.

“You should make a garland with the robot stickers.”

I thought for a second, and then it was obvious. “YES.”

And boom, there it was:

That there in the corner is the Little Dude’s bookshelf, looking like a honey badger has had its way with it. May I direct your attention to the window? That there is the robot garland. If you see a pack of these robot stickers next time you’re at Dollar Tree, grab one for me, would you? I’d love to make some more. If you send them my way I’ll pay you back. That would be $1.

How I did it was super easy, and super adaptable to whatever materials you like. Besides the stickers, I used:

• Sprockets & Springs scrapbook paper from Michael’s,

• Plain white card stock,

• Double-sided Scotch tape,

• Leftover multicolored wool yarn in green and orange,

• Paper-hole puncher,

• Hole reinforcers,

• Transparent Command hooks.

I started by simply sticking the robot stickers in place on the scrapbook paper, and cutting them into circles and squares. Then, using the double-sided tape, I taped the circles and squares onto measured-out pieces of card stock, just to give the pieces a bit of heft.

Then I punched holes wherever I felt like punching them, to vary the angles from which the robots would hang.

After that, I added the hole reinforcers.

Then I strung the yarn through the holes and voila!

Well, not exactly. First I had to lay out all the robots on the kitchen table to decide how many rows of garland I wanted to make, which robots could hang next to each other without repeating too many of the same colors and shapes and angles and background paper in one row, and where the heckfire should I place that one lonely purple robot. The seating arrangements for my wedding reception was easier than arranging the robots. But the nice part is, the robots don’t complain the way wedding guests do. Yep, we had some complainers. Hey complainers, you’re welcome for the free dinner, drinks, cake and commemorative Hershey miniatures!

Anyway … so, I strung three garlands and hung them using Command strips. I know it sounds chintzy, but this joint is a rental. Command is a sanity saver when you rent an apartment and you hate staring at blank walls as much as I hate staring at blank walls.

Here’s another view of the finished product.

Yep, that bottom one is looking a little droopy. I am sure it has nothing to do with Little Dude’s post-bathtime propensity to roll around and grab things on the daybed like a naked maniac while I try to cram him into his night-time diaper and jammies. He has yet to appreciate Comfy Pants Time.

Comfy Pants Time is similar to Tee Shirt Time, except it arrives much earlier in the evening, and rather than serving as a harbinger for a night of carrying on like a liquored-up cat in heat on the dance floor, it is a signifier that I am not leaving the house again tonight even if it’s on fire. Just try to pry me out the door in my comfy pants. I dare you. Really? Allrighty then. Little Dude, hold my earrings and hand me that hole-puncher.

Just so you know this is a new Monday morning feature about creative projects, ideas and crafts to help make living a little bit more organized, nicer, prettier, and fresher in our tight little space we call home. Hence the name Fresh Squeeze. Hope you like it. If not, tough noogies.

I wanted to name today’s featured project The Great Turd Polish. You may thank me later for not naming it that. But that is more or less what I’ve done.

If, like me, you are a cat owner, you know about the Tidy Cats buckets. They are awesome, are they not? They might be one of the most usefully reusable product packages out there. We use them for everything: Diaper pails; dog food and treats; as a tote for traveling in the car. I am the first to sing the praises of reusing these buckets for diapers. Throw that Diaper Genie away, people. Those things use way too much plastic, and they don’t, and I mean DO NOT, hold in the stank. I’ve been in a number of households that use Diaper Genies, and I can tell almost as soon as I walk in the door if this is a Diaper Genie household. They do not work.

Tidy Cats buckets on the other hand, oh yes ma’am. You would not believe how good they work. My mother, who is a neat freak and not afraid of hurting my feelings, says she can’t smell the diapers in my son’s nursery. On top of that, she and dad regularly spend the night in the guest bed in the nursery, and she’s never once complained about any odor coming from those buckets. So, I swear by them.

Only one problem. They’re school bus yellow and have ugly logos all over them. In the context of my Little Dude’s robot and spaceship bedroom, the effect is jarring. The two buckets sitting next to the changing table just sit there like … well, like cat litter buckets. I decided it was high time for function to meet form.

So I started with some sprocket-themed scrapbook paper from Michael’s, and glued it on.

Yes, I see the wrinkles too. Let me just point out this is my first attempt. And might I remind you that this a bucket of shit?

By the way, I used Mod Podge for this project. I cannot stop raving about Mod Podge, and I can’t believe I never used it before.

I used sponge brushes because those work best for me, but you can use regular paint brushes, too.

Next, I printed some robot and spaceship images from the internet and podged those on top of the base.

God bless the Hubs. He went with me on my frantic “I’m so sick of these ugly buckets” run to Michael’s, and he found a bunch of these adorable foam stickers.

I think they add a great deal of depth, don’t you?

Here’s the finished product:

I know, I know. It seems like a lot of effort for a bucket of poo. But really, it was super easy. The Mod Podge cleans up great and is non-toxic. Hours later, when I discovered some of the gunk on my fingertips, it peeled off as easily as the Elmer’s Glue I used to use in elementary school. So I had a nice memory flashback, too!

We’re thinking as soon as the Little Dude is out of diapers, we’ll bleach these suckers out and use them for toys. Don’t you think they’ll make awesome containers for Legos? I certainly do.

All I can say is, this kid better be good to me when I’m old.

I thought it might have something to do with my recent habit of visiting too many crafty websites. My cousin introduced me to a new social network called Pinterest. Instead of sharing personal information, you share your interests via photos of things you’ve created or want to try to create. You install the “Pin It” application to your bookmarks bar on your browser. Then, as you are surfing the web, and you see something you like, such as a recipe or a color scheme or a bookcase, you hit your Pin It button and it pins it to your Pinterest boards. This lets you refer back to it later, like a file of ideas you don’t want to forget. It also lets us crafty girls share ideas and get ideas. It’s non-linear, right-brained and wonderfully impersonal — refreshingly opposite of Facebook.

However, a major side effect of my new infatuation with Pinterest is I’ve been discovering WAY too many other mommy bloggers who craft. All of them wonderful, creative and original, and all of them have fancy, multi-layered websites that go beyond the wordpress template that I’m using here. I used to let Martha Stewart make me feel inadequate because I don’t shear my own sheep to make the yarn which with I knit. Today, I’m like, “Martha Who?” Seriously, there are so many amazing women out there who seem to be able to transform an entire living room just by angling a chair a certain way. You would think this would make me feel empowered. In the post-feminist, post-Martha environment, we are ALL Marthas. In my case, it only made me look around at my home and realize there are a million things I’d like to do but I haven’t done, and these women all have done.

So I decided to make a list of all the things around me that were bugging me — all things in need of organization and a little crafting up. It is a LONG list, people. And that list? Just made me feel much, much worse.

Just to make things better, I got on the scale this morning and I gained 2.5 pounds, since the last time I weighed in. That was um, maybe three weeks ago?

Anyway, so I’ve got some back-on-the-horse getting to do this week.

And, I’ve got some cute-ifying to do around here. Much like my Wednesday diet blog, I’m going to inspire myself to bring on the cute around here by adding a new regular feature to the blog. Check back Monday, May 23 for the first installment.

In the meantime, as I  burn some calories getting my head out of this crafty rut, hopefully this will result in less time to think about what to eat when I sick, stressed out and annoyed at my surroundings. Deep breath:

Best Day: Tuesday, May 17

(Prepared to be unimpressed)

Breakfast: one serving oatmeal, one serving half & half with coffee

Lunch: two servings salt & vinegar pop chips, two glasses orange juice.

Dinner: two servings Pho meatball noodle soup.

Worst Day: Friday, May 13

Breakfast: 2 eggs on toast, one serving string cheese, one Cadbury Creme Egg

Lunch: One cup tuna salad.

Snack: two rice cakes, one serving peanut butter

Dinner: three fish tacos, one pint of Blue Moon

Dessert: One Skinny Cow peppermint ice cream sandwich, two glasses red wine.

I won’t insult you by pretending this week’s installment of the Crabby Pantry Diaries is about dieting in the smallest way, so let’s cut the crap and get right to it.

Best Day, Thursday, May 5:

Breakfast: One serving oatmeal with one half serving rice milk, one serving Cadbury Creme Egg (no, The Hubs hasn’t run out of them yet. He may secretly be a hoarder, we’re looking into it.)

Lunch: Egg sandwich with light string cheese on rice cakes.

Dinner: One serving Chicken Noodle Pho.

Worst Day: Friday, May 6

Breakfast: One serving cowboy mush (I think this is just cooked cornmeal that the Hubs’s grandma named “cowboy mush” to get kids to eat it.)

Snack: One Nutri-Grain Bar, one sweet & salty granola bar, one serving mixed nuts, zero calorie Vitamin Water. (Road food)

Lunch: (mom’s house) Two jalapeno wraps with chicken salad, one serving of abominable store-brand chips from Aldi, shaped and packaged to make you think it’s Sun Chips, but are actually fried and not baked (like the real Sun Chips), and which taste like Bugles. So, not bad for Bugles.

Dinner: Veggie burger and pretty decent french fries from the weirdest, stickiest restaurant in Chicago, Trader Todd’s. This was served alongside a special “cocktail” comprised of orange-flavored Monster energy drink with vodka. Or something.

Dessert: three bites of chocolate bread pudding that my friend ordered at Schuba’s Harmony Grill, followed by one large gin & tonic and one 16-oz. cup of cranberry vodka that had to be watered down because I totally forgot there was alcohol in it the second the straw was in my mouth, causing me to adios the entire shebang in about two minutes. Seriously, it tasted like $5 juice, and I was tired and dehydrated from spending the evening walking all over Lakeview, and from being intimidated by all the extremely attractive, young and stylish hipster ladies from the neighborhood, and from feeling guilty over leaving the Hubs home alone with a sick baby so I could go to Chicago to see Too Beautiful to Live.

Do not even ask me what I weigh this week.

May I ask, does an infant ever NOT get an ear infection when they’re fighting a cold virus? They can’t blow their noses, except by accident. Seems like an ear infection is inevitable. Which means a trip to the doctor for the common cold, and then a round of amoxicillin. Taking the meds isn’t so bad. Even squoojing out the mucus from the tiny angry nose isn’t so bad. Yes, that’s right, I said squoojing. You try it and then tell me what it sounds like. The worst part is the effect of the antibiotics on the diaper. That is to say, not only do we all have sloshy noses, sloshy heads, and sloshy tummies from drinking so many fluids, but Little Dude has got particularly slosh-a-riffic diapers because the meds give him the bubble guts. You may recall Little Dude’s previous struggles with this situation.

This particular bout of colds has been extra challenging. He’s much bigger now than he was last December. So, it turns out, the good old fashioned Pampers don’t hold much in when stuff wants to run South of the Border. The child has soiled two pairs of Daddy’s pants in two days, and he’s burned through all of his own pants in less than four days. That’s saying something. Once again, the universe is reminding me that switching to disposable diapers when you are stressed out does not serve you well. The universe summarily smited me on Monday morning.

Here’s how it went, and I’ll use present-tense just so you can share my existential panic: The Little Dude wakes me up, I put him in a disposable, plop him in the high chair and fix his breakfast. I first feed him his medicine with his formula, then his cereal. I clean him up, check his diaper and all is clear. So I set him down in his Elmo walker and turn on Super Why so I can have a few precious minutes of peace to make my breakfast and coffee. Everything is going smoothly, and I’m able to sit down, eat my oatmeal and drink my coffee all the way through without interruption. Then I smell it.

“Time to change that butt!” I pick him up out of the Elmo and realize something is wrong. I take a peak inside and the poo has tumbled down his leg and is precariously caught in the folds of his pants. So I carry him upside down to the changing table to keep the turdishness from spilling out. Here is where it gets really disgusting. I peel off his pants, so of course the poo goes all over both of his legs. I cannot manage to smile and sing to him while I’m unsticking this biohazard of a diaper off of him, so of course Little Dude starts to squirm and whine, which makes poo smear in other places. I pull off the diaper and now his shirt is a mess. He needs a bath, and now the changing table does, too. I clean him up superficially with baby wipes and set him on the floor, naked. What’s the point of putting a diaper on him when I’m just about to run a bath? I throw the diaper mess in the diaper bucket, then take his pants and shirt to the bathroom to spray them off in the toilet before dousing them with baking soda and filing them away in the soiled laundry bucket. I run the bath. I go back to his room and he’s sitting on the floor playing with his xylophone, looking very proud of the pee puddle in front of him. On the carpet.

These are the moments for which fainting couches were made. I just want to take to my bed and start over. But I don’t. I never do. There does not exist a brilliant enough Super Why episode to keep Little Dude distracted enough for me to call the kind of time out that I need right now. So I muddle through. I ask myself what my next three steps are. Bath, get dressed, clean up the pee. In moments like this, chanting my three next steps gets me through whatever moment I feel like I’m stuck in. I don’t know why it works, but it does. Maybe I’m slightly ADD. Like right now for instance: Stop blogging, rescue the baby from under the Ikea rocking chair, brush teeth.

I know most of you can sympathize. But some people take a dim view of my parenting strategies. Take this commenter, who I believe represents a firm best known for its attempts to sell me some embiggening products for male nether regions (misspellings and lack of apostrophes are the writer’s mistakes, not mine).

“I must say, as very much as I enjoyed reading what you had to say, I couldnt help but lose interest after a while. Its as if you had a fantastic grasp around the subject matter, but you forgot to include your readers. Perhaps you should think about this from much more than one angle. Or maybe you shouldnt generalise so a lot. Its better if you think about what others may have to say instead of just going for a gut reaction to the topic. Think about adjusting your personal believed process and giving others who may read this the benefit of the doubt.”

I’m always thrilled to get comments on my blog, even from people whose first language is not English. I have to give him or her credit for composing a vague enough comment that some people — but probably not the average smarty-pants blogger — would be duped into approving the comment and inadvertently including a link to the above-mentioned nethers-embiggening products.

Anyone else — aside from the penile enlargement community — think I don’t have a grasp around the subject matter? Do I really generalize so a lot? Maybe I should adjust my personal believed process and next week’s post will be better.

I fell so hard off the end of my little crabby red wagon this week. My Grandma’s 87th birthday meant I was visiting my parents for the weekend, which means I had no control over the amount of baked goods around me.

For reasons I can’t fathom, our arrival was greeted by a strawberry rhubarb pie and a plate full of homemade almond joy. That’s not true, I can fathom it. It is just the way it is. I avoided the pie, mostly out of protest. But somehow I found myself hitting those almond joys pretty hard, and I don’t even like coconut all that much.

Sunday was party day, and I went from coffee and cookies at my aunt’s house to the birthday lunch with seven different kinds of lasagna. In case you did not know it, I am not, in fact, a striped orange cat who hates Mondays. I am not helpless in the face of a good pasta dish. So why did I eat three pieces of it plus dessert?

It may have had something to do with the night before. Mom and dad offered to babysit. Offered is not the right word. I think the word I am searching for is demanded. They shoved me and the Hubs out the door and told us to have a fun date night, even though we had no plans and the Hubs was feeling crabby. I don’t really know why he was feeling crabby, as I can tell you that he is definitely not dieting.

Anyhoo. So the half-crabby couple heads to beautiful downtown Crown Point and arrives at a little Italian restaurant that came recommended at the last minute. I order a Bellini and eggplant parm. Like a good girl, I eat only half.

Then, like a person demonstrating the worst date behavior known to man, the Hubs gets the bill and has a silent freak out. Yes, that’s write, my love. I am writing about that. You knew I was a writer when you married me, so suck it up. He gets a look on his face that says, “I Can’t Believe She Made Me Eat Here” combined with “Maybe If I Vomit Right Here I Can Claim Food Poisoning and They’ll Waive My Half of the Bill.”

All conversation between us stops and I wish I was elsewhere other than in public with a dude acting like an angry cave troll. If it had been a first date, I would have been pissed off enough to end the date right there. But oh no, we’ve got those wedding band things on.

So, I try to make the best of it and suggest we walk around the square and take the long way back to the car. It’s a beautiful night and I’m going to have a good time. We walk to the corner and he wonders why I want to cross to the other side of the street, where the shops are, instead of crossing directly to the courthouse, where our car is parked. I tell him I thought we could take our time and just walk. I actually say out loud that I’m trying to salvage what’s left or our date. More or less, I get a “whatever” kind of shrug in response.

We complete our Death March to the car, and there on the asphalt on the passenger side is a broken beer bottle. It reminds me of the scene in Say Anything, when Lloyd Dobbler points out some broken glass on the ground, so Diane can step around it. I realize that this is not going to happen to me tonight because my Lloyd Dobbler is not going to see the broken glass on the ground because he is not here to open my door.

But he’s not Lloyd Dobbler and I’m not Diane. We’re an old married couple who just had a shit show of an evening and who will now not speak a civil word to each other the rest of the night.

As we’re stuck together for the weekend as visitors, we drive back early to my parents’ house and it is the worst. I spend the rest of my evening sulking behind my headphones, alternating between feeling like a jackass for picking an overpriced restaurant, and — more correctly — feeling indignant and angry that the Husband doesn’t even know he’s just sent me the message that not only am I not worth an unexpected $20 eggplant parm, but I’m so not worth it that he’s going to take it out on me by not trying to make me feel better even after I apologize for picking a dud restaurant.

And the point of all that, dear readers, is to give you some kind of accounting for why I haven’t kept my food journal up to date since last week Saturday, and to explain why I ate too much lasagna on Sunday and some weird homemade candy that I didn’t even like.

Honestly, I still have not quite recovered. I have yet to open my food calorie counter thingy, and you are grossly mistaken if you think I am going to weigh myself this week.

But I am going to start journaling again TODAY, because I feel a little bit better now that I have all that off my chest. Only a little. All I know is, my first Mother’s Day had better be nicer than that.

If that sounds harsh, well, at least I know we all do this.  Months after this best friend and I had gotten to know each other and were getting along swimmingly, another mutual friend admitted to having the exact same thought at the exact same moment that I was having it. This is hard wired into our DNA, people.

Same goes for people who are not in my social circle. I buy most of my groceries at Wal-Mart currently, because a) no farmers’ markets are currently open in the Midwest, b) it’s cheap and we’re forced to be thrifty, c) it’s literally a block from our home, and d) it gives me a bit of an ego boost to go there. Admit it. You know when you go to the WM, you silently judge people for what they’re carting around. And for what they are wearing. And for the length of the stringy mullet peaking out the back of their American flag baseball cap. Come on, there’s a reason for the existence of People of Wal-Mart.

So there I was, last Saturday. The Hubs and Little Dude and I were making a left hand turn from the produce section into the frozen food aisle. Not for the ice cream; I was trying to get at my ubiquitous Boca burgers. If you must know, I like sandwiches. No, I love sandwiches. But, deli meat every day for lunch makes me irritable. I do love the salty goodness, and I did eat a lot of it whilst preggo, against the advice of my doctor and God and the internet. But good luck getting me to eat anything non-processed while carrying Little Dude in my guts. Not my finest dining repertoire. Anyway, we were suddenly at the back of a traffic jam because there were not one but two people on those scooter-cart things, put-put-putting along, and making everyone wait for them to make the turn from the opposite direction.

Mind you, I’m not holding a grudge against the disabled. These people were not disabled. They did not look like they even needed scooter-carts. I say this only because there are so many people, it seems, who choose these carts these days, and are otherwise capable of walking. Who, in fact, would probably benefit more if they walked behind an actual grocery cart instead of scooting around. Not all of these people can have severe diabetes. Not all of them have an illness or injury or were born with a disability that requires the use of the scooters. I will likely get slammed for this, but there it is. I just don’t buy it. These people in particular, were, sadly, extremely obese.

My first thought, as always, was, “well, at least I’m not that fat.” Go ahead and write me hate mail, judge me, condemn me. But it’s the truth. And you all think the same thing. I shuffled along zombie-like behind the scooter people, waiting to get to my Bocas and getting annoyed, and wishing that Jillian Michaels were there at that moment to yell at a few people to get up and get moving. Just then, an elderly man, who looked like he’d just walked out of the Crankshaft comic, saw the look of impatience on my face. He walked by me and muttered, “If they weren’t so fat they wouldn’t need those damn things.”

I was gobsmacked. Speechless. Bewildered. Dumbfounded and flummoxed. Even after I realized he was just saying out loud what we were all thinking, I was utterly agog and aghast. I wanted to judge him, but I didn’t. He looked to be about the age of someone who served in Korea, and far be it from me to pass judgment on a serviceman. I usually give people of that age a pass.

I waited until we got to the next aisle over, and I whispered to Hubs what I’d just heard. I had to say it to somebody. Two aisle further, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted from the pasta section. Hubs asked me, “Did that make you forget your whole grocery list?” Yes, it did.

I wonder what kind of a world we are living in that I am more taken aback by someone speaking their mind, however rudely, than I am by seeing so many people eating themselves into an early grave. I don’t mean to be smug or judgmental due to the fact I’m actually doing something about my weight. I feel for those people. I really do. As much as I compare myself and thank God I’m not that bad off, I realize I could just as easily end up like that if I’m not careful.

Woof! End of sermon! Here goes the yucky parts:

Worst day: Friday, April 22

Breakfast: one serving oatmeal, half serving maple syrup, 1/4 cup applesauce, half serving rice milk, half serving Cadbury mini creme eggs.

Lunch: Two eggs, one serving whole wheat deli flat sandwich bread, one Boca chicken patty.

Dinner: One sausage calzone from B. Antonio’s, cannoli for dessert. YES. I ATE A FREAKIN’ CANNOLI. No, I’m not the jerky little son of Cake Boss, why do you ask?

Best Day: Tuesday, April 26

Breakfast: One serving oatmeal, one serving rice milk, half serving Cadbury mini creme eggs.

Lunch: Boca sandwich.

Snack: One banana, two rice cakes, one serving peanut butter. I like pb & bananas ALMOST as much as I like pb & chocolate. No, I’m not Elvis, but I think we have a cosmic connection when it comes to food addictions.

Dinner: Mixed green salad with carrots, one T olive oil, 1/4 c. walnuts, one serving artichoke hearts, one serving light string cheese.

Snack: One mini bag of kettle corn flavored popcorn — which I just found out is not the 100- calorie kind. The Hubs bought the super buttery kind, and it’s 200 calories. But I don’t care. There is one bag left and I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.

You know the one. See if you can guess:

“Hello! You’re ready to go, aren’t you?”

“Hello there, Jenn! Long time no see!”

“Well, if it isn’t Jenn!”

“Do you know it’s been 147 days since your last workout?”

The little rectangular menace of my nightscape. The animated virtual personal trainer without a face. The Great White Taunter of The Fatties, at whom I cry, “Zip it! You’ve never been tempted by a jelly doughnut because you do not have a face! And how are you talking anyway?”

All of you with a dust-gathering Wii Fit bundle under your sofa know exactly who I’m speaking about right now. You also are familiar with the truly dark side of this purportedly friendly little cartoon balance board. It wants us to rat each other out and be it’s ratty little messenger. You know how it goes, “So, Jenn, I haven’t seen What’shisnose in a while. Is he coming back anytime soon for more verbal beat-downs? Have you seen him? Well, if you do, could you tell him I’ll be waiting behind the gym after school?” Don’t do it, people! Whatever you do, don’t let that smarmy thing charm you with its hollow promises of “fitness tips,” or allowing you to (gasp!) change the color and stamps on your fitness calendar.

Today, I am proud to announce, I gave that creepy CGI Spongebob-wannabe what for. Totally by accident, I fried his virtual circuits.

As you know, I’ve been involved in a “stress-reducing” competition through my health insurance company. I bank a million virtual dollars and I get entered to win an iPad. How a competition can reduce stress is a mystery — but I’m less concerned about that than I am with winning. Anyway, to earn my maximum Schrute bucks every day, I have to eat a crate full of vegetables every day and drink an entire water tower, and then exercise continuously for 30 minutes. I’ve added  a Wii workout during the baby’s naptime, as our daily walks currently have no effect on my waistline. As it turns out, doing all these things makes you lose weight, FAST.

I weighed myself on Monday, and I’d lost 1.5 pounds since last week. I weighed myself again this morning for kicks and giggles, at the same hour of the day, and I’m down another 2.5 pounds. I exceeded my Wii Fit goal of losing two pounds by next week Tuesday. But instead of giving me a patronizing digital pat on the head, the little Wii dude went off the rails. He actually said, “You need to GAIN four pounds to meet your goal next week.”

I can’t wait to come back next week, another two pounds lighter, and see what the bouncing rectangle has to say for itself. I’m hoping once I lose an entire 20 pounds, I get something besides a new stamp for my calendar. But I’m not holding out hope that the animators will have seen fit to make the twerp transform  into George Clooney, personal trainer. A girl can dream, though.

Anyhoodle, on to the embarrassing bits.

Best Day, Tuesday, April 19:

Breakfast: Oatmeal, banana, half serving Cadbury mini creme eggs.

Snack: One whole grapefruit.

Lunch: Mixed green salad with carrots, one Boca chicken sandwich

Snack: one package edamame with sea salt.

Dinner: two cups steamed vegetables and 1.5 servings brown rice, with olive oil, one cup blueberries.

Snack: One mini bag of kettle flavored popcorn.

Worst Day:

Wednesday, April 13 (Otherwise known as Don’t Forget the Carbs Day)

Breakfast: Oatmeal, half serving rice milk, half serving Cadbury mini creme eggs, one serving Scooby Doo fruit snacks.

Lunch: One Boca chicken sandwich, two servings sourdough pretzel nuggets, one serving pita chips.

Dinner: 1.5 servings marinated bean salad, two servings pretzel nuggets.

Snack: Uncle John’s homemade peach flavored ice wine. More or less eight ounces. Not quite sure, I wasn’t counting by the second glass.