Hate Mail

Dear Giselle,

I have two questions for you.

1.) How many orphans did you have to save in your past life in order to get knocked up by Tom Brady and manage to look like this 2 months after having his future All-American baby?



2.) Can't you at least act like you had to put in a little work to look like this so that the rest of us don't drown ourselves in our haagen daz?

I am going to take a wild guess and bet that you have never had to prostitute yourself for tile at the Home Depot.

I hate you.

-Mandi

The Money Pit Challenge- Day # Who the Hell Cares, I Stopped Counting Three Weeks Ago to Prevent Wrist Slitting

Since being on this budget challenge, or "the 5th Realm of Hell" as I like to call it, I have lost most if not all of my friends, had a near divorce from my husband, and seriously considered anti-depressants to prevent me from choking myself on stale, dry peanut-butter sandwiches. Have we saved money? Sure. Am I in a perpetual bad mood capable of harm at any given moment? Absolutely.

So here is what I have learned in the past 60 days from being monetarily handicapped:
1.)Dave Ramsey is the Devil. Is it a coincidence that another famous Ramsey (Gordon) is on a show called "Hell's Kitchen"? I think not.
2.) Money really can buy you Happiness. It's called Silver Palm Cabernet and it's $38 a bottle.
3.) Anti-depressants are not the answer. Vodka is.
4.) Grocery shopping with your husband will put you on the fast track to the lawyer's office.
5.) I now hate eggs, for no good reason.
6.) Suze Orman's teeth are not supposed to glow in the dark. Right?
7.) When a waiter tells you that your debit card is worn down from too much use, you have permission to punch him in the neck.
8.) No matter how many ways you try to camouflage Tuna Fish, it will always make you smell like you have been eating a dead carcass.
9.) Money may not buy you love, but it sure can love you long time.
10.) What the hell is the point of making money if you can't spend it?

Run, Fat Girl, Ruuuun!!

I previously had my doubts, but tonight it was confirmed. God is mocking me. "But Mandi," you say, "Smile, Jesus loves you." And I say, "Reader, put a sock in it."

The reason for my sour mood? Well I had the brilliant idea of asking my sister to start training with me to support me in my efforts to become a world class runner (ok, or maybe just to run a 5k). You see, my sister is taller than me, skinnier than me, and has a golden tan even in December. And knowing that she hasn't worked out in 8 years (literally, 8 years!) I thought she would be the perfect running partner so I could at least feel good about myself when I smoked her on the road.

So when we started our run she says to me, "No judging! I haven't done this in a long time!" I mentally smile and say, "Oh, you'll be fine." I am feeling confident that I will be her running mentor and train her to catch up with my athletic ability.

Fast forward 5 minutes.

My sister has been carrying on a full fledged conversation mid-run while I am sucking in air like Willie Nelson on Snoop Dogg's tour bus. When I suggest that we stop and walk for a while, she seems genuinely disappointed. "Gosh, this is easier than I anticipated." She says in an annoying perky voice. "When can we start running again?" In disbelief I look at her and say (in between dry-heaves), "When I say so, bitch." When we start running again (against my own will) she is a full 15 yards in front of me and turns around and yells, "I hope it's ok that I am running at this pace, it just feels comfortable to me." She turns back around while I give her the finger. When we finally (finally!) get to the end of our route she turns to me and says, "Let's run up that hill! Come on, sis, you can do it, it's the last leg!" I am mentally clubbing her at the knees at this point while I watch her cellulite-free thighs (thighs that have never seen the inside of a gym, mind you) run up the hill in front of me.

At that's when it hit me. There is a God. And He hates me.

A Moment of Irony: Brought to you by the Gaskins

Disclaimer: Before I tell this story, know that neither my husband or son has contracted Mad Cow Disease; so please, no calls to DHS.

Now Presenting: A moment of Irony- Brought to you by The Gaskins.
To say that my husband is over protective of our little boy is like saying that a fish can swim. In all honesty, the Boy in the Bubble is likely to experience more adventure than Rinks as long as Ashley is around. So fast forward to last night when Rinks is sitting in the high chair gnawing on a watermelon rind given to him to keep him busy while mama was hard at work on her Spaghetti a la Prego. That's when Ashley walks in and takes one look at Rinks and then throws that "I can't believe you" look at me and asks, "Did you wash that before you gave it to him?" I give him a look that says, "In the 10 years that you have known me, have you ever seen me wash a watermelon rind?" To which he swiftly grabs the rind out of Rinks' hand, climbs up on his high horse and gallops over to the sink where he grabs the knife laying in the sink and cuts the rind off of the watermelon, then eats the rind himself before giving the rest of it back to the now screaming Rinks.

In the words of Paul Harvey, here is the rest of the story.

Three minutes before Ashley walked into the kitchen to disrupt me and Rinks in our happy harmony, I used a knife to cut open the raw hamburger meat to put into the Spaghetti. (I can literally see the light bulb going off in your head right now) Yep, Mr. Perfect Dad picked up that very knife to cut the watermelon rind- the one which was "so infested with pesticides that he can't believe I would just give that to our son to chew on when there is no telling what it has on it" and then gave the now Ebola-infested rind back to our baby boy before taking a bite himself. I didn't catch this until I went back to get the knife 10 minutes later and thus spent the rest of the night keeping a close eye on Rinks to make sure he wasn't foaming at the mouth.

The obvious point of this story? There is no point. I just wanted to put this awesome example of karmic irony that smacked Sergeant Safety upside the head on display for all to see.

There is more than one bitch in this house, and her name is Karma.

Boo-yah.