No, Seriously, I am a Big Deal...

Somebody widen the door frame, because my head is unable to fit through it anymore. My first "column" is being released in this month's issue (July) At Home Tennessee magazine. Here is the article below, but for the full effect of my ugly mug that goes along with it, you will need to pick up the magazine (that was an order, not a suggestion). For those of you that are wondering if stardom is going to go to my head and cause me to forget the little people, you common folk, mere mugwamps; the answer is yes. Now, what was your name again?


You Are What You Eat
At Home Tennessee writer Mandi Gaskin takes on the challenge of Saving the Earth by asking the question “What’s for Dinner?”

I am a good girl. I recycle, I change out my light bulbs to energy-saving fluorescents, I even carpool with annoying people (you know who you are) in order to cut down on pollution. So when the editors of At Home Tennessee asked me to single handedly Save the Earth (ok, I may be exaggerating a little) I thought I had it in the bio-degradable bag.
But after one trip to the grocery store on my normal shopping routine I knew I was in trouble. Taking on this new eco challenge forced me to take a closer look at the impact my food was having on the earth, and it wasn’t pretty. Seeing the mounds of meat, fruits, and vegetables that are available all year long at any given grocery store used to conjure thoughts like, “God Bless America- Land of the Free, Home of Convenience” were now causing a slight wave of guilt and overindulgence. Were strawberries really meant to be eaten in December? Should we be eating chicken at every single meal? And are my bell peppers supposed to be the size of my first born child? I knew my conscious was trying to tell me something, so on the way home I did what any normal American would do- I attempted to stuff my inner voice with hormone-ridden chicken strips. And when those crispy fried animal parts didn’t subside my nagging guilt, I knew it was time to make a change.
I know what you are thinking; you think I am about to tell you that I gave up all meat and dairy, moved to a commune, and am now growing my very own tomatoes. But you are severely underestimating my innate laziness. You see, I want to save the earth, but I don’t necessarily want to work to do this. So I found myself in a whole new challenging predicament. How can I save the planet, and still have time to watch the “Real Housewives”? So the next day, while Teresa and Danielle are tearing out each other’s weave, I go online and ask Google how I can be a better consumer in the world which I am trying to save. And the answers actually surprised me. Sure, there were the extremist websites that preached giving up your skillet for a diet made up of raw food (no thanks) to fencing your backyard to make room for Wilbur (call me a coward, but I prefer not to look my dinner in the eye before turning him into, well, dinner). But there were also very reasonable options to leaving a smaller footprint on the environment when it comes to dining, and it can basically be summed up in two words: Farmer’s Market. In supporting local farmers through these venues we are not only able to cut down on the global effects of shipping bulk products, but more importantly to bring back humane treatment of the animals we eat and restore the balance in the food chain that has been lost in the mass consumerism that makes up this great country. I liked the idea that I could still buy all my favorite foods minus the guilt, but I was still hesitant about the cost and more importantly, my time. So on Monday, we loaded up some empty coolers and made our way down to the local Farmer’s Market in Nashville where I found a scene that was absolutely delightful. There were droves of people from all walks of life shopping with their families, talking to the vendors, and picking out fresh-from-the-farm cuisine. Sure, it wasn’t the air-conditioned, florescent world of my previous grocery trips. It was hot, and there were flies in abundance, but I was able to shake the hands and speak to the folks that had taken the time to carefully grow the vegetables or humanely slaughter the meat on their farms that I was responsible for feeding to my family. Not to mention all without heavily impacting the earth with pesticides or transportation emissions or breaking the budget. And best of all? I made it home just in time for the “Real Housewives.”

Oprah Made Me Do It

Did somebody see the Band Wagon? Because I need to hop on it. The new book "Women, Food, and God" by Geneen Roth was released earlier this year and promoted on Oprah as a way to stop dieting and win the war with food. I hesitated about getting it at first because I like to at least act like I make my own decisions and am not a mind nome that does exactly what Oprah tells me to do. So I waited a whole week after Oprah told me to get it (see? I am a rebel) and I should tell you, I am floored by it. My first thought was that it was going to be a fruity cheese-fest where she told you to look at yourself and repeat a sanskrit mantra, but what I found was Geneen's realistic take on the mind battle that we fight everyday when it comes to not only food, but anything that takes our attention away from the true feelings from which we are trying to escape. I loved it so much that I wanted to read it with a group of girlfriends that I knew would benefit as much as I had, so I started a bookclub! Now every other Tuesday night, my girlfriends and I will get together, leave behind the guilt of what we ate that day, or the stress of how we must split our time while trying to be superwoman; and just come together for some group therapy... and of course a little wine.

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.

First Mate

This Memorial Day weekend was spent with my parents at the lake, where Rinks got his first chance at the wheel of the Papa's boat. His reaction? Absolute boredom. We caught him in action...

Papa's First Mate: