Yes, I have been naughty about ignoring my blog of late. No, you may not spank me. My ass is already sore, you see, and not for the reason that just came to your filthy mind. Rather, it’s sore because last Wednesday was my birthday and my son took it upon himself to administer all forty-$@#%ing-four birthday spanks. Individually. Throughout the day.
Basically, he’d hide behind the sofa, the kitchen island, wherever, then jump out and yell while swinging his arm in the general vicinity of my ass. Although his aim isn’t that good, my ass is nevertheless large enough to ensure he never once missed. And at the end of the day he added a few extra in — not for good measure, or ones to grow on, mind you, but because he figured out I’d lied to him about spankings hurting the spanker more than the spankee.
Incidentally, this may have been the longest birthday on record. Oh, sure, when I was going on Day Two of labor with my first kid I’d have sworn that was the longest birthday ever (and I’d have ripped your head off for arguing with me at that point). But this last one of mine? Well, let’s just say it lasted a week, and I don’t remember much of it.
Except, I do remember that I no longer drink rum. Demon rum. Kill-devil. Nelson’s blood. Whatever you want to call it — and this is coming from a martini-swiller with what we’ll call an “experienced liver” — that shit is evil. No wonder Captain Jack Sparrow can’t walk a straight line, much less tidy up his eyeliner. It’s a delicious drink, though.
Speaking of delicious… I picked up two gorgeous pineapples at the grocery store the other day. I haven’t had fresh pineapple since we moved back from Hawaii and, like many of the foods there (but not the people), I miss it dearly. When I brought the pair home the other day, VH looked at me like I’d lost my mind. No doubt he thought I was going to hollow them out and sit on the deck sipping rum out of them through a straw like some kitschy 1960s babe. But, no, I’d picked them up with the idea of canning some pineapple salsa. Until I remembered I don’t have the slightest idea how to make that stuff. Turns out, they really DO make pretty little rum cocktail glasses.
While I was at the store, I couldn’t help noticing how damned expensive groceries have become. Yes, I know you’re probably sitting there saying “Well, duh, VK. Everything is damned expensive these days.” But, see, as a retired military family we’re fortunate enough to shop in the Commissary where we’re largely insulated from rising prices. Oh, sure, I’ve noticed milk and bread slowly creeping up but only by a few cents here and there. So when I shopped at our local grocery store the other day, the prices just stunned me. WTF is up with the cost of food?
Crazy thought (which I’ll first preface by saying that I’ve been reading quite a bit of British WWII memoirs and diaries of late, so food rationing has been on my mind). Okay, where was I? That’s right: crazy. Also, this: with Iraq and Afghanistan, the U.S. is in a war on two fronts and Libya looks like it’s about to become a third (though, according to Obama, any military action in Libya isn’t really a war much the way that my ass isn’t really fat, it just LOOKS and FEELS that way). And it’s no big secret that our economy sucks wind right now. So, what if the rising grocery prices were really the result of covert rationing by the government in order to funnel beans and bullets toward the war effort?
I know, I know, it sounds insane. Blame it on the rum.
Still, even with the commissary’s lower prices, we’re finding our budget stretched to the limit, too. Hence why I — along with two million or so other stressed-out women, and a handful of men — have become addicted to TLC’s “Extreme Couponing” show. No, that doesn’t mean I’m dumpster diving (like I could get my ass that high off the ground?), nor does it mean I’ve figured out how to buy $3,000 worth of groceries for 61 cents.
Hell, the very thought of building a stockpile of non-perishables in a corner of my basement makes me cringe. Who wants to dust that shit every week? But I definitely do like the thought of spending a less on groceries so I can spend more on other stuff. (Not on rum. Promise.) So I, too, have been picking up multiple copies of the Sunday paper and spending my evenings printing and clipping coupons, then filing them away in my coupon binder.
What’s that? Oh, yeah. The binder. Well, yes, I did in fact get that into couponing. So now I’ve got this cool binder-on-a-strap that zips open to reveal plastic page upon page of neatly organized coupons tucked into their little slots, nine slots to a page, all obsessively organized into categories which I diligently marked with my label maker. Granted, I still feel like a geek actually carrying that binder with me in the store, but when my receipt shows that I trimmed our grocery bill by an average of 46% each trip, I suddenly don’t give a damn how stupid I look hauling that binder around.
Come to think of it, I hope I have that heavy bastard with me for self defense if I ever run into one of these women who, I suspect, should spend some time watching TLC, too. As in “What Not to Wear”, where Stacy and Clinton can explain to them that no matter how svelte they think they are, if they’re over 30 and wearing leggings like jeans, they just look like skanks. The dumb bitches probably paid retail, too.