Who Took My Whistle Pea?

Mr. and I enjoyed another Date Night morning at Walmart.

It’s our Date Night because his schedule doesn’t allow us a lot of time together.

It’s our Date Night because Calvin’s impaired immune system means we don’t public much.

It’s our Date Night because there’s no way I’m taking two kids shopping by myself.

And really; it’s our Date Night because we’re That Good when we’re together.
We gel.
As long as Mr. doesn’t annoy me. Like when he turns the heat real high, or tries to freeze me. Or when he drives too fast. Also I don’t like it when he buys stuff we don’t need. I don’t like it when he tells me I can’t get something I want.
Otherwise it’s Always Fun.
Good Times.
Unless he turns on a radio station I don’t like. (Then I’ll reach over and snap off the radio with a vengeance. That’ll teach him.)

It was Date Night.

It had to be today because next week they’ll host Stereotype Reinforcement Training.
I don’t fare well at those events. (When not faring well means almost getting my throat punched).

Sheesh people. I’m trying to help.

I’m like a Life Coach, and you don’t even have to give up any of your dole. Keep your money for Dew and cigarettes.
The maximum allotment in [my county] Illinois is $294 a month for a Baby Momma.
Hang on to that. You’re gonna want to buy some calamine lotion for that thing on the side of your baby’s head.

As your life coach I’m alternating furrowed brow with haughty face to show you There’s a Better Way.
See my raised brows?

Free advice: clean up your act and you could rise to a higher station.
Better yourself and you could be Somebody Else.
You could be me.
It’s not that hard. I’ve set the bar way low.
For example; I Date Night at The Walmart, where YOU'RE shopping, with your crushed-face baby and all those hickeys. Flip flops? in February? Reeeeally.


So we’re there, at The Walmart. And I realize it’s easier for Nice People to go out in public, and I said so, to my Mr.

"Nice People don't have the burden of all this judging and condemning," I observed.

This started a flurry of epiphanic statements that were so profound they were life-changing.
I can’t remember it though.
I was tired.


I’m hardcore Atkins again.(Yea, yea, yea, and the check’s in the mail. No; seriously.) I am eating very carefully.
The key is being prepared, not starving to the point where I can't make a decision, I have a pounding heachache, and I'm standing in the kitchen staring zombiefied into the fridge, considering celery sticks dipped in mayo, and
Ooo...pickles...
For lunch.

At Walmart I had reached my expiration date, er; boiling point. Whichev.
I was hungry and cranky and all I wanted was for Mr. to get me out of the cart and buckled into the car.
Take me home dangit.
Ooo lookit all the pretty stereotypes…


Atkins is working.
Atkins works, and the proof is in the pudding. (And you thought I'd reference the diarrhea. Joke's on you. I'm not even mentioning it.)

Atkins HAS TO work for me this time.
I don’t normally weigh myself but I made an exception.
One hundred fatty-six.
One fatty-six!
OMGut.

John Mayer has tickets to see me next month.
No WAY he’s seeing Fat Savant.
I’m dieting.

I asked Mr., “If John Mayer offered me $35,000 to go to his bus would I have your blessing?”

Sometimes Mr. looks at me like I don’t have a brain in my head.

He said no.

“What about $50,000?” I countered cleverly.

“For $50,000 a guy like John Mayer’s not asking you to go to his bus for hot cocoa,” he said.

I know.
That’s why I’m bringing graham crackers to the concert.


Say anything untoward about John Mayer and I will forever shun you.
I shit you not.
I didn't spend Real Money on concert tickets because I hate him.
I'm a fan. A big fan.
But I hate Oprah, Kate Gosselin, Bono, Jodi Piccoult, Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart, as well as a plethera of other celebs whom I don't know for reasons I've not experienced.
Don't bash John Mayer here. Go read your Enquirer.