In Which I Question Facebook's Marketing Team

Oh Facebook, how much your ads annoy the panties off of me (in the bad way). Like yesterday, when I glanced to the stepchild part of your page, and realized that yes, you are stalking my demographics. What irks me is that you are stalking them and getting such a generalized demographic from my profile. I mean, have I not provided you enough information that in turn you could provide me with ads worth clicking?

Like this, a screen shot of all three featured ads. "Oh, she has children so she's a total lush. Then, her drinking is running up her grocery budget, so let's help out a sista there. And then finally, HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE WRINKLES? Plastiic surgeon - stat!"

I hate you, really.

Not going to lie though, I did eventually click on the Bitches on a Budget advertisement, and I might actually love it. So yes, you kinda win. If by "win", I mean "66.67% failure".

But really? Facebook's "seriously, wtf?" factor doesn't end there. This ad MADE MY EYEBALLS GO NUMB AND FALL OUT (maybe I should sue you for that). Once I collected them off the floor, I found the nearest sharp object, in this case - a pair of safety scissors and a spork from Taco Bell, and performed a full hysterectomy. After which, I propped myself up, squinted at the screen and said to myself "Someone, please, tell me I was not this large?"

And the reply to that question, which I twitpic'd, was simply "No. Because what is she carrying? Quads?" Ew. ("ew" to how uncomfortable she looks, not "ew" to quads. I don't baby-hate)

That picture has to be fake, no?

I'd like all of you to please note that my hysterectomy was performed without the assistance of robots and especially without the assistance of robots that look fresh from the Sims - Suburban Creepiness Edition.

Is that honestly the robot that would have performed my hyserectomy had I visited Jackson Hospital? If so, I believe she needs to be considering a "night job", because my husband might be interested. Her hands look... intriguing, I'm sure.

After my non-robot hysterectomy, but before I questioned twitter about my former pregnant belly, I had a glass of radioactive wine, because frankly... that's how I roll.

Side effects include (but are not limited to):

- Glowing Eyelid Syndrome
- Purple face
- Random de-attaching arms
- Third Eye (blind)
- Reincarnation
 - What in tarnation?
                                                     - Face cancer
                                                     - And horrible Facebook advertisements

FINALLY Fried Rice Recipe

I've battled the Fried Rice Hates Me Monster for over a year now. Even after my mom bought me a wok for (LAST!!) Christmas! It's all over now. I've defeated you, silly FRHM Monster.

Basically, I started with this recipe http://chinesefood.about.com/od/ricefried/r/basicfriedrice.htm

I used 3-4 cups cooked, long grain, white rice that cooled for about 8 hours. I started as the recipe says with 2 tablespoons of oil in my wok and lightly scrambled the eggs. Basically, I left them a little runny for my taste, but they harden up once you re-add them to the mixture after the rice is cooked.

Then, I removed the eggs and added 2 more tablespoons of oil, let it heat (about a minute) and added my rice. The key here is to use a wooden spoon to break it up (rice shouldn't be stuck together in the end). After stirring for about 2 minutes, I added a bit of soy sauce (probably about 2 tablespoons). Basically, I didn't want to add too much (a mistake I've made before), so I added little by little until most of my rice was a light brown color.

Next, I added my chopped green onions (3-4 medium sized stalks) (because I like my green onion to be just slightly cooked as opposed to not cooked at all) and then the egg. I stirred for another minute and removed it from heat and added a 1/2 ground ginger (I buy the pre-ground type in a jar) as well as a 1/2 teaspoon oyster sauce.

Another previous mistake was using a yellow sweet onion instead of the green. This mistake caused my fried rice to take on an odd sweet taste, because really the ginger is responsible for bringing the sweet to fried rice.

Also, I was using too much oil but thought what made it seem more oily was the type of oil I used. Today, I simply used what I had on hand - canola oil (I use it because it's healthier than veggie oil), not a fancy sesame oil or wok oil mixture (although I have in the past), but only used the recommended 2 tablespoons.

I hope this helps anyone that's ever gone through batch after batch of less-than-awsome fried rice! I've been eating out of the pan for over an hour!

In A Pickle Without A Key

I'd hear jingle, jingle clank, clank each time he'd shift his weight while sitting, albeit rather impatiently, in the large, green chair in our living room. Conner didn't ask too many questions and accepted his sentencing - to wait out 4 hours with military-grade handcuffs strapped around one ankle.

Not 30 minutes prior, Conner's curiosity captured him and his right leg. He trapped himself in the handcuffs an employee gave my husband as prank gift, and came to me for the keys.

"Oh no baby! Daddy has the keys on his key ring and he's at work till 4, at least!" I answered to his sad little eyes.

He responded with the look he normal gives when he says "Are you being serious, momma?".

I laughed a bit with Conner to lighten the mood while assuring him that the cuffs were not on tight, and then Michael text me a suggestion - "put the other cuff on the same leg". (Oh man, the laughter) This way, Conner wouldn't be annoyed with the cuffs hanging off his leg and on to the floor nor would they wear on his skin.

I grabbed a long pair of pj bottoms, pulled the leg through the first cuff, and gently locked the second. Conner sat so quietly, and laughed only when I told him he was my prisoner for the day.

And so he waited, without so much as a peep.

Four hours later, Michael walked through the front door. Conner sunk slowly to the ground from his green chair and placed one cuffed ankle into the air. He didn't say a word but his face read "UNLOCK ME NOW!". Michael slipped the key into each cuff, turned and suddenly, Conner was free.

He hasn't asked about the handcuffs since his "hard time", they've been put away (NEVER TO BE USED BY ANYONE) and maybe, he has learned that the criminal lifestyle is not for him. After all, no one looks good in stripes and ankle bracelets.

Day At The Park (Mostly Just Interesting For My Mom)

We went here (the parks around Alabama Shakespeare Festival, Museum and Theater) -

And fed these (see: below) some very yummy Lance's Grilled Cheese crackers (because damnit, that's all we had and they were already crushed)

                                                       ROAR!

And towards the back of the park, next to the art museum, were several Where The Wild Things Are-esque sculptures made of twigs. Amazing. You can see them in the background (on the left) in this picture -

Chase's hand.. AWWWW

And after I uploaded all of these, I noticed that Picasa can make collages, so I did just that.

The Mommy Image

I had an idea, midst Laundry Moutain, about what it means to keep up this image. How we, as mothers and women, strive to be a little better than a "good mom".

We do it in different ways. Some go out of their way to perfect the Thanksgiving Turkey. Another makes it a point to vaccuum every other day. My mother's laundry never piles up, and my grandmother's house could pass any "white glove test". I think I may still be developing mine.

But where do we get these images?

Many women worry about their appereances, especially the younger crowds. We get size 5'8" models in a size 0 dress with expensive size 6 shoes. All of which is available for sell in that size range. Magazines dripping with tiny, gorgeous, kept actresses and stars. The same even go for commercials aimed at us. The image portrayed is a cookie-cutter mom with a tasteful sweater, well-done hair, glossy nails and perfect teeth.

It's the image we get on how to "play house", or rather... be a "work-in-home" mother, that might be a little more frightening. The ones from magazines like Better Homes and Gardens or Southern Living, those images that grind into our psyches - that we must have freshly painted walls, sparkling kitchens, gleaming refrigerators and pantries with clean lines.

None of those "mommy images" show the occasional sink full of dishes (because someone forgot to unload it per request) or the 3 laundry piles in 2 different rooms, each a foot tall. They can not see my SUV's floormat montage of crayola madness (gorgeous, really), the 8 pairs of mismatched socks and 50 receipts.

We have to learn to accept we are the average, the "norm" for what other actual moms are doing out there. The ones that have weekly meltdowns about the sheer number of toys throughout the house. Moms that request the take-out meal (read: fast food) because they simply can't find the desire/energy/ingredients. Those of us that let the pre-schooler "help" put away the laundry, even if that means you might not finish before bed.

Chain Gang Shuffle

edited to add: IT IS NATIONAL DELURKER DAY! So leave a comment!! I'll stalk ya back if you want :) 


I'm not sure what Michael's motivation was for obtaining a "free" pair of handcuffs from an employee's husband, but leaving the keys to aofrementioned handcuffs in the house would have been a smart idea.

A better idea would have been not owning these stupid things, or never showing them to Conner.

It'll be 4 hours before the keys arrive home.

These will be put away, and NEVER be used for ANYTHING ever again.

Dancing With Myself

I took a purple sippy cup out of my purse and chunked it into an empty car seat, grabbed my purse and went inside. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a sprite.

I honestly didn't know what to do with myself.

I wasn't chasing Chase under tables or around them. I wasn't begging Conner to keep his seat and stop picking his nose.

I was sitting - for longer than 2 minutes.

I'm not going to lie either, it was strange. For one, I was alone and two, I didn't have the kids with me. It was almost like being a grown-up.

Turns out though, I'm not very good at it. So, I took out my notebook and doodled a bit before ordering not-kid-friendly-at-all appetizers - bang bang shrimp and ahi tuna along with a Pine-Apple martini (Van Gogh Pineapple vodka + Dekuyper apple liquor + pineapple juice + splash of sweet & sour mix = forever win). It was all so delicious, but quiet.

What the heck was I supposed to do with all the non-screaming? Carry on a conversation? HA! I can't do that with people I know (another way of saying I'm the most awkward person I know).

After I paid my tab and did... more... sitting... I walked next door to a Books-A-Million. To which, I'd like to write a short letter.

Dear Books-A-Million,

 I don't want your stupid "Millionaire's Club Membership". It expires every year, during which time I have normally driven past your store twice. It's just not worth 10 bucks.
Most importantly, I'd like for you to note that pushing me to get join your special *club* (*cough* cult), saying that if I do join I'll get FREE! WI-FI!! but other wise I'll have to pay a day rate IS A HUGE FAIL when I can plop down in a large chair, and begin surfing ANY ONE OF THE FOUR FREE WIFI NETWORKS IN THIS AREA.

Seriously.
Yours,
Amanda

I bought the boys 6 new books, which I am stoked about. Chase has been spending a lot of time in his room (normal!), with his books (normal!) and his favorite disney movie (Mickey's Once Upon A Christmas) (normal! but out of season!), while Conner is busy waging war between GI Joe and... a lego fort and most certainly not in his room because that's the last place Conner would play. Or sleep. Or exist. It's like a black hole for him.

By the way, I never knew that GI Joe was a FORCE or COLLECTIVE GROUP OF POORLY DRESSED INDIVIDUALS! I always thought "GI Joe" meant some rambo-esque guy with the first initials "G.I." last name "Joe". I'm an 80s childhood fail, I know.

So yes. I'm went on a date with myself. I dressed up, treated myself to a lovely, yet annoyingly quiet, dinner, and a little book shopping at Books-A-Million. Go me!