Grocery Woes

8019650_f520Hang with me here, because I swear I have a point. Off the top of my head, breakfast items I purchased for the house include the following:

  • 2 packages of whole-wheat English muffins
  • 1 pound of turkey bacon
  • 12 yogurts
  • 2 boxes of Pop-Tarts (don’t judge me!)
  • Multiple types of fruit–berries, oranges, clementines, apples, grapes
  • 3—yes, 3–boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios (they had a bundle pack that was discounted)
  • 1 Bag of Bagels–I buy the minis because they are more like a normal serving size, so I am estimating 12 were in the bag.
  • 18 eggs
  • 4 boxes of Nutrigrain-type cereal bars
  • a container of oatmeal
  • 1 box of Grape Nuts

I ate, I think, 2 English muffins, maybe a couple of pieces of fruit. I went to work for 3 nights and got off on the following Monday, and all of it–everything on the above list–was gone. What else didn’t survive the weekend? 3 boxes of granola bars, 2 boxes of low-calorie snacks I bought for myself, 2 boxes of snack crackers, an 18-pack of Jell-O, 2 gallons of chocolate milk, a whole pound of turkey breast. In one weekend. And that is just the quick items.

So it goes like this: I get paid, I determine a grocery budget, and I go to the grocery store. There isn’t a lot to go around anymore because my boss has cut down on our ability to work overtime, so I have to stretch what I do have. I clip coupons, I price match, I shop sales. I usually do pretty well, coming home from the store with the back of our SUV filled with grocery bags. On the last trip right before Christmas break, I spent $350 because I knew the kids would be home all day everyday. It would be more than enough for anyone.

Except for this family.

I never dreamed I would say this, but I cannot afford to feed this family anymore. More specifically, I cannot afford to fee Evan. The kid eats something and immediately goes back for more. All day long, this is how it goes. So my trips to the grocery store are decimated and when I come home from work after a 3-day stretch, there is nothing left and we spend the rest of the week running to and from the store, buying miscellaneous items because there is nothing left in the house. Which is decidedly unfriendly to the environment and to my wallet, as gas is fricken expensive. I have even had to let some bills slide to buy more food because they ran us out and we cannot starve for the rest of the week..

I should add that this does not just happen when I am gone. Last night for dinner, for example, John made chops, veggies, baked potatoes. When he made the potatoes, he made a whole bunch of them because they were smallish. I split one with Zach. John had one. Evan cried and carried on until he ate the rest of them. If we order a pizza, he eats more than all of us combined. One night, I made a pan of baked ziti–lowfat, of course, for John–and we all got a spoonful while Evan ate the rest of the pan.  He’s starving, he says. He cries.

We have tried everything. We’ve explained how obesity runs in our family, as well as hypertension, diabetes, and heart disease. We’ve had discussions about genetics and how John’s dad had to have open-heart in his 40’s and John had all of those blocked arteries this past summer in his 30’s, so Evan is pretty much doomed if he doesn’t amend his eating habits. I can’t make too much of an issue of it because I don’t want to make such an unhealthy connection with food, as this can also lead to problems.

What do I do? And the reason I am asking? Well, after the “polar vortex” that we have had that expanded the kids’ winter break, I am broke. We literally have no money. I have fed this child until our wallets, pockets, bank accounts are completely empty. And there is no food left. I have resources and I can get groceries, but the point is that nobody else will get to eat them. And even when we are diligent, when we watch the food supplies all day, being careful about what Evan consumes, our efforts go to waste when he sneaks into the kitchen after all have gone to bed and hoard entire boxes of stuff into his room. In the morning when he wakes, we have found empty boxes of snack crackers, granola bars, anything that he can easily take and snack on all night.

Do we have to sleep in shifts? Put the food under lock and key? Start buying by the meal instead of stocking the kitchen? And then when he cannot get what he wants, we deal with one of his meltdowns where he turns over furniture, gets violent with his brother, breaks our things intentionally.

I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what to do or how to do it.

And I’m hungry.

Mastering the Art of Suckage

I suck at life right now. No, really, I do.

I woke up this morning to tackle the day. I was ready. Quick shower, yoga pants, hoodie. Ready. To. Go. And then I sat down. And I started reading Justin Halpern’s Shit My Dad Says on my phone. And before I knew what was happening, I had finished the damned book. And then I was exhausted, and we all took a collective nap. I was so hell-bent on not procrastinating on the finishing of the economics, and I suffered a massive failure on that one. (More on the econ in another post-that class is going to drive me into an early grave.)

So lunch came. And went. I didn’t eat a bite. Nothing sounded good other than a pint of black raspberry chip ice cream. And, well, that isn’t diet-friendly. Before I knew what was going on, it was time for dinner. Chipotle. And I ate the whole fucking bowl. With chips. How much more Fatty McFatFat can you get than shoveling heaps of rice and chicken and salsa onto chips to eat it? To use chips as flatware, for shit’s sake! So I’m not exactly feeling all svelte/ bask-in-my-hotness. On the contrary, I can practically feel the cellulite building up on my thighs just in the 45 minutes since I ate the last chip.

So now, the coffee is brewed. I’m ready. I am going to study.

“Andrea, I set a reminder for you, baby.” Awww, my husband is so thoughtful. A reminder for what?

For the season kick-off of Project Runway. Tonight. And suddenly, I can hear my resolve to study screaming in agony as it withers to nothingness.

Summer has entirely too many distractions.

And also, I am kind of tired of being a student.

Bring on the fall semester. Let’s get this shit done.

Fatty McFatFat's Flatware

Fatty McFatFat’s Flatware

Sprung

Somehow winter came and went. No real snow. We had a few flurries, but that’s it. And somehow, we have skipped over spring. I’m pissed because I just bought Zach a wardrobe of cute sweaters and thin long-sleeved shirts for when the weather is cool but not cold. But we skipped that stage. No, we went straight to summer. It is supposed to over 80 degrees for 4 of the seven days this week. Shit.

I hate summer. Sorry. I do. A) I’m a fatty. I hate wearing shorts. I like layers and roomy hoodies and sweaters. I have short legs, so capris look awful. I work best in a hoodie, jeans and gym shoes. B) I’m allergic to grass and trees, bees, wasps, and just about everything else that comes out with sunshine. C) Back to being a fatty. Animal fat melts in heat. Turns to mush, then oil. Humans are, essentially, animals, are we not? I swear my fat cells melt and try to come out of my pores in fucking summer. I swear it.

But regardless, it’s here. Shit. So I am doing my best to put on a smiley face and be a good, fun mom. We have taken the boys out whenever possible. Zach is really fun this year, since he is old enough to run and play on his own. He really enjoys the park now, though pulling him away when it is time to go home is more of a challenge. So here are some photos from one of our first really nice days.

Why Do They Make It So Hard?

So the latest news in the Bitchypants household is The Diet Felt ‘Round the World.

It started with a convo between the hubster and I. About how we are currently fat-assed and desire to be skinny-assed. We feel like, since we put the goal of being there to see our children get married and have babies back by about 8 years when we had Zachary, we need to live longer. And being fat-assed, we are not as likely to be able to do this. So we decided that we are going to do this, damnit. And so we schemed and planned. We figured out a weekly menu, and we made a grocery list and went to the store with said list.

And we spent $360 compared to the normal $150-$200 we normally spend. We didn’t even get any frozen pizzas! No Hot Pockets. No (gasp!) Diet Mt. Dew. Really. Why in the helll are apples and green shit so damned expensive? And then they have a shelf life of about 5 hours. No wonder, America! No wonder we are all fat and childhood obesity is at epidemic status. It isn’t the fries in Happy Meals. It’s the fucking price of the Happy Meals. A grilled chicken sandwich is one of the healthiest on the menu at McDonald’s, but John and I could eat one each for the cost it would be to feed the whole damned family. And poor people can’t afford this crap. All the poor kids are getting is Cheetos and chicken nuggets and hot dogs because it costs too damned much to feed them anything else. On a side note, maybe this is the approach to get Evan to eat more healthful foods: healthful, wholesome foods as a status symbol that the poor kids can’t afford! (yeah, I’m going straight to hell for that one!)

So anyway, we were in the living room and I was writing a paper on the laptop on the sofa while John watched some goofy stuff on tv. And we decided we were starving. We tried so hard. I tried a protein bar, and John ate some fruit or something. And then I checked my damned email. Shit. Turns out that when you order pizza, you get points. And when you get enough points, you get a free pizza. And since A) we eat entirely too much pizza–I mean we used to–, and B) I didn’t know this existed, I had enough points for 10 pizzas. Really.

.I mean, you can’t waste free pizza, can you? It’s kind of a slap in the face to the starving children in third world countries or something. So we ordered a pizza. We were kind of behaving a little because we didn’t order soda. No wings, no breadsticks, no garlic butter/ fat mixture to dip the pizza crust. Just a pie.

And it arrived before we knew what was happening. We didn’t even have the opportunity to feel remorse for reverting to our fat-assed ways. And I opened that box and smelled the pepperoni goodness of its contents.

We ate the shit out of that pizza and then hid the damned evidence as if we had murdered someone here in the living room. Oh my God, we didn’t even bother to get plates from the cupboard. We just ate it. Ate it ALL! And then John ran the box to the garbage can outside so we wouldn’t have to stare at it. I seriously felt like a crack ‘ho getting her fix. It was that bad.

Tomorrow we are getting back on the wagon. And I am going to get out that all-terrain stroller I paid a small fortune for, and I am going to repent for my sins.

But seriously. Why? Why does our culture have to make it so damned hard????

She may not be eating pizza, but she's way classier than me--she has a plate and fork.

Restaurants Have Plates

That’s all I’m sayin’.

After hearing the peeps at work rave and croon over this barbecue joint, we headed there for lunch. City BBQ.

So we head there, even though Evan is lamenting the notion that maybe, just maybe, they won’t have chicken tenders on the menu, and ohmyGodwhatwillwedoiftheydon’t! Now is the point where I ‘fess up that in all of my Midwestern-ness, I have never eaten a barbecue sandwich of any sort. My mom used to love them, and they looked like scary pseudo-meat to me. Eww. But we go. I am expecting a better version of the slop that looks more like chemical sludge than actual meat. And I order a pulled chicken sandwich. And then John orders pulled pork and I think, shit, he’s done this before. And so I get what he does. And we wait in line for our food, while we watch a guy actually pulling the meat from the hog carcass in the back. Thank God the pig did not have a head or I would’ve fled the joint in tears for poor Porky. The events to follow leave me feeling somewhat ashamed and dirty in a way,

First of all, there were no friggin’ plates. None. We got our food on these tin trays that looked like a damned slop pan. And our sandwiches were on wax paper and were more like mounds of meat with bits of bread on either side. Where’s the barbecue sauce, dude? Mercifully, they put my mac & cheese and John’s green beans in little bowls.

And so we head to our table. Where are the napkins? The silverware? And so John goes in search of them, only to return and tell me they are on the table. What? You mean that roll of paper towels on a paper towel stand doodad??? You cannot be serious. It isn’t a five-star joint, but I did just pay over $40 for what is essentially just sandwiches. Really, now. And then I found the sauce. And there was a selection of 6 sauces, in squirt bottles, artfully displayed…in a damned empty 6-pack cardboard carton. Yeah. Classy. And the floor was concrete. And I was just about to die as I tried to tear off a piece of paper towel from the classy napkin dispenser/ backwoods paper towel roll thingy while barbecue sauce started to dribble. Fancy shit, y’all. I was not amused.

And then I ate the food.

Oh. Oh my God that shit was delicious. And there was tons of it. And I felt so damned guilty because there is no way a fatty should be eating it. But if I was going to die right then of a clogged coronary artery, it would have been worth it.

A lardass'e heroin.

John loved it and kept saying, “Now this is Southern.” (He grew up the in the sticks of Kentucky, and married him a Yankee girl, y’all.) Evan was just thrilled that they had chicken tenders. And I was ashamed that I was eating this messy stuff without the plate, out of a slop tin, to the point that I finally tried to eat the sandwich with a fork. Not an easy feat when the sanwich was on waxed paper.

Take it all, big boy.

I soooo  wanted to point out to John that he was in the great Buckeye State. Not the deep south. Him saying that reminded me of the guys you see driving the huge pickup trucks on lift kits, with the western wear, belt buckles the size of a hubcaps, and cowboy hats, blaring country music and friggin’ forgetting that they are in Cincinnati and we are not known for rodeos, damnit. We are in Ohio. And what do Buckeyes know about barbecue?

Apparently plenty.

>I Want Cake

>

I really do. I have 13 minutes left of my birthday and I want cake and am feeling jilted. I tried to replace coveted cupcake with string cheese, a la my new P90X diet plan. It didn’t work. The cheese didn’t come with frosting. Or sprinkles. And so I now feel like a spoiled little kid, pouting. Except that I have only admitted this here, on my blog. Oh well. I’ll live, I suppose.
I’ll be going home in the morning and doing my workout for today, which is Extreme Cardio or something like that. Whatever, it sounds like death. John and I took our “before” pics today, and I had the plan to put them on my little fatty-to-skinny blog, but Hell-to-the-nah, I am not showing that crap to anyone. I mean, do I really look like that? Seriously? So, in other words, I may want cake, but I definitely need to stay away from it.

Incidentally, I learned today that they are a gazillion ways to do a push-up. And all of them equally suck.
John learned what “downward dog” and “child’s pose” meant. Ha!