Mama Needs a Cosmo

Here’s the thing.

A couple of days ago, I wrote my very first (and perhaps my last) “week in review” post, in which I shared that Benny’s word for “chair” sounds just like the word “Jew.” And, he just so happened to scream it over and over and over again while we were trying to take our seats next to a table full of Jewish people at a restaurant.

And you would NOT believe the feedback I received. I really wish these idiots would take to my comments section so everyone could see for themselves what kind of jackasses read my blog. But they don’t.

Instead, I get forwarded notes from women who think what I wrote was some sort of evidence that I am anti-Semitic. Or, from people who accused me of taking material from other writers and bloggers who have had similar experiences with their own children. (Like this one, written by my friend Ginny.) One person even asked me how it was that I could identify that the people I was sitting near were Jews. (THAT really pissed me off. What if they were all wearing yammukahs?)

So, I’ve decided to clear this mess up.

Which is kind of stupid, considering I thought that the whole “Benny says JEW!” situation was one of the funniest things I’d shared on the blog in a while.

So first of all, I’d like to point out that I’ve been on six cruises in my life. And I’ve spent some time in Florida. I know a Jew when I see one. Think Mike Meyers and Madonna doing Coffee Talk on SNL. Oy.

Second, I am NOT, in any way shape or form, anti-Semitic. Period. Did you really need to go there? Because I’m baffled as to why anyone would think me an anti-Semite, or a racist of any kind for that matter. Seriously.

Third, anyone who knows me or reads my blog regularly is fully aware of the fact that I despise plagiarism. I would never, EVER copy anyone else’s work because I cannot STAND it when someone copies mine. Got it?

And finally, I took to the VADO I won from the ladies over at Momtv.com for visual proof that Benny’s word for “chair” really DOES sound like the word “Jew.” (PS: Notice that he puts his sippy cup down on the floor for about two seconds in order to avoid spilling his juice while pointing to the chair — then thinks better of it. Gotta love it!)

[Word of warning: This post is rated PG-13 for language and violence. Reader discretion is advised!]

My sister thought it advisable that I share the following story with you. And indeed, while I was in the moment, I did wind up thinking, “I TOTALLY wish I had a video camera right now so I could post this shit to the blog! This would be a perfect ‘What Into The Hell‘ story!”

But afterward, I thought maybe I should keep it under wraps. I mean, I’ve had my share of cat fights, and know that I can be quite the petty bitch. But I didn’t want you all to think that I intentionally picked on homeless people.

Because I don’t.

In fact, I’ve bought many a homeless man (and woman) breakfast or lunch. I’ve even taken my shoes and coat off as the passenger of a car and given it to a homeless person. I don’t go boasting about it; I just do it because I know that one wrong choice in my life could have resulted in me being the one huddling with a dog under a freeway overpass.

But my sister has a point – this is some funny shit. So I deemed it blog-worthy, and here we are. [Please note: If you are new to my blog, you need to be informed that I have a condition called Congenital Anosmia, which means I was born with no sense of smell. This is very important later on.]

Anyway, the story begins with me being out and about in the major storm that hit California this past weekend. I was running errands, trying to get some grocery shopping done and also tying up some loose ends for my BFF’s baby shower.

I was actually in the process of patting myself on the back for making excellent time when I noticed that my car was acting a little strange. I had the heater on, but the air coming out of the vents started to blow cold. Then, steam began to rise out from under my hood. When I looked down at the dashboard, I saw that my car was over heating.

In the middle of a thunderstorm.

In weather where the winds were gusting in excess of 60 miles per hour.

So, I pulled off the freeway and pulled into (you guessed it!) McDonald’s. It was the 1^st good location I could find, and easily identifiable to whomever I needed to call for help. (In this case, it was the LOML.) However, it was in a really bad part of town — an area well-known for transients and motels that make much more money renting rooms by the hour than they do on their nightly guests. (If you live in Sacramento, I’m speaking of the Mickey D’s on Richards Boulevard.)

After I put out the distress call to my husband, I decided to go inside, eat some lunch, and wait for the car to cool down.

I wasn’t surprised to see a few homeless people in the dining area –- most were drinking coffee and trying obtain cover from the storm. One in particular was discussing something quite important (though I never figured out what) with an imaginary friend.

Knowing that I needed to make the best of the situation, I ordered my food and hoped to occupy my time reading blogs on the CrackBerry.

When I sat down to dig in, I realized I needed some ketchup.

(This is where the story gets . . . interesting.)

While I was up, I noticed the homeless bum with the imaginary friend STEALING my Big Mac!

From the front of the dining area I yelled, “Hey! HEY! You stole my hamburger!”

“Your hamburger? I didn’t see your name on it,” said the homeless man, in a sing-songy, what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it tone. (Oh NO he Di-in’t!)

I. Was. PISSED!

Not knowing what else to do, I went to the counter and got the manager, who apologized, threw the bum out, and promptly made me a new burger.

When I sat back down, I realized that the bum left his “hefty bag” full of belongings under the seat he was sitting in.

[Can you hear my evil laugh?]

Being the bitch that you all know, love, and adore, I decided to go over and take the bag, then hid it under my seat.

I looked out the window and noticed the bum coming back. Petty Bitch (my alter ego) got some MAJOR satisfaction in knowing that he was more than likely returning to retrieve his “belongings,” which were tucked away snugly under my feet.

Enter the bum.

He began looking for the bag, but didn’t see it right away. In looking under the seats, he noticed it was under my legs.

“Hey! That’s my bag! You’ve got my bag!”

HA! That was EXACTLY what I’d hoped he would say! My reply was priceless:

“Your bag? It didn’t have your name on it!”

Hearing the commotion, the manager re-appeared and threw the bum out again. Boy was that guy pissed!

The manager came back to my table, apologized again, and gave me a $10 gift card for my trouble.

As the manager walked away, I said, “Hey . . . I’ve got that guy’s bag under here.”

“I don’t want it, but I’ll be happy to toss it out to him.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s inside of it?”

“Well . . . no . . . I don’t know . . . it’s probably just some old clothes or shoes or something. Why don’t you look?” (Then I realized the bag could be wicked smelly, but I would have never noticed because I have no sense of smell. Eew! But the top was twisted closed in a pretty tight knot.)

“Oh, come on,” I said, and kicked the bag towards him, “You’re the manager. YOU look!”

Reluctantly, the manager opened the bag. Slowly. And then threw his head back in disgust. “Oh, CHRIST! This is . . . This is AWFUL!”

I said, “What is it? What’s in the bag?!”

And the manager said, “There’s . . . there’s SHIT in here. This bag . . . is full . . . of shit!”

Just like this whole McDonald’s story.

(Yep. The whole thing — from “So I pulled off the freeway” to the very end — is all made up.)

[Ha! I'd hoped to hold on to that one and use it for my annual April Fool's post. But I just couldn't wait. I hope it made you laugh!]

Aahh, yes. It’s time for “’What Into the Hell’” Wednesday!

In yesterday’s post, there was a small blurb about distracted driving. Today, I’ve decided to post about “distracted pooping.”

(For those of you with weak constitutions, consider yourselves warned.)

There are only a few activities left in my world that I consider sacred, and using the ladies room at my office—where I can shut the stall door without worry of being interrupted by my preschooler—is one of them.

I don’t think I’m asking for a lot here. Who can argue with wanting some relative peace and quiet where I can do my business and go on about my day?

And for the most part, my office restroom (a lovely three-stall facility shared with four other suites on our floor) is usually low-key. Yesterday afternoon, however, my peace and quiet was interrupted when someone blew in the door while talking on her cell phone.

What made matters worse was the fact that the person on the other end of the phone was talking so loudly that I could hear—with relative ease—everything he was saying. (Or yelling, really, because they were in the middle of an argument.)

“How come you have to act like this every time I go out with Felicia?,” the woman in the stall next to me asked.

“You lied to me. You told me that you were going to dinner with your sister.”

“I lied to you because you act all weird whenever I go out. I like to go out with my friends without you once in a while.”

“I don’t act ‘all weird’ . . .”

[Enter Cosmo Mom, thoroughly displeased with the woman’s disregard for common decency.]

I gave a long loud sigh, and, making sure she could hear me, I said:

“Are you kidding me with this?”

She interrupted her boyfriend and said, “Hang on, I’m in the bathroom.”

I thought she was going to engage me, because I knew for certain that she’d heard me. Instead, she said, “I thought someone said something to me.”

“You’re in the bathroom?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

And since they were able to resume their conversation before I could say anything else, and because I was thoroughly pissed (no pun intended) at this point, I decided to make some noise. [Here comes the nasty . . . ]

First of all, I ripped open the sanitary napkin I had in my pocket, making a loud “zipper” noise. Then I slammed the lid of the metal container hanging on the stall’s wall after I threw the old pad away. Twice. Then I flushed the toilet while crinkling the toilet lid liners. Twice.

Still, they kept talking.

But, before I could do or say anything else, she said, “Hang on again,” after which she put the phone on the floor, wiped, flushed, picked the phone back up, and said, while pulling up her pants and leaving the stall, “I just don’t understand why you don’t trust me . . . ”

I can tell her why I don’t trust her! She just took her cell phone into the bathroom, carried on what should have been a very private argument with her boyfriend, put the phone on the bathroom floor, wiped her nether regions, put that same phone back up to her ear and face, and walked out the door without washing her hands!!

WHAT INTO THE HELL?!

*Sigh.* At least I didn’t knock the phone out of her hand with my purse . . . can I consider that an improvement in behavior?

I know that yesterday was “‘What Into The Hell’ Wednesday,” but I’ve got another tick and a funny story about how I picked it off, and I couldn’t wait until next Wednesday to tell it.

My biggest pet peeve is with people who pop their gum. I’d rather eat foil and scratch my fingers down a blackboard at the same time than listen to someone pop their gum–suffice to say that it’s a sound that I loathe.

My second biggest pet peeve is with people who don’t respect my personal space. I don’t do well in the presence of a “close talker,” and don’t get me started on close-talking spitters.

Last night at the grocery store, I encountered someone who did both.

Sometimes when I’m grocery shopping without the boys, I choose to stand in the longest line for checking out. This gives me time to enjoy the opportunity of thumbing through the tabloids at a leisurely pace, without having to scream “put that down!” or “get back here!” or “I said no candy!”

But my choice to do this last night came with a price.

The woman who got in line behind me had been somewhat of a line jumper. She was in a hurry–not a good thing when most grocery stores are packed with the “after work” crowd at 6:00pm. And she picked MY line to stand and fidget and do her grumbling.

And pop her gum.

I tried to ignore it by diving into the George Clooney vs. Fabio updates, but I found myself reading the intro sentence over and over, with no retention.

Pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . And then came the cell phone call.

And while she was balancing her phone in one hand and doing whatever with the other, she managed to bump me with her basket. Hard. Four times.

OH. It was SOOO on.

The first couple of times, I used my butt to push the cart backwards. The third time, I looked back at her, but she was so engrossed in her cell phone conversation that she didn’t even see me. The last time, I gently moved the basket backwards, then stepped out from between my basket and hers, entering the “people go on this side” space and exiting the “baskets stay on that side” space. As I did this, I grabbed my purse, which also happened to be doubling as a tote bag and was filled with a bunch of items that I’d brought home from work. (I’ve got two words for you: LOADED and HEAVY.)

And as I waited for the diva behind me to get so close to me that I could feel her breath on my neck, I whipped my bag around onto my shoulder, and its forward motion knocked into her arm and forced the phone from her hand and onto the ground.

CosmoMama: 1           Gum-popping-space-invader: 0

As she gasped at me, I turned around, and with an unapologetic look on my face, I said, “Oh. I didn’t realize you were THAT close to me.”

Oohhh! Was she pissed!! But the folks behind her didn’t seem to mind my antics.

Right after my planned attack, it was my turn to check out, and by then she’d collected her phone and told whoever was on the other end that she was not very pleased with what I’d done. (Obscenities removed.)

I had to contain myself until I was inside of my car, and by then I was laughing so hysterically that I almost didn’t realize I’d put the car in reverse.

Like the title of my blog notes: I’m “trying” to take the high road, but I don’t necessarily do it all the time.

*Evil snicker*

If the title of this post didn’t make you say, “What into the hell?”, then you don’t have a pulse!

In today’s “‘What Into The Hell?’ Wednesday,” I’m going to unload on a restaurant manager’s lame excuse for why my pork chops weren’t thoroughly cooked. (Even though the place was dimly lit, I could still see that the middle of my pork chop was as pink as ahi tuna. Not good!)

Last Saturday evening, my husband and I decided to go out for one last “hurrah” meal before beginning our Weight Watchers journey. When we arrived at the restaurant, we were seated almost immediately, which to me was an omen that the night would go off without a hitch.

Jake was behaving unusually well, Ben was napping in his car seat, and hubby and I were having an awesome time. We ordered our food, enjoyed a cocktail, ate an appetizer, and even played a few games with Jake. It was a real dream come true, as far as eating out is concerned.

Then we received our main course. I was making yummy sounds and tearing into my mashed potatoes as my husband wished aloud that he’d ordered something like what was on my plate. I teased him, cut into my pork chops, and ate the first bite. Man! I love that seasoning.

And, as Ben began to wake from his slumber and make cranky “I’m getting hungry” sounds, I realized that I’d be feeding him his bottle with one hand, and eating with the other. So, I thought it a good idea to cut up both of my pork chops all at once, that way I’d be free to poke at the pieces with one hand. As I did this, I noticed that the insides of both were undercooked. TERRIBLY undercooked.

So we waited. And waited. And waited some more until our server came to our table. We showed him the pork chops, and I said, “I can’t eat this. It’s food poisoning waiting to happen.” To his credit, he took the plate away and said he’d take care of it.

And of course, a discussion about undercooked pork and all of the calamity it could bring to the human body filled the time until our server and the manager appeared with a plate. It was the same pork chops, thoroughly cooked, accompanied with a fresh set of mashed potatoes.

I said, “Oh. You gave me back the same ones?”

“Yes, but they’re cooked completely. We’re really sorry that you had to send them back,” the manager said. “It’s been a super crazy night, and our computers went down, and some stuff just fell through the cracks.”

(How does the computer going down have anything to do with not cooking pork all the way through?)

“Okay. I guess we’re good, as long as they’re thoroughly cooked.”

“Yes. And we’ll go ahead and comp the chops . . . we don’t want you to be disappointed,” he said. “But just so you know, ——- ———-’s pigs are raised differently than what you’re used to hearing,” he said. “Our pigs are really clean. They stand on cement and they’re covered from the elements and don’t stand in their own slop, so they’re not exposed to disease and stuff. So if you order the chops in the future and they don’t look cooked through, it’s not as big of a deal as if it were the types of pigs that stand in their own poop.”

WHAT INTO THE HELL? There was so much wrong with what he just said that I couldn’t form a proper response. Seriously?!

“Well, I don’t know about clean pigs, but I do know that you can’t go serving raw pork to people, no matter how well they’re raised. Those chops would have registered cold on any one’s thermometer,” I said. “But they’re cooked now, and everything seems to be okay.”

“Okay. Can I get you anything else?”

“Yes, actually . . .”

And I proceeded to get a free dessert for Jake and another cocktail for myself on the house.

I kept the restaurant’s name a secret because they did resolve the issue (excuses aside) and we didn’t pay for the “damaged pork chops.” However, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t expose the lamest and most inappropriate explanation known to man with regard to undercooked pork.

I’ve spoken to several people and done a few hours of research since Saturday night, and all testimony is the same: Pork MUST be cooked to an internal temperature of at least 160 degrees Fahrenheit, regardless of how they’re raised.

PS: I was never able to corroborate the manager’s story about ——- ———-’s clean pigs.