I Kind of Suck At This

After reading some blog posts from the past, I realize that over the last year I've bitched and moaned on a pretty consistent basis about my kids' helplessness. I dream about the day that they are able to recognize a full garbage can, follow six-step directions without forgetting steps 2 - 5 and be able to keep track of when bedtime is approaching. The moment that they realize I can't be at home making something for dinner while simultaneously driving them around will certainly be a day for the record books. And what if -- seriously stretch the imagination here -- they were to ever figure out that they should get their shoes and coats on, without being told, five minutes before the time that we're supposed to leave!

Seriously, if I were ever to discover all three kids standing by the door with their shit ready to go at 11:28 after telling them that we're leaving at 11:30, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to drive to wherever it is that we were going because I'd be hyperventilating and suffering from shock. There are times that after seeing lifeless lumps on the couch or listening to a soon-to-turn-violent game of tabletop ping pong, I think hell no, man! Today is the day that I am NOT going to remind them to start getting ready! I am going to just put my coat on and walk out the door, and if they aren't ready, well then SCREW THEM! I'm leaving them behind! That'll teach them! And then, sure enough, as the time approaches, I cave in and shout a couple reminders, wait for them to get shoes on and then head out the door on time. Why do I do this? Well, because the piano lessons are kind of expensive so it would be pretty pointless to show up without the kids, and because I'm pathetic. And lately, I've taken advantage of the opportunity to be pathetic a lot.

Kid #1: I swear this kid's brain shuts off the moment he climbs out of bed in the morning. I say things like "Hey, do you want me to get some of those cookies you really like with the macadamia nuts in them" and all I get is a vacant stare and an "ummm, I've no idea what you're talkin' about. What cookeeeezzzz?" Every response and demand has a little extra uuuuhhhhhzzzzzz to it, with a sigh or four thrown in for good measure. One morning, I made the fatal elementary error of saying something so stupid as "Make sure everything is in your backpack and you're not forgetting anything." You're-a-stupid-mom lasers shot from his eyes as he said "Of courssseeee everything's there. Duuuuuhhhhhh." So I, logically, assumed he had it covered.

As soon as all the kids were out the door, I sat down at the computer to return some emails, drink coffee and do a little Facebook creeping. As soon as I sat down I noticed a very familiar green binder sitting by the keyboard. A binder that had the words "Science" and my kid's name on it. Well, that can't be right because I was assuuuurrrreeeddd that everything was taken care of and dddduuuuuhhh! My initial ha-ha-this-will-teach-my-kid-a-lesson instincts said that I should keep my ass in the spinny chair, my non-travel coffee mug in my hand and not only not take the binder to school, but maybe even hide the binder. And then the stupid invasive bitch that lives inside my brain piped up and reminded me that this kid has yet to miss even one point in science this trimester, and boy oh boy wouldn't it be a bummer for him to miss a few points just because he couldn't turn in the homework that he had completed over the weekend. After all, this was the first time he'd forgotten to take something to school all year!

So what did I do? Of course I grabbed the binder, put on my coat and then walked out the door, without my coffee and without even brushing my teeth. And then after I delivered the binder to the junior high, I figured I'd continue my I'm-a-loser-mom morning by running into Costco to get some of those macadamia nut cookies that he doesn't really remember if he likes or not, but I know are his favorites.

Kids #1 and #2: Most days, my boys are pretty good about making sure their clothes end up in a laundry basket. Lately, I've noticed that they seem to derive enjoyment out of leaving one sweatshirt or pair of pants in the middle of their floor -- sort of an "I'm not as anal as my mom" statement -- but otherwise things are pretty predictable. Until, that is, dress clothes get thrown into the rotation. For some reason, a pants hanger confuses the hell out of them and they're never quite sure if the dress shirt should go in the laundry or not, even though they just got done playing in a piano recital held in a room "hotter than the surface of the sun," as my husband so eloquently put it.

Last Sunday, Zoe and I missed the boys' piano recital and instead drove (well, technically I drove while Zoe watched Toy Story 3 and laughed her ass off) a little over two hours in each direction to spend a whopping 40 minutes at a wake for my great-aunt. By the time I got home, I was mentally shot and hopeful that I wouldn't have to do anything besides wash my face, put on the most hideous flannel pajamas I could find and drink a beer. What I was definitely NOT in the mood for was finding two sets of dress clothes piled in the middle of two different bedroom floors, showing zero evidence of a boy trying to be helpful or self-sufficient. What I instead saw was two boys who figured they could just drop the clothes wherever they wanted to and mom would take care of it because, as we all know, mom always takes care of it. And after all, that Xbox wasn't going to play itself!

Now, I could have dug deep and found the energy to walk from our upper level to the lower level, found more energy to wave my arms around while I yelled at the lazy boys and then stomped back to the upper level to show them for the 38th time how to operate a pant's hanger. But then I probably would have just ended up being even madder because I would have had to stand there and watch them fumble with the complicated contraption because even though they could easily operate a controller for every game console ever made, the mechanics of this particular hanger were just. Too. Darn. Hard.

And then the dog chewed on one of the collar stays, which made me start thinking: if piano teachers and the organizations that support music education for teenagers really want to encourage kids -- boys, in particular -- to continue taking piano lessons, perform in recitals and not drop out, maybe they should stop requiring them to dress up in things that require funky hangers, collar stays and ironing skills. Because if they wouldn't have had to dress up for this particular recital, then I'm sure the clothes would have ended up in the laundry basket instead of the floor, which would mean that I wouldn't have had to pick everything up for them.

Kid #3: Since I've obviously failed miserably in teaching the first two kids how to use common sense and be responsible, I decided at the beginning of this school year that I would leave the packing of Zoe's backpack each morning up to her, and her alone. I envisioned her spending several days walking the school hallways in snowboots because tennis shoes were left in the closet, a few days of recess spent indoors because snowpants were hanging on a hook at home and more than a bookshelf full of overdue library books. So, where exactly am I on this well-intentioned project? Here is how most mornings go:

• You need to put a snack in your backpack.
• Today you're eating home lunch. Get it out of the fridge.
• Where are your shoes?
• No, don't put them there, stick them in like this.
• What about your snowpants?
• No, they don't fit that way. Here let me do it.
• Just, give them to me! Now get your lunch.
• Wait, where is your water bottle?
• You still need a snack.
• It's library day. Go get your book off of the table.
• It's 10 degrees outside. Please put your coat on.
• Yes you need mittens and a hat.
• Put your boots on, too.
• Get away from the dog's butt and put your boots on!
• Go get in the car. Wait, where are your mittens?

So, yeah, things are going pretty much how I predicted they would and I won't be surprised when the UPS man delivers my Pathetic Mom of the Year Award sometime around spring break. After all, that's when the boys' high school tennis season starts which means I'll get to do more driving, more laundry, prepare more meals on-the-go and best of all, have even more opportunities to be pathetic.

Mean Mondays

As if the traits that make me freakish aren't numerous enough, here's one more: on the ever-expanding list of chores that fall under the description of "Mom's Job," I don't hate laundry. Ever since I was lucky enough to become an owner of a front-load washer about a year ago, it's never a big deal to throw in a couple loads every-other-day and to be honest (and pathetic), I kind of enjoy it. Between the smell of detergent, successfully removing a stubborn stain, finding a mate for every sock, the stacks of perfectly folded clothes and knowing that every piece of clothing in the house is clean, doing laundry is almost as satisfying as sipping a perfectly mixed martini. Hey, I said almost as good.

One thing that throws a wrench into my clean laundry-induced glee is when, after everything has been washed and put away, I find a sweatshirt wadded up in the corner of a couch, a stray sock under a bed or smelly phy-ed clothes that never quite made it out of a backpack. More specifically, when Zach's phy-ed clothes never made it out of his blue backpack even though he has been told over and over again to make sure to take the clothes out and put them in the laundry basket that is only eight steps away from where his backpack belongs.

When he has forgotten in the past, I've always failed to jump off the enabling train and ended up digging the clothes out myself because I'm out-of-control anal and the thought of stinky gym clothes sitting unwashed makes me crazier than I already am. So when Monday morning rolls around and he has says oh whoops I forgot to put my gym clothes in the laundry, I get to stand there and smile like a pathetic loser and say "Oh that's okay. I got them out for you and washed them yesterday." What is this teaching my kid? While I'd like to think that he's super appreciative of everything I do, exceedingly grateful for the fact that I remembered to do his laundry and filled with regret and sorrow for forgetting yet again, I'm pretty sure that what he's actually thinking is that this arrangement kicks ass because he'll never have to waste time trying to remember stuff and be responsible because after all, mom will remember and always save his ass. Or in this case, his smelly armpits.

While I was sorting the laundry on Sunday I wasn't surprised to find that, as usual, the gym clothes had been forgotten. I was about to reach for his backpack to fish them out when I decided hell no. He's been reminded time and time again and keeps forgetting because there are never any repercussions. If I stop being pathetic and start being mean, maybe he would start remembering.

On Monday morning as Zach was getting his coat on, he looked at his backpack and said "Oh hey. Did you wash my phy-ed stuff yesterday?"

"Did your phy-ed stuff ever get taken out of your backpack? I don't remember seeing it in the laundry." I was proud of myself for: A) Coming up with a response that didn't involve a lie, and B) Not apologizing, even though I wanted to.

"No. I forgot to take it out, but thought you'd do it anyway. Great. Well, bye." I could tell he was a little less than thrilled at the prospect of having to jump around a junior high gymnasium in two hours, wearing gross clothes.

Did I feel a little bit like a horrible mom for not doing my kid's laundry when it was sitting right there? YES! I felt like crap! But then I thought oh my god he's 13-years-old, has been reminded eighteen bajillion times and had more free time over the weekend than I did. And besides, if it's important to him to not smell like a "This is why you should use deodorant" poster child, then making sure his laundry ends up where it's supposed to should be more of a priority, right? RIGHT?

Oh, who the hell cares if I was right. I still feel like poop on a shoe.

Jr High Swimming=Hell

A couple weeks ago, Zach came home from school and told me something that I have been dreading all school year: The three-week swimming unit in phy-ed is starting.

While I have some pretty crappy memories of junior high, the swimming unit is definitely on the top of that list. Since my school didn't have a pool, I had to ride a bus to a different junior high, which meant that I had less time after swimming to get dressed and dry my hair. I had to use a thick polyester, school-issued "swimsuit," which I'm convinced was sewn together by blind women who also had limited use of their hands. In addition to the shapeless swimwear and lack of post-swim primping time, there was the fact that even though I was good at sports, I couldn't do the survival float. Every single time the teacher blew that fucking whistle, it was like a cue for me to start sinking like a rock.

Besides the fact that junior high swimming still requires kids in various stages of puberty to change together in a locker room, Zach's experience will be much more pleasant than mine. His school has it's own pool, since he wears prescription swim goggles his eyes won't be fried out from the chlorine and the kids now get to use their own swimsuits and bring their own towels.

Wait. What the fuck. The kids get to bring their own swimsuits and towels? This means that, oh holy hell. He's going to be bringing home chlorine-filled, soggy swim trunks and a towel everyday! Like I don't already have enough laundry to do!

Surprisingly enough, the beginning of the week went pretty well even though I had to immediately put his swimming stuff in the washing machine as soon as he walked in the door. There was one day that it sat in a basket for a couple hours and it made the laundry room smell like a junior high pool, so every time I walked in there I started having flashbacks. I do no enjoy junior high flashbacks.

Toward the end of the week I was waiting for him to walk in the door, ready to grab his swimming bag, pinch my nose and stuff it into the washer. Sure enough, that was the day that he said, "Oops. I forgot to bring my swimming stuff home and it's sitting in my locker." Um, gross. I immediately had to forget that he even told me such a horrid fact because thinking about that stinky bag sitting in his locker overnight made me nauseous.

I reminded him no fewer than 372 times the following morning to "think about how much anger he will witness from me if he forgets two bags of disgusting swimming crap in his locker." Forunately for him, he remembered to bring everything home and I couldn't get the washer started fast enough. As soon as I hit the "start" button, though, he said "Hey, is my lock in there? Are you washing my lock?" I opened the door, held my breath and rummaged through the grossness to find...NO LOCK! "Oh, I guess someone stole it. Now I need a new lock." I guess he didn't remember to bring home everything after all, and note to self: when Charlie starts junior high buy a six-pack of locks so that they all have the same combination, because the locks will be lost/stolen/misplaced/eaten by a zombie.

If I haven't mentioned it before, let me just say that OH MY GOD! THIS SCHOOL YEAR HAS GOT TO STOP BECAUSE IT IS DRIVING ME INSANE.

Practice Makes Perfect

While looking at the calendar this weekend, I realized that it is the last week of January, which means that there are only about four months of school left, which made me say, "Holy shit."

Since there isn't much time, I figured now would be a good time to make a list of things that my kids could start working on if they want me to stay sane this summer, because after all; practice makes perfect. I wouldn't go so far as to call this a list of demands, since it's more like "suggestions that they should strongly consider if they want to experience summer vacation living in a house where mom isn't screaming all the time and threatening to run away."

1. When taking your socks off, if you notice a hole in one of them, it's okay to throw it away instead of putting it in the laundry basket. I really don't need to wash the sock before it ends up in the garbage.
2. When you see something on the floor that isn't yours, but you know where it belongs, instead of just stepping over it, please inconvenience yourself for eight seconds by picking the item up and putting it away. I promise, you won't burst into flames.
3. It's a cell phone, not a magical teleporting device. If you need a ride home, a little bit of advance notice would be helpful. As shocking as this might be, I don't pass the time while you're gone by standing next to the door with my shoes on, keys in hand, waiting to leap into action.
4. Like the phone, the car is also not a teleporting device. If you need to be somewhere at 2:00, and that somewhere is a place other than the end of our driveway, we will need to leave before 2:00.
5. While I don't expect to hear, "Thank you for driving me around this afternoon, and I heard everything you just said to me and won't forget any of it," hearing "Um, yeah, what?" is more than a little bit irritating.
6. Stop abusing the rewind feature of DVR, and start paying attention.
7. I don't answer your absurd requests with a "No" just so that I can hear you say, "Why?" If you think I'll say no, then don't ask.
8. There is a bag inside the kitchen recycling bin, and despite appearances, even when it's full, it's not very heavy and it's removable. And for your information, full is defined as: Nothing else, no matter how much you smash and shove, will fit.
9. When you're getting dressed in the morning, if you think the shirt and pants/shorts don't match, go with that thought.
10. Stop having a "let's see who can make the most annoying sound in the world" contest, because believe me, you're all winners.

Child Labor

At some point in the future, I would like to think that my boys will eventually move out and be able to survive for more than a couple days by themselves. Judging by their current lack of self-sufficiency, though, it's difficult for me to imagine anything besides them wandering around aimlessly, wondering what to do about the dirty laundry that is piling up, the scum on the toilet, and the sensation of hunger that just doesn't seem to go away no matter how many times they think about food.

I will be the first to admit that my almost-a-control freak personality, lack of patience, and high expectations don't help the situation. I know that there are simple chores that they should be expected to do without me having to ask, but for me, having to watch someone else do a crappy job cleaning a bathroom or washing a pan in a weird way is a painful, anxiety-inducing experience.

They're good about cleaning up their own dishes and keeping their rooms clean, but I figured it was time to start expecting more. So, after I pulled a load of towels out of the dryer, I plopped the basket on the floor and asked Charlie to fold them. This seemed like the perfect job because since they're just towels, I could have cared less how they were folded. Really. It doesn't matter. Just fold them any old way. After all, no one is going to come bursting through the door to check how the towels are folded, so who cares how they're folded? Not me, that's for sure.

Okay, the truth is that all of the towels in this particular load just get hung up on hooks anyway, so they don't even need to be folded. I am actually really picky about how the towels are folded before they go on shelves, but there's no way in hell I'd expect my kid to understand why this is important to me. After all, I don't even understand.

Charlie was watching football and perfecting his half-sitting/half-laying down posture on the couch, and when I asked him to fold the towels he looked at me like I had obviously been smoking something. He eventually managed to rise from the couch, approach the basket, and then attempted to fold the towels while using body language that said, "I regret having the use of my arms."

Meanwhile, I sat on the couch and tried to ignore the beads of sweat that were forming along my hairline. It wasn't the fact that a blind person using only his feet would have done a better job, it was the way he was acting. It was like I said: "Hey Charlie. Do me a favor and walk two miles to the chicken coop, grab a chicken, hack off its head, pull out the feathers, take out the guts, and make me some soup. And while the soup is simmering, fold these towels."

After I watched him for a minute or so I couldn't stand it, so I started laughing. I had to laugh, otherwise I would have looked like a crazy person having a fit of anger over towels. I ended up just folding the things myself before I hauled them upstairs and hung them on the hooks where they belonged. Yes, I could have just done this to begin with and avoided this whole confrontation, but then Charlie would have missed out on learning the valuable lesson of: If I do a crappy job and complain enough, then mom will just laugh at me for a little while and eventually just do the job herself, and probably never ask me to do that job ever again.

Basic Amenities

I am trying to schedule a vacation. Though the end result will (hopefully) be a relaxing week at a non-sucky resort without any major illnesses or catastrophes, the process of getting to that point is a little tricky. Because of Zach's upcoming tennis season, and in order to avoid missed school days and/or paying absurdly high rates, we aren't going anywhere until June. But it's never too early to start planning.

When Doug and I took vacations pre-kids, all we really cared about was whether there was an on-site bar, and a TV and king size bed in our room. Now that three kids are included, and I don't really enjoy spending a week with my family sharing one bathroom and being crammed into a space the size of my bedroom at home, I have definitely figured out what additional amenities are nice to have, and what is absolutely-can't-live-without-it necessary.

Really, Really Nice to Have:

• Three bedrooms
• At least two bathrooms, with double sinks
• Full size refrigerator in a full size kitchen
• On-site crack dealer
• Microwave
• In room washer & dryer
• No one else staying at the resort
• Room service
• Twice-a-day housekeeping
• Several heated pools

Absolutely Necessary:

• Two bug-free bedrooms
• Two bathrooms, with toilets that don't run continuously
• Mini fridge that isn't already stocked with $10 miniature bottles of booze
• On-site washer & dryer
• Balcony, so when I smoke a joint it doesn't stink up the room
• A pool that's warmer than 70 degrees
• Neighbors that don't fly a Confederate flag.
• Housekeeping that shows up and doesn't leave dirty rags on the floor
• The little sign on the back of my pool chair that says "Need Drink. NOW!"

Before the days of checked baggage fees, I could bring tons of clothes and always thought that doing laundry while on vacation was a sign of insanity. It's only a week, right? But now that the kids are bigger, and sweatier, the thought of having dirty clothes sit untouched for an entire week gives me seizures.

On-site coin operated laundry is fine, but having an in-room washer and dryer is a luxury that I will never, ever take for granted. To be able to throw in a load of tennis clothes, sandy swimsuits, or a shirt that I might have dribbled a drink on pushes my vacation brain into a new level of relaxation. Keeping this in mind, I'm trying to figure out how I voluntarily booked a week in Tucson last year, at a resort that doesn't have any laundry facilities anywhere on-site.

Not wanting to waste vacation time sitting at a laundromat, I instead washed out sweaty tennis clothes, swimsuits, and workout clothes in the bathtub. Since the air was so dry outside, I could hang the washed clothes on the balcony and they would be dry in about 12 minutes. No, it wasn't glamorous, but I saved a lot of quarters and justified a lot of extra cocktails.

This year, I informed Zach that I am, without a doubt, checking us all into a resort that has a washer and dryer in the room. He seemed bewildered by my excitement, and pointed out the fact that even though we didn't have a washer and dryer in Tucson, he always had clean tennis clothes.

"You had clean clothes because I washed them in the bathtub every evening." Why was I shocked that he didn't realize this?

"Really? You did that? Wow, that must have been a huge pain. I just thought they, well, I don't really know what I thought. Well, thanks. That's cool that you did that."

I think I actually wiped a tear from my eye, and am still in shock.

2009 - By The Numbers

During the past week, it seems like everybody has been saying "Where did 2009 go?" or "Man, the last year really flew by." I think that 2009 felt like it was 365 days, or approximately 12 months, long.

If it were possible for me to access the year on a DVR, there are definitely some horrific days that I would go back and delete (my hangover after the Metallica concert being the first to go). But there are also moments that I would go back and replay over and over again, because no matter how many times I think about them, I smile. Like that day at Zoe's skating lesson, when I watched a dad step on the rink and, while showing off his "Look at me I'm the coolest dad in the world look at how awesome I am I can't believe the NHL isn't calling me wow I'm the best" skating moves he caught an edge, wiped out hard and took down four kids as he slid across the rink on his ass. That is a moment I wish I had recorded somewhere.

In order to keep the year in perspective, and to reassure myself that I did more with the last 52-weeks than dust furniture and heat up hot dogs, I decided to simplify things in a way that only an anal-retentive, Type A, not-quite-a-control freak can make sense of: putting it into numbers and categories.

45...Monday night one-hour piano lessons

40...Wednesday night half-hour violin lessons

7...Sunday afternoon piano recitals

2...Times I didn't have to say: "We're leaving in two minutes. Get your shoes on, and where is your music/instrument/phone?"

150...Trips to the club for tennis related activities.

150...Times my card was scanned at the club, but that I didn't work out because I was there for kids' tennis.

143...Times that, before leaving the club, someone had to go back to the court for a coat, water bottle, sweatshirt, or racquet.

4...Times we managed to leave the club without me saying: "Let's go. Do you now have everything? Yes? Then let's go. LET'S GO!"

104...Trips to Target with a list similar to "handsoap, toilet paper, sandwich bags, Band-Aids."

104...Times I walked out of Target with things like a white t-shirt, hummus, a picture frame, dog treats, lip gloss, and a few Sharpie's. But no toilet paper.

63...Trips to the gas station to fill 'er up.

4...Times that the needle was below a quarter tank. I'm anal, remember?

20...Approximate number of visits to the liquor store.

0...Times I managed to leave the store with only the items I originally went in for.

205...Trips to the grocery store, with a list and coupons.

115...Trips to the grocery store that involved three items or less, usually taking place within four hours of the most recent visit.

0...Times I remembered to bring in the reusable shopping bags that were sitting in my car.

14...Times I vowed to order fruit instead of fries with my burger.

0...Bowls of cantaloupe/grapes/honeydew/pineapple consumed.

14...Times I ended up ordering fries instead of fruit with my burger, that also ended up being topped with bacon and pepperjack cheese.

312...Salads eaten for lunch.

312...Times I wished that salad was a burger topped with bacon and pepperjack cheese, and give me the damn fries!

18...Times that I scolded the teenager for laughing at someone's hairdo/outfit/lack of athletic ability.

18...Times that I secretly laughed with him.

315...Loads of laundry washed, folded and put away

0...White items destroyed by a red shirt

3...Yes, I actually ironed

8...Piles of not-my-dog's shit left in my yard.

13...Piles of shit strategically flung with the pooper-scooper into my neighbor's yard.

6...Average number of nights per week I managed to make dinner.

0...Dinners that didn't include a carb.

13...Times that a kid took out the garbage.

0...Times that a kid took out the garbage without being asked first.

50...Limes that saw the inside of my refrigerator.

400...Lime wedges used, which sounds really bad, but sometimes I used two in one drink, and I was nice enough to share a few.

365...Days that at some point I either yelled, gave the angry eyes, spiked a throw pillow onto the carpet, threatened to "never cook a meal again," proclaimed myself the Queen Of Waiting In The Car, alerted the kids to my "I'm not the stupidest person on Earth" status, made an empty threat, eyed the bottle of vodka before noon, used the phrase "because I said so," or got annoyed, just because.

0...% guilt.

Coming Clean

Hello. My name is Jody, and I am a little bit anal. This may come as a bit of a shock to those of you who thought you knew me, but it's true. Dirty dishes never sit in my sink, my junk drawer contains a labeled divider, and laundry baskets are rarely more than half-full. Sometimes when I look at my hand, it seems to be frozen in a position as if holding a can of Pledge, my finger ready to push the trigger at the first sight of dust. I have been known to Dust Buster crumbs off of Zoe's lap, I despise white spots on the bathroom mirror, and I bought myself a wall-mountable Shop Vac for Mother's Day so that I can keep dirt and crumbs out of my minivan. And yes, you might find a Swiffer cloth in the glove box.

Unfortunately for my family, my anal tendencies aren't just limited to cleaning and organizing closets. There are specific "zones" for everything in the pantry, I always know exactly what's in my freezer, and there is a designated spot for the ketchup in the refrigerator. Disturbing? Maybe, but I also never end up with four open bottles of ranch salad dressing or find a dish of mystery mold lurking in the back.

Staying organized amidst the addition of holiday food requires some skill. Suddenly there's large hunks of meat, obscene amounts of butter, and big bottles of booze that need to be chilled. In addition, I always like to have a spare loaf of bread in the freezer because, well, that's what anal people do. Since I don't want to own or organize a second freezer, space is at a premium.

What I really hate is when one of the kids leaves one ice cream sandwich or one waffle in a box that originally contained a dozen because then not only do I not know to buy more waffles, but the empty box is taking up space that would easily accommodate a loaf of bread, or even a bottle of vodka. Everyone that lives here has been told that if there are fewer than 10 crackers, less than a bowl of cereal, or two bites of ice cream left in the container, please suck it up, eat the last few bites and throw the packaging away!

After having this conversation no fewer than 127 times, you can imagine how happy I was when I was trying to get bread to fit into the already-full freezer, and found this container of chocolate chip ice cream taking up prime space right in the front:

That's when I decided to hell with the spare loaf of bread. This anal girl is obviously going to need to keep more vodka in the freezer if I'm going to survive the holidays. If someone wants a peanut butter sandwich on Christmas Day and finds that we're out of bread, then they'll just have to use crackers. After all, I'm sure there's a full box in the pantry, cracker section, subsection saltines.