My Life As Shaved Turkey Breast

When I eat a sandwich, I eat the crust area and outter edges  first. I'm a lazy sandwich maker, I don't spread the mayo to the edges and I just squirt the mustard in a circle. Sometimes in a smiley face if I'm feeling particularly saucy. So, I eat the edges first because they are the less. They are the least good part of a sandwich. And, my method pays off when I pop that last bite in my mouth. The last bite that has the mound of turkey and mayo and smeared mustard, lettuce and onion and possibly pickle. It's so much better than the edge.

Source

Lately, my friends, I've been on the edge. Truly.

Today, a friend of mine said, "I don't know how you're doing it all."

I looked her right in the eye and said, "I don't either."

We are in the throws of softball. I wanna be there to watch every yellow ball that sails into Daughter 2's glove or from her hand or off her bat. But, I can't.

Golf. My goodness. I found out today that Daughter 1 has a golf-team nickname: Scary Spice. I've never once seen her play. I'd love to watch her tee off from every box. But, I can't.

My mom just moved today into a skilled nursing facility. I know she's nervous about what her future holds. Me, too, Mom; me, too. I want to reassure her--and I do. I want to help her. But, I can't.

Tomorrow, we'll pick one kid up from a sleepover, visit one displaced Mom and Nana, watch one kid play softball and somewhere in the in between times, I'll try to find my way to being the middle of the sandwich--full of all the flavor and all the tastes, where the shaved turkey breast is stacked highest.

Right now? Right now, though, I'm the edge. I'm looking for the balance and fullness and fairness of the middle bite.

Sandwich generation, indeed.

Dammit Hostess

Not quite a year ago, Hostess announced that it could not reach an agreement with labor forces and would be left with no choice but to pay exuberant amounts of money to their executives, hire a mediator at a price that would rival most Powerball lotteries and close their doors for good. They did this with very little warning and right before Christmas.

I would miss my Twinkies, sure. My HoHos? I'd probably miss them more. However, I was more upset by their shady practices and because they gave not one thought to the workers who were only asking to be fairly compensated. In all actuality, if an executive is worth his 40% bonus, then it is because the the workers under him have made it possible. And, if that executive can't manage money properly enough to give credit (or raises or bonus) where credit is due, then he shouldn't have a company to his name.

Oddly enough, they did not hire me to be their grossly--and I mean grossly--over paid mediator. Go figure.

Within months of their closing, they did what I predicted "sold" the recipes and what was left of the company and eventually rumors started popping up all over places where rumors pop up that Hostess would be back in business. 

There would be Twinkies!  But not for me: I could be strong. 

There would be HoHos! I'd cry a little but I could resisit and my insulin levels would rejoice.

There would be over-processed, sugar-laden snacks yet again--but out of principle, and because I'm cheap, I would not be buying them. No way. Even though it's a different company, I knew that it really wasn't. It was a bait and switch and those same greedy corporate bakers would be at the helm of this delicious ship.

I wanted to send Hostess a message that they can't mess with people's lives in that manner. They can't just go belly-up, lay people off, disrupt their lives, then start over a few months later and still have my support. No sir. 

Then I saw these. Orange Cupcakes. 

I had forgotten about Orange Cupcakes. And, well ... 

I thought of the factory workers, the janitors, the delivery drivers, and I had to buy some. I had to support the little guys.

Dammit Hostess. You make it so hard for me to be political.

Freakishly Strong

Last week, The Daughter and I were on our way home when the drizzle we were enjoying turned to plain ol' rain.  I flipped on the windshield wipers and after about three swipes we had a couple of problems.

Friends & Family?

I caved.  The mobile phone company that we hate (I won't tell you their name, but their initials are AT & T) called and offered me the opportunity to add a line for only $9!  Somehow, I became convinced that I was THE only one in the whole wide world who was being made this offer.  Technically, we didn’t NEED this line.  The Dad had a phone.  I had a phone.  All babysitters who agreed to come around (again) had a phone.  Why would we need a phone? 

Then, I realized that Daughter 1 would soon be