When my husband and I got married, we were dead broke. As in, a $7 bottle of wine was too much except on very special occasions kinda broke. To manage this level of tight budget, I consolidated my grocery shopping into only one trip every two weeks. I planned it out down to the penny…every single meal and household need for two blasted weeks. This usually took hours, but it kept me from accidently bankrupting us in a moment of bad-blondie-mama-math.

As the years passed, this method made even more sense, because $4-a-gallon gas and a 30 minute drive to the store meant that mistakes on my part would cost gas money we didn’t need to spend. Shopping for a two weeks stretch usually takes a couple of hours at the Wally-World (or Hell as some of us call it), but I never minded too much. When you have not left your house in days or spoken to anyone over the age of 5, a trip to Wally-World is downright exciting.

But times have changed my friend. Now, I am hitting the Wally-World after work…in heels…and I still shop for two weeks like an idiot. Do you have any idea the things I would rather be doing than going grocery shopping tonight? Hmmmm,

• I could clean the bathroom
• I could read War and Peace
• I could hide in my closet and pretend I am on vacation…that is until the boys find me and skewer me with a light saber or two
• I could rearrange my Netflix queue
• I could get over my aversion to dental floss
• I could tackle the laundry monster head-on

Goodness, if I would rather do laundry than go grocery shopping tonight you know this situation is getting desperate. Think we could rig up a glass of wine like a horse-and-carrot scenario? That would be the fastest trip you ever saw…think Roadrunner dust clouds and skid marks.

It may be time to re-evaluate my grocery shopping methods….

The past couple of months have certainly been a test of Mommy endurance. Obviously, I am now working, which is still a trip. Youngest started school, which was traumatic for both of us, and promptly caught every germ he had missed in his life with a stay-at-home mom. We’ve been through swine flu and four separate stomach viruses in less than two months, all while I try to settle into the new job and not look like a yahoo. (And of course what better time to catch swine flu than the week before my first big business trip?)

However, I can finally say that I am getting life under control and adjusting to the new routine of a working mom. The transition has taken a time and patience, and copious amounts of red wine.

In the meantime, I am getting a crash course in how to make dinner in less than 45 minutes. Hoooolllyy cow, if that is a bit harder than I expected. I have been guinea-pigging my poor family to death with new recipes in an effort to streamline my weeknights. This endeavor has definitely been hit and miss, but I am committed to home cooked meals, job or no job. We have had some success, like the following recipe I got from (where else?) southernliving.com. It is yummy, but I recommend serving it over rice…not enough sauce for noodles in my opinion.

Balsamic Garlic-and-Herb Chicken Thighs

Ingredients

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

8 skinned and boned chicken thighs

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 cup dry white wine or chicken broth

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

1 (10-ounce) can diced tomatoes and green chiles, undrained

1 (1.6-ounce) envelope garlic-and-herb sauce mix (I could not find this in my store, so I used an envelope of Lipton Savory Herb and Garlic mix which is right by the onion soup/dip mix)

1/2 cup sliced green onions (about 4)

Hot cooked egg noodles

Preparation

Combine flour, salt, and pepper. Dredge chicken in flour mixture.

Brown half of chicken in 1 tablespoon hot oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat 4 minutes on each side. Remove chicken from skillet. Repeat procedure with remaining chicken and oil, reserving drippings in skillet.

Add wine and vinegar to skillet, stirring to loosen particles from bottom of skillet; cook 2 minutes. Stir in tomatoes and green chiles and garlic-and-herb sauce mix until combined. Return chicken to skillet. Cook, uncovered, over medium heat 5 minutes or until done. Stir in 1/4 cup green onions. Serve over hot cooked egg noodles; sprinkle with remaining 1/4 cup green onions.

I won’t bore you with the stories of dinner failures…you have probably heard my family revolt at the dinner table from your house.

The past two weeks have been a big adjustment, but I am settling into work like a champ…

Meaning I have not had a big freak-out as of yet.

My office rocks, my co-workers rock, but that’s all I can say about it, as confidentiality in this business is utmost. Well, I will say that having a fancy-schmancy office sure does make me feel like a big-girl!

My husband has been staying home for these first two weeks, and making it look easy…the nerd. I have been coming home to a clean house, an awesome dinner and a glass of wine. What more could a girl ask for? He has been the portrait of the domestic diva, and has definitely made this transition much easier on me.

However, this honeymoon will be short-lived. He goes back to work next week, and then we will both get the real dose of just what a working mom and dad feel like in the same household. As I said, no big freak-out as of yet, but I would not let my guard down until after we have had a week of jobs and school.

(Note my complete denial that Youngest is starting Kindergarten next week…The less I think on that, the better.)

I think the biggest adjustment has simply been my mindset. This past month seems like a whirlwind. I never expected to go back to work, and I certainly never expected to get my ideal job. It’s been almost surreal watching our lives change so suddenly, but I know in the long run, these changes are what is best for our family.

Now, if I could just strangle the person who invented pantyhose, then life would be just about perfect.

Well, it’s crunch-time. I have shopped like a madwoman, bought a new car, and am about to undergo a cleaning frenzy this weekend to get ready for the new job on Monday. I’ll spare you the existential freak-out by summing it up as nerve-wracking, and leave it at that.

In all this back-to-work frenzy, I also hit another milestone in my fitness quest. Since the New Year, I have dropped 40 pounds. Yep, you read that right sister, 40 freaking pounds. I am now back to the weight I was when I met my husband those many moons ago. Ahhhh…as shallow as it makes me, I sure do like being 40 pounds thinner. Me and the dressing room mirror have resolved our differences, and come to have a surprisingly amicable relationship.

I actually put on my husband’s boxer shorts as pajamas the other day, and Holy Guacamole, they fit. That may not mean much to you, but six months ago, that would not have happened without permanently cutting off the circulation to the lower half of my body. This is good news because I like wearing my husband’s clothes as pajamas…there is something inherently girly about it. The small victories are more tangible than the numbers on the scale, and are usually followed by an absurdly dorky victory dance that embarrasses anyone caught within my vicinity.

While I have been getting ready for this whole work thing, the level of stress around here climbed to dangerous proportions. Granny, in her infinite wisdom, could see that a freak-out was imminent. She packed some bags, enough food to feed a small country, and whisked me, Husband, the heathens and Best Friend M. up to Arkansas for a weekend on the lake. We ate, we drank, we kayaked and canoed down a river (during which time much hilarity ensued), and had a mini-vacation. Husband got up at 5:00 AM to fish, Best Friend M. and I did not. Let me tell ya, it was just what the doctor ordered…well, except for canoeing straight into a tree and traumatizing my Youngest. Oh, and my bathing suit was from 40 pounds ago, so we had to use a variety of safety pins to keep it on me. But, other than that, we all had a nice break from our routines.

Now, if I can just keep myself busy enough this weekend to avoid thinking about just how challenging it will be for a SAHM of 7 years to rejoin the workforce.

I will not freak out….I will not freak out….I will not freak out……

The past week has been crazy busy.

Once my husband and I decided that I would accept this new super-awesome job, the reality of the situation began to sink in.

I’ve been a Stay-at-Home Mom for seven years. I can’t just show up for work in a few weeks, easy-peasy.

First, I doubt that my current wardrobe of yoga pants and college t-shirts is appropriate for the office. To that end, I have been desperately scraping through clearance racks all over town in order to build a work wardrobe with very little money. And when I mean clearance, I mean the 3$ rack at JcPenney. You have to be patient enough to dig, and smart enough to dodge the elbows other bargain shoppers are throwing at you.

Aside from my clothing scavenger hunt, I have been handling a lot of logistics. I’ve made chore lists, and meal plans for the entire first month of work, so that I am not drowning in this transition after the first few days. Also, my husband will be at home the first two weeks of my job because the kids will not have started school yet. I had to find meals that come from easy-to-follow recipes for his two weeks as stay-at-home dad. He can cook, but he likes clear instructions, so if I want dinner success, I better make it as easy on him as I can. I have also been cleaning and organizing my house, and getting all back-to-school shopping done, because I will not have time later. Next week, I will deep clean the house, in hopes that a clean slate will be easier to maintain during the back-to-work confusion.

Today, I got a long overdue hair cut and color, because this job probably would not mix well with my messy, bleach-blonde hippy hair. In fact, I think it would probably cause more problems than it is worth, so I did a little makeover on my hair that, while still cute, is not libel to label me as a dumb blonde from the get-go.

And then there is the car issue. I will need a car very soon, but cannot get one until my first or second paycheck yields a down payment. However, because I will need to buy quickly when the time comes, I have been trying to figure out a game plan now. New or used? What type? What is my budget? What about the economy?

A little over 2 weeks to go, but hopefully my frantic planning now will make things easier later. Or I could be deluding myself….

I’ve heard many opinions about who the worst drivers are. Young men, teens and women have all, at one time or another, been accused of being the worst drivers on the planet.

However, I now realize that a new group holds the “Worst Driver Ever” title.

I live in rural Louisiana, in the land of two-lane highways, most of which are so curvy that passing is almost always impossible, if not suicidal. It is on these roads that I’ve discovered the new breed of bad drivers, and they taunt me constantly. Who are these offensive road hogs?

Men, driving pick-up trucks, while talking on cell phones.

For some reason, as these gentlemen cruise home from work, they drive one-handed, leaning to the other side as they talk on their phones. The problem with this situation is that these men slow down to about 30-40 miles an hour in a 55 mile-an-hour zone. Not only do they drive slowly, but they are also weaving just a bit, because their attention is focused on their apparently enthralling conversations. This weaving is not enough to get them stopped for a sobriety test, but it is enough to scare and confuse other drivers. Every once in a while, they realize their slowness and speed up to the limit, only to gradually fall back into their slow weaving as they become distracted.

My mom pointed this trend out to me, and after careful observation, I can say that she is right. Every time I get behind a slow-weaving truck, it is always some guy on a cell phone, leaning over on his other elbow,  and cruising like it is a Sunday drive, instead of the 5-o’clock rush hour.

Yes, you can still drive and talk on a cell phone here. But I hope that changes soon…grumble, grumble.

In a surprising turn of events, my life is changing big-time.

For a while now, I have been looking for a part-time teaching gig at a local college, or some other job that would let me use my overly-expensive education to bring in a little extra income. I wasn’t really looking that hard, but with Youngest about to start school, I foresaw an opportunity to make a move that would ease some of the financial stranglehold we seem to stay in as a one-income family. Unfortunately, such jobs are thin on the ground in my area, and just did not seem to come around when I needed them.

Then, one day, I saw an ad for a job. This job was not only right up my alley, but I wrote my bleeping undergraduate thesis on it. It did not specify the hours, and I suspected it was full-time, but I submitted my résumé for fun anyway. Well, wasn’t I surprised when I got an interview, and even more surprised that I was in the top ten finalists from a pool of about 70 applicants. I went to the interview on a whim, and found out that it was my dream job. Oh buddy, was it my dream job. It was exactly the type of job I had in mind as I slugged through college and grad school.

But, as I left the interview, I shelved the experience in my mind. Out of 70 applicants, I was the stay-at-home mom who had zero work experience in the past seven years. All the fancy education in the world probably couldn’t counterbalance my professional hiatus, especially in such an obviously competitive market. I figured that I was probably the first application to swish through the old circular file of refuse.

Well, Holy Guacamole, they called last week and offered me the job, with a salary that was even a smidgen more than the initial advertised base pay. Of course my super-awesome husband’s response was “of course you’ll take it; it’s your dream job.” I, however, had reservations. Transitioning from a SAHM to a working mom was NEVER part of my plan. I mean never, ever. But, this job seemed destined to work…they even offered to delay my start date until August, just before my kids start school. My husband and I ran the numbers, I made a several pro/con lists, and I chewed on the idea for a while. It was really hard reconciling such a surprising offer with what I thought was my life-plan for the immediate future.

Needless to say, I accepted the offer, and I now have one month to figure out just how to become a working mom. I am going into this transition like a general preparing for battle. I am planning out the next two months of my life in almost obsessive organization, so that I can make this transition as easy as possible for my family. I need all the advice and insight I can get, because not only is my life changing big-time, but it is turning in a direction that is one I never expected.

I was born a picky eater, to a woman whose cooking is revered locally. Those years of homesick cure-all cooking in Los Angeles made my mother the best cook I know. Don’t take my word for it. She’s since had a restaurant and a catering business, and regularly receives marriage proposals from strange men, including my stepdad’s friends. Yep, her food is that good. Just ask my back-side.

Despite her culinary flair, my mom got stuck with me, the world’s pickiest eater. While I eventually grew out of my pickiness, I remember many a night during my childhood when my mother warned me that one day, I would have a child just like me. And then I would apologize to her for my picky-eater theatrics. “You just wait…” she would hiss at me. Little did I know my mom has some crazy voodoo going on, and her warning became a prophetic curse. I got stuck with TWO picky eaters, and my mom gets to laugh her behind off regularly as I beg, threaten and finally force feed my children something other than chicken tenders.

While I did grow out of most of my picky-eating tendencies, my aversion to all things pork seemed permanent. I’ve been told that I should have been Jewish, instead of a Louisiana Catholic, because of my constant refusal to eat anything that once oinked. Me and the “other white meat” were the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s as far as I was concerned. When I worked as a counselor at a Jewish summer camp up in Yankee-land, the directors worried that a Louisiana girl would struggle with keeping kosher. I assured them that it would be no problem for me. I almost starved to death that summer anyway, because I guess I did not understand the full concept of kosher, and only Matzo ball soup stood between me and emaciation. (Ok, maybe that is as slight exaggeration, but I did get off the plane that fall begging my mama to feed me quick)

My husband eventually coaxed me into a relationship with bacon by making bacon –cheese fries. However, I still avoided cooking any kind of pork if I could help it.

That is, until I finally found a pork chop recipe that silenced my pork-hating ways. It came from Taste of Home magazine many moons ago, and I guarantee it will make any husband happy…unless his taste buds are disabled…then you’re on your own.

Pork Chops in Mustard Cream Sauce

Ingredients:

1/4 cup plus 2 teaspoons all-purpose flour, divided

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

4 bone-in pork loin chops (1 inch thick), trimmed

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/2 pound fresh mushrooms, sliced

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 cup beef broth

1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary, crushed

1/4 cup half-and-half cream

1/4 cup sour cream

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

Directions:

In a large resealable plastic bag, combine 1/4 cup flour, salt and pepper. Add pork chops, one at a time, and shake to coat. In a large skillet, brown chops in oil over medium-high heat for 3-4 minutes on each side. Remove and set aside. In the same skillet, sauté mushrooms and garlic for 3 minutes. Add broth and rosemary; bring to a boil. reduce heat; to low; return pork to pan. Cover and simmer for 1 hour or until meat is very tender. Remove pork and keep warm. In a small bowl, combine the half-and-half, sour cream, mustard and remaining flour until smooth. Pour into skillet. Bring to a boil; cook and stir for 2 minutes or until thickened. Serve over pork chops. Yield: 4 servings.

_____________

While me and pork are still getting to know each other, my husband is simply happy to have some meat diversity in our menu, and my kids actually eat this without half the histrionics of other meals.

Oink, Oink.

For someone who has a pretty good sense of humor, I try to find something funny or positive in all of life’s little challenges. My husband and I have had our share of challenges alright. In fact, my luck seems so bad, he is almost afraid to stand next to me, lest a meteor fall out of the sky and take him out too.

Five years ago, our house burned down, and not long after I was hit-and-run by a drunk driver who got away despite our having the rat bastard’s license plate number. These were hard times, but Husband and I always had plenty to be thankful for, looked at the situations with a healthy dose of humor, and counted our blessings.

And then came one hilariously not-funny night in November. My sister called me to let me know my grandmother was ill and in the hospital. Naturally, I plopped on my NSU cap, handed off the heathens to my husband, and hopped in the minivan to go check on Gran. Having already gotten up-close-and-personal with my airbags, I am an overly safe driver. I don’t speed or tailgate, and I watch the road like everyone is out to get me (which they bleeping are by the way). After cruising along the two-lane highways, I made it to town and things were a-okay. Then, less than ½ a mile from my previous accident, I saw a flash of metal, a trailer full of cars and had just enough time to jerk the wheel and think, “Oh Sh*t, this is bad.” My minivan broadsided a trailer hauling cars at about 45 miles an hour, and I got yet another meet-and-greet with my airbags. The truck in question had tried turning left in front of oncoming traffic, and obviously did not make it.

Because I was trying to turn away from the accident, I managed to accomplish two things, one awesome, and one very bad. By turning the van, I actually managed to deflect most of the impact around my body, thus saving my legs from meeting my engine. However, because my arm was up in front of my steering wheel mid-turn, the air bags knocked my right arm back in such a way that God never intended an arm to move.

The driver in question pulled down the road a bit, got out, and spent a good two minutes looking at his trailer, my smoldering minivan and back again. In the meantime, I managed to become mildly coherent, and dialed 911 on my cell, while holding my arm still and trying not to fall into a world-class freak-out. Luckily for me, a nice man, who coincidentally was a nurse, was behind me and rushed up to help. It was a good thing he showed up, because he kept me still and took over that whole 911 thing, because my efforts to not freak-out were starting to fail miserably. I guess trailer-guy knew he was in big-time trouble, because after his mini-examination, he jumped back in his truck and hit the inner-state like his butt was on fire. I think you can still hear me screaming at him to get his sorry behind back there on the 911 tapes.

When the ambulance showed up, my husband happened to call my cell, and I only managed to croak out “I’ve been in an accident, I have to call you back,” before I lapsed into full-on sobs of pain and mild hysteria. A few minutes later, my mom called, with only the question of which hospital I was headed to, and then I was whisked away in the ambulance, sirens and all. I spent the whole ride alternating between crying, thanking that God my kids were not in the car with me, and thinking up of all the ways I was going to curse the ass that hit me. Little did I know a Good Samaritan chased said ass, and managed to get his trailer plate number for the police.

I’ll never forget the look on my husband’s face when he made it to the ER.

To make a long story short, I ended up with a bum shoulder that hurts nearly every day, a scar on my chest in a place no girl wants a scar, months of physical therapy, a totaled car, a pissed-off insurance company, many nightmares, and no sense of humor about this situation. And despite all efforts to locate the man that hit me, he got away, and got to walk away from screwing up my life.

That SOB screwed up my bowling arm, and I am pissed. Even these months later, that pissed-off-ed-ness stays constantly in the back of my mind, like white noise. I know I will have to get over it someday, but in the meantime, if you see a gooseneck trailer with Texas plate 28WLTD, tell him that Bayou Mama is looking for him, and we need to talk.

I am running low on Diet Coke and it shows. I already have a nervous twitch, and soon, I will probably start foaming around the mouth in a snarly fit of withdrawal. If my husband knows what is good for him, he will hit the EZ Mart on his way home and relieve my pitiful suffering.

You probably won’t believe it, but I actually gave up Diet coke a few times in my life. When Demon Baby was born, I gave it up as I frantically tried everything I could think of to sooth his demonic tendencies. I also gave it up when I got pregnant with Youngest, out of abject fear that he would be Demon Baby-the-sequel.

But, alas, my old vice always makes its’ way back into my life, because me and Diet Coke, we go way back. I actually lived off Diet Coke and blueberry PopTarts in middle school, though I have since managed to break up with the PopTarts. I miss them terribly, but I guess that’s the price I have to pay to keep my rear end from getting its’ own zip code. I have broken up with a lot of foods this year…Little Debbies, Fruity Pebbles, Ben and Jerry’s and s’mores…but me and Diet Coke seem stuck with each other. My mom was the same way with Tab when she was my age, but she had the will to switch to the cheap stuff. I, unfortunately, do not. I have accepted that…or at least I have at this moment as I eyeball my last Diet Coke like the addict that I am.

I don’t smoke, I don’t drink to excess (well, not too often anyway), I seem to have the over-eating thing under control, and I don’t even watch soaps. But you try and take away my Diet Coke, and you will draw back a nub.