MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN LARS AND THE REAL GIRL!!!

I’M SERIOUS!!!

SPOILER!

ALERT!!!

FOR REALS!!

About halfway through, I whisper to The Kid real low and serious-like… “This movie gets a whole lot creepier when you keep in mind that he kills her in the end.”

The Kid, irascibly, “MOM!!! NO!!! MOOOOMMMM!!!!”

Followed by much laughter.

Because she has no soul and finds murder to be a funny, funny, thing.

Me, all facts and observations, “Well… He does…. It’s basically a movie about a guy who uses the awesome power of the Internet to lure an innocent foreign cripple into visiting him.”

The Kid remains unconvinced. I can tell because she’s little miss “disapproving eyebrows.”

I continue on, feeling the parental importance of sharing how the world really is. I tick off the lowdown on the hand where my fact finding fingers of justice live:

“The Real Girl doesn’t speak the language.

He does all the translating.

He’s the quiet church-going white guy in his twenties that no one suspects has such a heinous, stygian, nature.

The whole town is filled with swarth… a seedy underbelly.”

I pause before I drop more weighty truths. The Kid can only take so much at one time, the precious angel.

“They pretty much support him being an executioner.

Of love.

…And also people.”

The Kid shoots me a very unfriendly look.

It is the look she reserves for people who hate cats.

The Kid’s eyebrow intensity is at supreme castigation.

Me, pure love shining through as I just try to educate The Kid about the ways of the world. The ways she, apparently, is not ready to hear about.

But she must!

For she is about to be 18, and she cannot go into the cosmos vulnerable, untrained. “This is what happens when you live too far north, baby. Very common thing… not enough sun and small towns. I’m just saying… Don’t breakdown in a small northern town.”

I release those justice fingers again and count it out for her:

“You’ll end up being held captive by some recluse garage-liver…

And when he’s found you’re no longer useful to him…?

…He drowns you in a lake as frozen as his heart.”

Justice fingers turn into wavy leaves, forgotten in the bleakness of a fall breeze, as I blow on their tips, liberating them from their duty… for a season.

I then further substantiate my words with this unilateral debate ending winner, “That’s just science. Canadians are only happy because they’re constantly killing foreigners. Annnnnd… Done.”

I fold my fingers together as they mark the time until they are needed once more.

…..

Throughout the rest of the movie I prove how messed up Hollywood is by making little comments to point out what Lars is thinking. How he’s just intermissed until he can neutralize The Real Girl without any witnesses…..

Family.

Isn’t it about…. Time?

The post Lars and The Real Girl… Gets Real… appeared first on War for Breakfast.

Unless youâ€re:
A. Not in super love with Chai Tea Lattes

I donâ€t know why you wouldnâ€t be…but whatever. I realize some people out there are ambivalent about guacamole. The existence of such people only make it so thereâ€s more guacamole for the rest of us, though…so I try not to judge too harshly about their lack of ability to appreciate the pure joy of angel tears raining down on you like unadulterated bliss descending from the heavens.

Seriously, those people need help. They live empty lives.

Empty.

Lives.

B. Not LDS/Mormon so you donâ€t give a crap about whether The Baby Jesus wants you to drink Chai Tea Lattes. (Spoiler alert for non-Mormons – He doesnâ€t.)

C. Rich, so you donâ€t have any qualms about paying FIVE FRICKIN DOLLARS for the heavenly nectar that is a Chai Tea Latte.

As I am in a serious and committed relationship with Chai Tea Lattes and, (usually…mostly…kinda), trying to live like a virtuous and faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, while also living in a constant state of “Hey! Donâ€t buy stuff because of YOU HAVE ZERO MONEY!”….I have been looking for ways to imbibe in cheaper, less hell-damning ways, than going to Starbucks and paying half my daily food budget on their ridiculously delicious Chai Tea Latte.

(Starbucks – If you see this, feel free to give me free Chai Tea Lattes for a year. Or a lifetime. I wonâ€t complain.)

I scoured the Internets. Yes. ALL of them. (Even the crappy Bing one.)

I came up with this recipe. The main steps are in bold. Helpful follow-up hints, so you make correct life choices, stalk the bolded main step bits. Youâ€re welcome.

Take 1 1/2 cups of milk and put it in a saucepan.
It can be the cow kind or vanilla almond milk kind. (You could also use soy milk….but I have never understood how the crap you milk a soy…so I donâ€t drink that stuff.)

Add 1/2 cup of water to the milk in the saucepan.
You can add a different ratio of milk to water, just make sure it equals 2 cups in the end. I like this ratio because it isnâ€t too watery or too milky.

Please make sure itâ€s either filtered water or youâ€ve replaced the water hose in your fridge. Because perhaps the last time you cleaned your fridge you noticed there was this grey funk grossing in the fridge water hose… and you havenâ€t used fridge water or ice ever since because you donâ€t want to get Infectious Ebola Hepatitis.

Get two herbal Chai Tea bags and put them in the saucepan.
I recommend tying the tea bag strings to the handle of your pan so they donâ€t accidentally fall all the way in and then youâ€ve got to pick pieces of string and paper out of you tea…because you didnâ€t notice they fell in until the very end and the paper disintegrated and, while it didnâ€t really affect the flavor of you tea, it did cause an unpleasing texture of ripped up paper to occur…which is less palate-ially satisfying than, you know..NOT having tiny bits of paper mixed in with your tea.

Heat up the milk, water, and tea bags until it starts to simmer.
Remember to stir it the whole dang time or youâ€ll have scalded milk on the bottom and youâ€ll basically hate your whole life and the bliss you might have enjoyed had you followed my detailed instructions will burn to the pan bottom as well.

Add in 2 spoonfuls of Sugar In The Raw… or regular white granulated sugar if youâ€re not feeling pretentious.
I usually feel pretentious when I drink Chai Tea Lattes, so I use Sugar In The Raw. Also I like the idea of having special sugar for my tea because it makes the whole thing seem more high class than heating up milk, water, tea bags, and sugar on a stove-top. If you donâ€t want that much sugar in there, then donâ€t add that much. Keep tasting it and only put in what you want. If you put in too much sugar itâ€ll taste like the milk you have left at the bottom of your cereal bowl after youâ€ve eaten a nutritious breakfast of only the marshmallow parts of Lucky Charms.

What Iâ€m saying is, itâ€ll be really sugary and gross. Proceed with caution and figure out how much you prefer.

Lower the heat so itâ€s only simmering and simmer for about 4 minutes so the tea bags get that maximum steeping action they like so much.
Donâ€t stress if your tea bags rip and you have some tea particles floating around in your pan. No one actually cares. It wonâ€t affect the end result. I know this because I almost always burst a bag and Iâ€ve come to the point where Iâ€ve decided itâ€s an artistic chef type of life choice and not me messing up.

When itâ€s all steepy and delicious, remove the tea bags and pour the mix into your blender. Blend on high until frothy goodness takes place.
If youâ€ve tied your tea bags to the handle of your saucepan, they wonâ€t fall into the blender when you pour the tea into it. Thatâ€s a good thing. If you havenâ€t tied your tea bags to the handle, make sure you remove them either before you blend, or before you pour into the blender. Or you can go bold and blend the bags with the tea. Thatâ€s kind of weird, but it would make for an interesting texture, and Iâ€m sure it would add in some extra healthful fiber.

Drink the hell out of it while you enjoy the angelic choirs and effulgent beams of celestial light glistening off your super cheap, gospel approved, cup of Chai Tea Latte.
Yes. I realize the picture isnâ€t of a full cup. I couldnâ€t wait long enough to take a picture before drinking it. Thatâ€s how deeply impatient my love is for Chai Tea Lattes.

The post Chai Tea Latte Without That Sinful Aftertaste appeared first on War for Breakfast.

I also fear your reactions. He told only a handful of people about his addiction and it resulted in some extreme ugliness. He lost a dear friend over this. That makes me gun-shy. I also don’t want to ruin memories or make you question your perception of him. I don’t want to undo any of the good he left behind.

However, this topic is too important to ignore. It needs to be recognized and talked about so that when it happens to you, you won’t feel so alone and, hopefully, when you come across someone with this problem, you will react with love and support instead of disgust and judgment.

For those struggling with this issue, get help. I know it’s hard. You fear people’s reactions, you fear that you’re not strong enough to let go, and part of you doesn’t want to give up your guilty pleasure. In the meantime, you wear your shame like a noose – and trust me, both your shame and your addiction are a noose slowly choking the light from your life. Don’t let this ruin your life. Please. Find someone you trust and get help.

This is how the events of his final days played out…

*******

I remember the dread I felt coming home after spending the morning in the hospital that day, knowing Iâ€d have to tell our daughter her father was in a coma and would probably not recover.

I found out a year earlier that my husband had been struggling with a pornography addiction since he was a teenager. He had spent that past year in intensive therapy and seemed to be getting better, when the police found him alone in the desert one morning.

He had been missing for almost 24 hours. He was hypothermic, hardly breathing, suffering from extreme rhabdomyolysis from lack of circulation and movement, and barely alive. Permanent brain damage was inevitable from extended time without enough oxygen.

When I got the call, I rushed to the hospital and spent the day with him. I came home that afternoon, hating the fact that my words would cause our teenage daughter’s world to implode, so I delayed them and tried to act normal as she put away her backpack, got a snack, and chatted with me about all the ordinary little things she would soon find meaningless.

I asked her to sit on the couch with me so we could talk. “I love you,” I said with more gravity than usual. I wanted this one fact to pierce her first, to glue something solid, stable, and good to her heart before the next fact ripped it apart. “And Iâ€m sorry, because I know Iâ€m not going to do this right.”

The tears I promised myself I wouldn’t shed poured from my eyes. I took a deep breath and said those horrible words I’d been trying to find a way out of. Short facts I had told myself. Short facts are what she needs right now. “I got a call today from the police. They found dad. Heâ€s in the hospital in a coma.”

Our daughter’s eyes immediately widened. She screamed a sharp “NO!” of denial while searching my face to confirm I had told her the truth.

Her body contorted in fear, pain, and disbelief. A rough, raw, wordless scream echoed through the house as she bolted from the room, trying futilely to outrun the reality of what she just heard.

I sat on the couch waiting, not knowing what else to do, doing my best to hide my own grief and not add that to our daughter’s burden. I couldn’t help thinking how she would remember my words for the rest of her life. I had no way to make them okay. To not sting and cut to her core. To not slice her world into tiny pieces forever.

A few minutes later, she returned to the couch, distant and changed.

Stone-faced. Cold. Her heart protectively walled-in and unreachable.

Sitting on the couch, I calmly explained our options, feeling numb and detached, as I ineffectively tried to keep myself from crying.

He never wanted to be on life support. A vegetable. We discussed respecting his wishes.

She agreed.

***

I couldnâ€t bring myself to tell family until the next day.

These are phone calls no one wants to make. I didnâ€t want to make the bottom drop out of their world like it had for us. I hated giving them such trauma. I could not do that the same day I told our daughter. It was too horrific a task.

His dad tried to hold back his tears. He was unsuccessful. His voice grew swollen, as if he had tried to swallow a softball and he couldnâ€t talk around it as the pain of it choked him. Eventually his wife took the phone from him. He couldnâ€t believe this was real; even after he came to the hospital and saw his son lying there in the bed. I hated seeing the grief that buckled his face. He was so close to his oldest son. This event hit him like the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs. It turned his world black and toxic.

His mother screamed unintelligibly. Not once in our call did I understand her words. I called her again later with the same results. I stopped calling. Her heartache made her speech garbled, unable to articulate. We could only communicate via text.

His family gathered at the hospital for the worst one and a half days of the nearly 20 years he and I had spent together. We took him off life support, then watched him slowly die.

We bought food no one ate. We watched him breathe in harsh, sharp gasps – death rales. We sat with him. We took turns saying our private goodbyes to him. I held the phone to his ear so those who couldn’t be there could do the same.

We watched the monitors telling us his organs were failing. We witnessed his body grow distorted with fluid retention. We talked to him, sang to him, stroked his skin and precious face. We felt guilt and our own shame when the reality became too much and we had to leave the room because we couldnâ€t watch this wonderful man, son, brother, father, my lover, die.

A year later, I still wake up screaming from the gruesome memories of the nightmare we lived through in those somber days.

Sitting with him. Watching him die. I would put my face in his arm and breathe deep, knowing the time would come very soon that I could never do that again. I curled his swollen fingers around my face, wanting to feel his touch one last time, and then one last time again. Missing the way he felt before he was even gone.

The time would soon come that my hands would never feel the part of his arm that was my favorite. The back of his neck where I used to smooth his hairline. The crinkles on his face from all the times we laughed and smiled about the myriad of impossibly rotten things life served up for us to digest and conquer.

He died at 12:56 a.m. We were all in the room. I sat by his side, holding his hand. Caressing his arm. Whispering the private words we only said to each other. Words no one else had ever heard us say.

I remember being amazed at how quickly he exchanged the sickly color he had worn for days for another, more grotesque, color. How his arm was cooler to my touch in less than a minute. Much faster than I was ready for.

And then it was over. We hated ourselves for feeling the peace and relief of not having to live inside those moments anymore. Then came the new moments to live inside, and we hated those even more.

We held onto each other and quietly sobbed. Everyone slowly left, leaving me to answer questions from the medical examiner. I sat by my love and held his cooling hand as I answered. I remember looking at my darlingâ€s face several times, expecting him to answer the questions I couldn’t, momentarily forgetting he was gone.

Not wanting to be without him quite yet, I found a dark empty room and cried while the medics prepped his body for transport, then watched as they rolled my favorite person past me down the hall. Zipped inside a black vinyl bag.

I followed him to the parking lot and watched them load my love into a van.

They drove away and I sat and cried. Alone in my car. Truly. Alone.

I opened the door and got sick on the pavement.

My hands still smelled of him and I inhaled that scent as I kneaded them, knowing they would never hold his again. His short thick fingers. The part of his palm that was ridiculously meaty and strong. He had the toughest hands. Calloused and always cut or cracked somewhere from the way he refused to wear gloves as he chopped wood, tore cars apart, and gripped the ungrippable.

He was so hard on his hands. They were scratchy and uncomfortable on my skin.

I missed them.

It was the first time in days that I didn’t have to be strong for others. I sat in my car heaving my mourning into the bitterly cutting November night. I screamed and shook violently with tormented heartache for an hour or more until the cold numbed my hands, face, and tear-soaked shirt.

I wasnâ€t angry with him for taking his life. For taking himself away from us. I knew his reasons, his feelings behind this act, and I couldnâ€t fault him for feeling them. My husband, my love, decided to take his life rather than live with the consequences of his addiction. He thought this was the only way to take away the weight of porn in our lives.

He didnâ€t want to burden us with it anymore. He didnâ€t want to have to see the damage he had done. He couldnâ€t live with the way he had ruined our trust in him. He wanted to be a good man. He wanted to be a good father. A good husband. He hated the way he was responsible for porn destroying everything.

I knew his reasons and I accepted them without agreeing to them, yielded to their terms because I had no other choice. I wished it wasnâ€t the solution he chose. I did not love him less or think less of him because of his final act.

I only loved him.

I wanted him back.

He’s never coming home again. Our lives, everyone’s lives, are hollower without him.

The post Porn Kills Love <br />It Killed My Love appeared first on War for Breakfast.

This gruesome tile is on the ceiling above the exam table in our pediatrician’s office.

I think they put it there as a warning so children behave.

For reals, though….who says to themselves “I must paint a calming scene on a 14″x14” tile so the children may be relaxed and cooperative throughout their pediatric appointment.”

….And then paints Satan as a patriotic cross-dressing angel of death presiding over a field of sheep he just murdered, (for the talent portion of the “Promised Land” beauty pageant), by pulling out their hearts and putting them in a basket?!?

And, FYI? It looks like HE WON THE PAGEANT!!

What the hell is wrong with people?!?

*Cleansing breath*

The Kid didn’t see all of this at first, but since I took an Intro to Humanities class in college, I was able to point out the horrific artistic imagery represented here…..and once I did, you better believe The Kid was disturbed!

“Mom!” She blurted with an eyeroll and a burdened sigh, “It’s supposed to be a fairy tale.”

Me, bugged that The Kid is so young and not yet savvy to the subtle intricacies of artistic interpretation, “That’s no fairy tale!” I take a deep breath, composing my collegiate-trained brain-thoughts. “If anything, that’s a fable about Satan’s questionable outfits! Because who wears angel wings with a biased cut star skirt?!? Seriously!?!”

I take a moment to calm myself and turn this into a teaching moment. Like good parents do. “That whole outfit’s a bit heavy on the symbolism. Sheep’s clothing, much?” I shake my head, “Dude’s fooling no one.”

The Kid, not convinced by my insightful interpretation, “Have you tried therapy?”

I glare at her.

She KNOWS I’ve tried therapy!

The Kid, understanding the exact glare message I am sending her, “Well, you didn’t try hard enough!”

Me, exasperated and tired of people not understanding what it’s like to live in my head, “They showed me a lot of pictures of butterflies, kinky sex stuff, disfigured clowns…” I trail off as I see The Kid’s attention span has waned.

I look back at the ceiling tile.

Transfixed.

Haunted.

I find myself muttering “Rorschach never painted stuff this weird…”

The post Satan Is A Patriotic Cross-Dressing Angel Of Death appeared first on War for Breakfast.

They would banter for a while and then The Man would give E some candy. Even on Fast Sunday (when Mormons don’t eat for 24 hours and donate the money they saved to feed the poor). E would panic if he heard his mom in the hall when The Man was giving him candy on Fast Sunday. Sometimes he would run out and then come back for it later when the coast was clear.

The post Love With Your Whole Heart appeared first on War for Breakfast.

I lost the battle with my breakfast…aka…I burned my breakfast – bell peppers, mushrooms, cilantro, tomato, breakfast sausage in an egg wash…because it ended up being a ton of veggies and we only had two eggs….but I didn’t have time to make anything else, even toast, so I plopped it in a container, grabbed a fork, and left.

You know how the FDA put out that warning about charred food giving you cancer?

My breakfast tastes like cancer.

I’m eating it anyway. (Iva, my heart medicine, needs protein or she doesn’t work. Saucy minx!)

Couldn’t find my keys. I have a spot I put them in and it’s unusual when I can’t find them. I spent 20 minutes looking for them…and/or the spare set. I finally found the spare set and left.

I got to school 17 minutes late, and when I got out of Darcy (my beloved car) and put my phone in my pocket?

You guessed it.

I suddenly found my keys.

In an effort to get out the door faster, I had put them in my pocket instead of grabbing them on the way out like I always do.

In that moment in the parking lot at school? I felt like all my genius had finally been fully actualized. (Yeah. That was sarcasm.)

I did remember to grab my laptop so I could do homework on it, so that’s something that went right.

I didn’t get my presentation done last night because I spent most of the day talking with Medicaid people. I think I’ve got that figured out. Even if I don’t, I found an intelligent, COMPETENT, government worker who can help me with this mess. I had to wait over an hour because unintelligent incompetent government worker with the Flowbee hair cut didn’t know when or if the Medicaid lady would be there. And there was no way to find out. Trust me, I tried. It was a long conversation where I learned the value of problem solving….and that there are people out there who can’t think.

Those people are the gate keepers at our government agencies.

Anyway, that got worked out, then Mimi and Her Man came over because they wanted to fix stuff and talk about feelings and eat the best damn grilled cheese sandwiches of their lives. Which they did.

The secret to these slices of grilled cheesy heaven? Start with your cheese – we like colby jack, but pepperjack or swiss are fabulous too, add a sandwich meat of your choice, avocado, cut up Roma tomato – other types have too much tomato snot in them and they taste yucky, green onion, cilantro, etc, then put another slice of cheese on top of that. It’ll be more deliciousness that you knew a grilled cheese could contain. If you want to go crazy, add in some tomato soup and use it as a dip for these babies. Per! Fec! Tion!

My heart wouldn’t stop beating last night and I was reminded that about four years ago, (Sept. 3rd), around noon, my heart issues started. It wasn’t gradual, it was like a snap or flipping a switch. I think my heart was bored and thought it would be the funnest thing ever to beat over 200 beats per minute.

I remember how very bad it was in the beginning. It’s so much better now. I think it’s gotten better with each surgery, and Iva helps a ton too.

I’m super grateful to be eating this gross breakfast I burned while I was looking for my keys. I couldn’t have even walked up and down the stairs at this time four years ago. Showering and dressing myself were the only goals I had in a day. That much activity exhausted me. I’d sleep for hours after getting dressed.

I have a kid I enjoy.

I’m going to be done with school by the end of September.

I’ve got several pairs of GREAT shoes…

Life’s pretty good from where it was four years ago.

Even if my breakfast tastes like an urgent FDA warning.

The post Lose The Breakfast Battle…Win The Life War appeared first on War for Breakfast.

Well then sit down children. Iâ€m gonna tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a Genteel Widow and her Loin Fruit. They applied for insurance through the HIMP/Obamacare. They received coverage. In January. They sent in all the papers (it was A LOT of papers!) and their income was verified. Everything was a bright gloriosity and there was guacamole flowing from the faucets and everything youâ€d need to be in some sort of fabulous wonderment.

In January.

There were even confirmation letters and official documents saying “You have insurance and everything has been done on your side AND our side to make sure of that. Feel free to go forth and break arms, cut your leg off, and get the hell out of that Hantavirus thing. ‘Cause we got that stuff covered.”

Life was good. In January.

THEN, in early July, the big bad HIMP sent a threatening letter about how their insurance coverage was denied because income was never verified. “CALL THIS NUMBER OR THE OBAMA MONSTER WILL FINE YOU ALL OF THE MONEY AND REBREAK YOUR ARMS, CUT OFF YOUR LEG, AND GIVE THAT HANTA STUFF BACK TO YOU!!”

It was very scary. (Not really. It was more like exasperating and annoying as hell….but I wasnâ€t scared.)

The Genteel Widow called the number and was told “Everything is fine. We have all of your information. No one knows what youâ€re talking about.”

The Genteel Widow, who had worked with insurance and government before, knew better. She pressed harder, “There was a letter. I will give you the code thing from it, (she left out the word AGAIN here because she was rockin†that whole genteelity thing), and you will tell me some new news.”

This caused the voice on the end of the phone to say “Thereâ€s been a miscalculation. It looks serious. I donâ€t know how it could be because this says everythingâ€s taken care of. However, this is obviously a serious issue and it could cause stuff like..kidney failure.. or something really bad if you donâ€t fix it.”

Genteel Widow, “Yeah. Thatâ€s why I called you. To fix it.”

Voice on the phone, “Wow. That looks complicated. The only way to fix it is to have these people from this other department call you. You canâ€t call them. And I canâ€t give you the number. But they will call you in 7-10 regular days. (As opposed to business days.)”

Genteel Widow, “I canâ€t be the only one that thinks itâ€s weird that you send me a letter telling me I have to call this number in an **URGENT** manner..and then you canâ€t tell me why or resolve it in any meaningful way. I mean..thatâ€s weird, right?”

Voice on phone, “I have no response because this call is being recorded for quality assurance purposes…but you can tell from my inflection that I think itâ€s asinine too.”

The Genteel Widow hangs up and waits for that super important phone call that is supposed to take place in 7-10 regular days.

Fast forward to mid August. A.K.A. six weeks later. (Which is neither 7-10 regular days *or* 7-10 business days.)

The ever important phone call happens. The lady on the other end has a name that rhymes with “Angela Edward.”

(Mostly because that is her actual name.)

Angela Edward tells Genteel Widow “The household income issue has been fixed.” But she also says “I need to fill out a form to ‘Report a Life Change†because of a reason I am never able to properly clarify in a satisfying way…but I will insist this is a thing that needs to happen to resolve the income verification issue…that I have already told you is resolved and is not an actual issue. I know it sounds confusing. Thatâ€s because things werenâ€t calculated correctly and we need to do everything again. Even though I just told you it WAS calculated correctly and everything was fine.”

Angela Edward goes on to say “Why are you asking if Iâ€m on ‘The Crack?â€â€

Whatever.

The Genteel Widow goes along with Angela Edward because she can tell thatâ€s what has to happen or sheâ€ll lose insurance coverage. Since the Genteel Widow has a heart medicine that costs roughly $5 GaJillion dollars a month…she complies.

Everything goes smoothly. If “smoothly” meant “takes TWO AND A HALF **FREAKING** HOURS and causes the Genteel Widow to miss her hair appointment.. so now sheâ€s got roots showing and bangs in her eyes.” “Whatever” the Genteel Widow thinks to herself, “Itâ€s not like Iâ€m dating anyone or have a reason to look nice other than vanity. I can deal and itâ€s not a big deal.”

And it wasnâ€t a big deal.

Until Angela Edward tells Genteel Widow “You have to go BACK to the Social Security Administration (SSA) and get that one letter from them again. Even though we have it already. Twice. And itâ€s been accepted and verified and all of the things. We still need it. Oh. And you also have new lower premiums now. You say you want all that extra money back? Well youâ€ll have to file an appeal if you want your new lower insurance premiums to be retroactive so you can get back the over $200 that youâ€ve paid that you shouldnâ€t have… (On account of our mistake calculating your income…which is weird because …you know… we verified it and stuff.) Otherwise you can just start paying the new lower premium. Ok. You want to file an appeal? Thatâ€s an “Exceptional Circumstance” because of… HARD!.. and it has to be escalated. I am doing that now. I will now also transfer you to that department.”

Genteel Widow, who is used to these sorts of statements, “Can you please give me the number in case the call is dropped or something?”

Angela Edward, mystified that that would ever happen, “Sure. I am saying the number to you right in this spot here. And then I am transferring you.”

Twenty minutes of being on hold later..and…you guessed it. The call gets dropped.

Genteel Widow calls the number Angela Edward gave her. A guy whose name rhymes with “Rod Henderson” answers. He tells Genteel Widow “I canâ€t tell who this Angela chick is because we have no way to track that. Also there are not a lot of notes here. We just tell you our first and last names to make you feel more secure…but theyâ€re probably fake names as you will see when you call back tomorrow and hear the name of that phone voice. The only way to get your money back is to call your insurance company and ask them for it. But to do that youâ€ll need a paper telling them thereâ€s been a miscalculation….and to do that you have to file an appeal so we can do a ‘Hix Investigation.†An appeal takes 30-90 days. Here is a lot of information about that. If you get it wrong your pancreas will explode and youâ€ll start to grow exterior mucus. I know. Super gross!”

(A lot of this wasnâ€t actually said verbally….. in the strictest sense…but Genteel Widow felt it and knew it was in there.)

Upon hearing these words, Genteel Widow did a full body eye roll and whined about it a bit…then those hours on the phone, and future time at SSA, started to bug her in a real and meaningful way.

Even so, she tried to let it go.

Because stress is bad for your hair.

And she was already living in a less than ideal hair situation.

The next day…. Down to SSA Genteel Widow goes. Itâ€s a room filled wall to wall with humanity and itâ€s a total time suck. At one point a guy yells out with excess passion “ITâ€S SUPPOSED TO BE SEVEN! ITâ€S NOT EIGHT!”

It should be noted this guy wasnâ€t talking to anyone but himself, as he was still waiting in the queue, and he wasnâ€t looking at his phone or anything.

He had just spent too much time here.

This place changes you. And thatâ€s how it manifested.

Eventually Genteel Widow gets up to the counter. The SSA lady canâ€t print out half of the needed papers. Ever. There is no way to do it. Because it is impossible. SSA lady prints out other papers and Genteel Widow goes home feeling slightly anxietious.

On the way home, Genteel Widow goes to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for Loin Fruit. BUT BEHOLD!! The pharmacy tells her LOIN FRUIT DOESNâ€T HAVE INSURANCE COVERAGE ANYMORE!!

W! T! HELL! RIGHT?!?

Genteel Widow calls the insurance company, not HIMP, to inquire as to why Loin Fruit is no longer covered. “Insurance Mitch” replies that coverage ended on the same date Angela Edward called.

There is no way to add Loin Fruit back. It is more impossible than printing out the other half of those SSA papers.

Genteel Widow calls HIMP again and tells them to go f….I mean…she relays the whole story plus the newest issues and asks the operator, whose name rhymes with.. and I am SOOO NOT MAKING THIS UP…”Malakia Superstar.”

Hearing this confirms Genteel Widowâ€s previously held belief that these people make up their names on the spot.

(How does someone get “Superstar” for their last name and how can I get signed up for that?!?)

Malakia Superstar talks to Genteel Widow for over an hour. Genteel Widow has to go through the whole “Report a Life Change” thing again.

It takes FOREVER!!

It sums down to basically this “Loin Fruit cannot get coverage. You cannot add her on because itâ€s not a ‘Special Circumstance†or an ‘Open Enrollment Period.†Yes, come tax time, you will be fined if she doesnâ€t have coverage.”

The frustration is too much for Genteel Widow and she starts to cry. Malakia Superstar becomes worried. So worried that she puts Genteel Widow on hold for a long time, but Malakia Superstar keeps coming back every couple minutes to let Genteel Widow know Malakia Superstarâ€s still there and can she put her on hold again?

Malakia Superstar comes back on and tells Genteel Widow “You might qualify for CHiP and so you have to call them TODAY to get coverage for Loin Fruit. I know you donâ€t want to bother with that because youâ€ve been turned down for that before and youâ€d rather have the insurance you had before and not have Loin Fruit uninsured for the 30-90 days Iâ€ve told you it takes CHiP to decide on coverage…but that is impossible. Because we are the government and most of what you are asking us to do today is impossible.”

Genteel Widow ends the call with Malakia Superstar and calls CHiP.

Of course CHiP is closed.

Genteel Widow will call them tomorrow. Because Genteel Widow is not a quitter. Even when she should be.

This thing is not the only life stress Genteel Widow has going on right now. And because of that, Genteel Widow will be drinking 100 proof rum tonight. (Who wants to bring her some?) Sheâ€d go on a bike ride instead, but for some reason Ivaâ€s not working today and a bike ride would cause her heart to explode if she attempted it.

Thanks for listening to me bitch. Iâ€m sure you didnâ€t read the whole thing..because itâ€s longer than Les Mis…but it feels slightly better just to have it all written down and complained about.

The one highlight in this whole mess? I got to speak with someone who told me their name was Malakia Superstar!!

That gives me hope I can someday marry into her family and have “SUPERSTAR” for my last name. (I will always spell it in all caps.) WOOT!! ☺

Iâ€m out! Itâ€s time for Buffy with The Kid!

The post Healthcare Fairytale appeared first on War for Breakfast.

“And also if it were accessible.”

I take a second look, “To people. Without ice axes and pulley systems that not everyone has handy all the time…”

The Kid, eager to set my delicate mind at ease and being an amazing problem solver, closes the door and says to me, “Schrödinger’s bathroom, mom.”

Me, marveling at her genius, “So what you’re saying is… your bathroom is both clean… and a war zone… at the same time?”

The Kid, who is going to ace all of the quantum sciences, “Yes. That is what I am saying.”

Me, “Sweet.”

The Kid’s eyebrows raise in surprise at this. She was expecting some sort of “clean the bathroom or else” ultimatum.

Me, shrugging, “If it’s good enough for Schrödinger, it’s good enough for me. Dude was a genius.”

The Kid, ever one to capitalize on an opportunity, runs off.

The Kid was probably a sign maker in a past life.

The next time I pass the bathroom door, I see evidence of this-

Well played, Kid.

You may never have to clean that bathroom again.

[For those not in the know: Schrödinger’s Cat]

The post Schrödinger’s Bathroom appeared first on War for Breakfast.

Before I share the brilliant bit of strategy from which this blog takes its name, let me introduce the warring factions:

Me

The little sister, 5^th in a line going 6 kids deep. Having 4 brothers, I was forced by my survival instinct to become a tomboy. I was annoying and hungry for attention.

The little sister you caught spying on you when you were just trying to set things on fire with your mates? That was me.

I was the kind of sibling that tattled when someone kept their eyes open during a prayer. I was desperate to be cool and fit in with my brothers. Watchful. A quick learner. I soaked up the ways of war like motherâ€s nectar.

Frogman

An Ally. The 6^th sibling, Frogman was my mostly peaceful little brother. The only one who ever fought by my side. The youngest. A giving, loving soul…and hell-bent on raining vengeance and destruction upon the heads of our mortal enemies, “The Brothers.”

The word “baby” was his hypnotically embedded trigger word. Calling him a baby would unleash the kind of ferocity you typically see in a Jason Bourne movie.

On occasion he could be seduced by The Brothers to do their bidding, but for the most part he took my side. A bold choice as I was the only girl engaged in combat and he ran the risk of looking like a sissy. Or worse, a weewo – a word Critty made up. It meant girl/crybaby/sissy/tattletale/wuss/pansy/idiot/stupid/jerk all rolled into two short syllables.

We called him Frogman because he thought he was a frog. A real frog.

Probably because we told him that.

More than daily.

For many, many, years.

We had to.

He was small and a good jumper.

Wolfman

My main Axis. The 4^th sibling in line. Born far too close for us to ever be anything other than childhood adversaries. Conniving. Cunning. Patient. A master planner when it came to revenge. He was a key player in The War of the Siblings.

Wolfman was born old. Though he was less than two years my senior he was somehow 45. He ran with a gang of siblings the Allied Forces referred to as The Brothers. (The only other sister was in college and never experienced the hardened life of a soldier that shaped my early, impressionable years.)

The Brothers were a fearsome and evil trio. Their greatest delight was playing a game called “Skill” that relied on vigorously, brutally, and repeatedly testing the structural integrity of Wolfmanâ€s region we referred to as the “hodgie grodgie.” Such conditioning may be part of the reason Wolfman was always slightly cranky.

(Hodgie grodgie is the term we used to describe any private area. Mom didnâ€t like us using crass words like “balls,” so we came up with our own descriptions.)

He was a neat freak and didnâ€t deal well with…agitation. A weakness we used to our war-making advantage whenever possible.

We called him Wolfman because his origin story was that he was raised by wolves. Whenever we heard a dog bark, a wolf howl, a coyote yip, he would translate it and tell us what they were saying. We believed him unquestioningly. He translated Never Cry Wolf for us every time we watched it. Which was frequently, because it featured his heritage and helped us understand him. Even if he engaged in vicious infighting within The Brothers from time to time, he always protected his pack.

Critty

An Axis. The 3^rd sibling in line, Critty was the second oldest brother. A thinker. He was very inventive. Heâ€s the one who made up the game of Skill. He was the only one allowed to change the rules. His power was quiet, unassuming. He was all knowing. Everyone wanted to win his favor because his favor meant prestige and, more importantly, safety.

He told me I had to learn all about balance before I could ride a bike. I grew up thinking everyone had to walk back and forth on the edge of their discarded lawn-couch before they were ready to sit in the saddle of the family bike.

I donâ€t know why we called him Critty. That story was before my time.

Sam

The Oldest Brother, 2^nd in line. An Axis. Rarely a player in the games of war I was a party to, as he was often gone with friends. When he wasnâ€t, he took Crittyâ€s place as head war commander for The Brothers.

He played football and had the thickly muscled body to go with it.

Except for The Man, he intimidated the hell out of every guy I ever dated.

None of the younger soldiers messed with him.

No one except mom could call him by his nickname. (I donâ€t even dare do it here.)

Mimi

Switzerland. The 1^st in line. The one who acted in momâ€s behalf while mom was at work. I worshipped her like a she was a goddess.

We shared a room. She always knew when I touched her stuff.

She brought home fascinating college friends during her summers off. She read books to us, took us outside at night and told us stories about astronomy, and bought me penny candies and beef stick pops from Hickory Farms.

Her one fault? She wouldnâ€t play ponies with me.

Thatâ€s okay. It prepared me for the harsh realities of life and the fact that the real God wouldnâ€t always answer my requests, either. I guess thatâ€s just part of being a deity.

***

One serene Saturday morning Frogman, (a skinny 8 year old), and Wolfman, (equally skinny, but 12), were in the kitchen together. Frogman was hanging out at the kitchen table peacefully eating “Tootie Frootieâ€s” (off-brand Fruit Loops) in his underoos and a nightshirt.

Mom never let us eat unless we had a shirt on. The woman had standards! And we had the habit of hanging out in our skivvies until the last Saturday morning cartoons had played.

Wolfman, always an overachiever, was already dressed in hand-me-down early-80â€s apparel, standing by the sink. The sink was over 10 feet away from Frogmanâ€s post at the kitchen table.

Mom was reading in her bed down the hall.

I (a thickish 10 year old) was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, about to become witness to the most diabolical act of greatness I will ever behold.

Frogman, hair askew and looking quite sleepy in spite of the massive amount of sibling justice he was about to bring down on the head of Wolfman, our closest sibling and constant tormenter, surprised us all by breaking out into screams of “OW! Whatâ€d you do that for?!”

Wolfman, braced for action, swiveled on his heel to see what was going on, “What?! What happened?!”

Me, confused because NOTHING had happened. Frogman was just… eating…reading comics out of the newspaper, then, without looking away from his cereal bowl he yelled like heâ€d been smacked upside the head.

With a brick.

I looked at him as I gathered my own breakfast supplies and he smiled at me, then jerked his head toward Wolfman ever so slightly in a “Sis, you gotta watch this” expression.

Frogman, still calm as can be, started yelling in an erratic back and forth patter song between Tootie Frootie bites, “WOLFMAN!” Bite of cereal, calm chewing, a relaxed swallow, “QUIT IT! STOP!” Another mouthful, chewing, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Swallow.

I studied the situation in silence. I knew Frogman had something great planned; no one invited the wrath of Wolfman without an escape strategy and a clear victory in sight.

The risks were too extreme.

I did it. Once. In retaliation, Wolfman recorded silence, then his laughter, over side A of one of my most beloved cassettes. SIDE A!! A hard lesson well learned.

Mom was more than a little exasperated that the first sibling fight of the weekend had already begun…and it wasnâ€t even 9 a.m. yet. She yelled at them from her sanctuary down the hall “BOYS! STOP IT!”

Wolfman looked around for clues to grasp, his thorough confusion by Frogmanâ€s seemingly Tourette-esque outburst was palpable, “Dude! Calm down! No oneâ€s even touching you!”

Mom was a pro and never left the comforts of her room unless it sounded like blood. Even so, she still grew highly agitated when we fought. She yelled like an announcer at the World Cup. “WOLFMAN! LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE!”

Wolfman started to steam, but he stayed by the sink far away from Frogman. Looking confused, wary, and not understanding the fox-like cunning of Frogmanâ€s plan, Wolfman backed away from him as a slight fear tinged his loud stage whisper “Shut up, ya baby! Youâ€re gonna get us in trouble!”

I shook my head at such a misstep. This was WAR, man! You donâ€t bandy words like “baby” around! Wolfmanâ€s eyes grew wide as he realized his folly. After years of deep psychological trauma, Frogmanâ€s grenade was set to thermo-nuclear annihilation.

And Wolfman had just pulled the pin.

Frogmanâ€s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He put his spoon down, looked directly into Wolfmanâ€s eyes and screamed like a limb was getting ripped off, “MOM! YOU GOTTA COME IN HERE!! HE WONâ€T STOP HITTING ME!! I DIDNâ€T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!” Frogman started thrashing his body in a massive contorted fit, stomping his feet on the floor and banging his fists on the table, knocking his breakfast bowl to the floor.

Wolfman couldnâ€t hold back anymore. Watching Frogmanâ€s display triggered a primal instinct. He had to attack. In his livid bewilderment he ran at Frogman, grabbing him and coiling one arm tightly around his neck. “SHUT UP!” he cried, “I WASNâ€T EVEN TOUCHING YOU!”

The world slowed down as if everyone was suddenly moving through pudding and I swear I heard strains of O Fortuna as Mom choose that precise moment to enter the fray. Wolfmanâ€s face was a bright red, heated from the intensity of his rage. One arm pinned Frogman to his chest while the other was busy delivering frenzied blows to his gut.

Frogmanâ€s arms flailed like a dropped octopus as he tried to block the next blow. His bowl of cereal, a casualty of war, lay spattered on the floor. Tootie Frooties rolled into the hallway and rested at the feet of Mom, whose wrath was now fully incurred. She stood there. Looming over us. Lips pursed in a dangerously thin line, trying to decide which child to injure first.

I looked at her face. It was like looking into the black, soulless eyes of a wolverine…or Satan himself…if Satan was a single mom with 6 kids that fought like wild dogs over scraps. “WOLFMAN! GET OFF HIM! I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE!”

Wolfman, not expecting to see Mom wearing the face she wears right before she ritually sacrifices one of us, released his hold on Frogman and tried to convince Mom of his innocence, saying “I WASNâ€T EVEN TOUCHING HIM! HE MADE THE WHOLE THING UP!”

Mom shot back, “DONâ€T LIE TO ME! I SAW YOU WHEN I CAME IN THE KITCHEN! YOUâ€RE ON PROBATION” (Momâ€s word for grounded) “FOR THE WEEKEND!”

As Wolfman stood stunned at the injustice, Frogman and I stealthily slinked from the kitchen battlefield. Grinning to ourselves like pompous victors.

In the safety of the living room, where, because of the Kitchenburg War Crimes Tribunal currently underway, Wolfman would be unable to reach us, Wolfmanâ€s useless arguments and momâ€s rebuttals played like a sweet angelic balm on our devious little war-strategy-filled hearts.

Frogman turned to me and winked. “Hey sis, wanna come to my room and play Legos? I donâ€t think weâ€re gonna have to share today.”

I obediently retrieved the Lego bucket and followed him through the house, awed by his greatness.

The boy was a God among Frogs. But that wasnâ€t surprising.

After all, at our house, we ate war for breakfast.

The post War For Breakfast appeared first on War for Breakfast.

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, The Man assembled The Kid’s lunch. I would say he “made” her lunch, but as you will see, there was really no “making” going on. This was The Man’s first attempt at lunchtime nutrition for The Kid.

When I make her lunch she is limited to 1 treat per lunch.

I always include some sort of main dish, usually a bagel, or a sandwich with The Kid’s must-have ingredients of spinach and onions. If a sandwich lacks the crucial ingredients of spinach and onions, she can’t even get it to her lips.

Yes, I once provided her with a moldy bagel. It was hard to tell because it was a blueberry one and the blueish flecks looked like food coloring to me.

She ate half of it anyway and brought the rest home to show me the mold, saying “Even though it was moldy I ate half of it.”

*Cue grossed out, gagging look from me.*

Seeing the look of horror on my face, The Kid defensively replied, “Well, it still tasted good!”

I only stock plain bagels now.

The mold is easier to detect.

I felt really bad about the bagel, at first. My mom guilt is alleviated by the fact that she obviously has the taste buds of a 9 year old…or a cockroach. Now, I am fully vindicated by today’s lunch. Because…

Today’s noontime meal did not follow my standard nutritional guidelines. It consisted of:
1 Juice box – 100% juice
2 Granola Bars – S’more flavored with chocolate chips and marshmallows
2 Ginger Snap cookies – The groady, hard as nails, store bought kind. Yuck.
2 Red Gobstoppers
2 Yellow Gobstoppers
3 Green Gobstoppers*

There was a distinct lack of anything representing a victual.

The Gobstoppers were neatly protected in a plastic sandwich bag. At least it was hygienic.

*For those not in the know, Gobstoppers are kind of like jaw breakers. They are made by Willy Wonka, but don’t be fooled. They aren’t as “everlasting” as they say on the box. That would not be physically possible.

The Man went the extra mile on treats. Today her lunch had **11** of them! ONE THOUSAND PERCENT EXTRA!

One thousand percent should not be physically possible. That means 1,000 out of every 100. That’s like saying, “Ten out of six dentists recommend ingesting pure sugar at meal time.”

The Man did it anyway. He did the impossible. Chalk it up as a Chuck Norris moment.

The lunch had no sign of a sandwich or even a moldy bagel to actually fill up on.

It appeared her main dish was Gobstoppers.

When I inquired about the lack of sandwich, The Kid explained. “We’re out of spinach and onions.”

Me, understanding her plight, “Well then. I guess you can’t have a sandwich.” After all, a sandwich without spinach and onions isn’t really a sandwich.

Being incapable of letting my precious flower take such a cavity-fortifying meal to school, however, I pointed at the bag of Gobstoppers and calmly asked, “Do you think this is a healthy lunch?”

She looked at me for a minute. Then, getting the point of my words, she went to the fridge, rummaged around for a bit, and retrieved a mandarin orange lunch cup from the crisper drawer.

The Kid’s sparkle eyes looked up at me as she put it in her lunch bag. Her expression clearly declared, “There. It’s healthy.”

I let her take it to school.

Hey, at least it wasn’t moldy.

The post School Lunch…Daddy Style appeared first on War for Breakfast.