Hoarders, Old Checkbooks and Diaries oh my!

Getting my Bachelor’s degree in Urban Planning is part of a vague bigger long term plan to maybe shuffle outside of sunny Arizona to points east. But they say all journeys begin with a single step. Mine is to consider how the hell we were going to pare down all the junk we’ve accumulated over the last 25 years into something manageable. I started over winter break purging a closet here, a drawer there, I mean crap, I won’t graduate for two years. Surely I can get rid of my hoarder tendencies before then right?

One major task was to empty out our 4 drawer filing cabinet with all of our “important papers”. Do I really need canceled checks since 1985, owner’s manuals for the last three microwaves we’ve owned, and the Girl Scout Cookie Mom code of conduct? I certainly need to keep our first joint tax returns. We made $11,000 smackers, living large in 1982 (Ah no, not 1902). But I did discover a folder where I had inscribed funny musing regarding Sheldon’s upcoming birth. Now granted this was during the stone ages before they even invented that newfangled internet let alone blogs.

Excerpt from Labor and the Remote Control, circa 1989
Working in a male dominated field has caused me to realize that women’s liberation is considered to be just a blip in the road to the engineering workplace. Every Monday morning was greeted with an official waddle check, what saved me was that I was an Amazon height among my male patterned baldness peers. Then came the questions of when I would leave prior to the birth of our little bundle of joy. When informed I planned to work to the bitter end I was greeted with horrified gasps of “but we just had the carpets cleaned”. Stop it, surely I’m not the first employee to have a baby. Oh but I was, I was like a weird science experiment that went horribly wrong. I kept on cooking, after all I was eating for two. Oh yeah, Big Tuna too, wouldn’t want him to be hungry. Maybe a salad, I was 187 pounds when I popped after all.

Caesar Salad
1 large head romaine lettuce, washed and shredded into bite size pieces
3 Anchovies, minced
2 cloves garlic minced
¾ cup parmesan cheese
1 egg, coddled
1-2 lemons
½ olive oil, don’t cheat and use vegetable
Croutons to suit

Assemble lettuce, garlic, anchovies and parm cheese and toss slightly. Bring a small sauce pan of water to a boil, place egg in for no more than one minute, crack and place slightly runny egg in bowl. Add olive oil and juice from lemons. The amount of lemon juice is a personal preference. I like it sour, so I may not be the best judge, you can always add more, but never take back.

Fortunately I went into labor over a weekend so I didn’t damage anyone’s delicate psyche. I nudged my beloved and whispered my contractions were 10 minutes apart. Without opening his eyes he grunted I should let him know when they were more like 5 because he needed his rest in the delivery room. After jumping up and down on his body and whining I wanted company he staggered from our snug bed. This resulted in the dogs leaping up for breakfast and walks, so much for a sympathetic back rub.

Settled into a cheerful labor and delivery our nurse offered the usual ice chips and hospital gown. She helped me into bed, fluffed my pillows and gave me the remote control. A look of confusion passed over the Big Tuna’s face. In our house, he is the remote control king complete with rechargeable batteries and Lazy Boy recliner. “I am having the baby! I should get to choose!” I proclaimed. With quivering lips he released his tug of war grasp on his real firstborn. But it was 1:00 AM and the only stinking thing on was the ESPN Sportcenter loop so it was still a win for him. (At this point I will point out this was pre HGTV, Bravo, and the Food Network so it was this or CNN)

I, of course, was one of those weenie woman who never considered anything but maximum drugs, problem was, even though my contractions were a minute apart, I was only one centimeter. “Sorry Mrs. Tuna, gotta be at least a five before your epidural, just keep breathing.” “Yes honey breath”, said my baby daddy as he fondled the remote and started idle flipping though the channels. Give me my f*cking drugs and I’ll breath, otherwise, I’m going to hyperventilate and do myself an injury and take your hands of the damn clicker.

No one here needs all the intimate details, we all have our own memories of our special moments, depending on the morphine haze level. Epidurals……are a wonderful thing….sigh. My teeth were numb, I was in my happy bubble. However, the hospital staff referred to the Big Tuna as a “fainter”. Needles in the back made him wobbly, needless to say he got a chair during delivery and his own personal spotter. But he survived that and more, sweet sixteen parties, graduations and someday he’ll walk Sheldon down the aisle. After all, she has been Daddy’s little girl from day one.

Living in a My Little Pony World.

When I was growing up, one of the eleventy million jobs my mom had was managing a 50horse hunter jumper show barn. It allowed her to bring the seven heathen children with her on days we were freed from our school prison to run like savages in the countryside. Once it was discovered that my long legs kept me stuck like glue on bucking two year old colts my fate was sealed. “Sure, throw the scrawny one up on Widowmaker, she’s young, she’ll heal quick if she breaks anything.” I rode 5 or more horses everyday all through high school as well as the East Coast circuit allowing me to mail my homework in from beyond the tri state area.

(No this is not a stunt rider, it is actually Mrs. Tuna)

I must secretly or maybe not so secretly be into S & M. As you know, I inflict myself on Eva Braun and her best friend Helga the yoga instructor on a sort of consistent basis. But I also have a much more regular relationship with my horse trainer, Attila the Hun’s cousin Sue the Sadist. Equestrians get all hot and dreamy when surrounded by whips and leather. Ahem.

Horseshow season is almost upon us in Arizona and my tormentor has accelerated to more of a frat house hazing phase. Umm, gee, that fence looks pretty darn big, I’m a little teeny bit concerned my horsie might stop and launch me from the fetal position on my head. I mean, I don’t want to have to take a bed in the Christopher Reeve Wing at the hospital. I will share here that Sheldon fell off in one of her lessons and broke her arm a few years ago. Nothing binds you to your daughter like having to shave her armpits for her. “Put your big girl panties on Sparky and get on with it, you’ll be fine”.

When we horseshowed our food needed to be easy access, today I’m sharing a chicken salad thing we ate on bread or crackers or even just a spoon.

Waldorf Chicken Salad
5 boneless chicken breasts, cooked and diced
1 cup chopped walnuts, big pieces
1 box frozen snow peas
1 cup mayo
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons white vinegar
½ teaspoon pepper
2 teaspoons sugar
2 apples, peeled, cored and chopped
4 celery stalks, chopped

Combine and chill. My misspent youth was before the days of sunblock, electrolyte drinks and bottled water. My mom did her best to ensure we had plenty of salt and hydration in our system by offering salt tablets washed down with Rolling Rock nips. I always thought I rode better with a bit of a beer buzz.

But sadly, my horse Lad (Yes as in boy), is off with an injury that will keep him stall bound for 9 to 12 months, 6 down, 6 to go. He’s a giant horse, his back as tall as my head and I’m almost 6 foot tall, stuck in his square cell. The vet has put him on a long lasting tranquilizer, when I looked it up online one of the things they treat with it is schizophrenia in people. It must be keeping the little voices quiet in his pea brain. The backup ride, while kindly lent by said trainer is a tad bit sensitive. Bordeaux’s eyes spin like pinwheels and leap sideways at imaginary cougars hiding behind jumping fences. My lessons are typically with the teen girls, explaining why most of my Facebook friends are under 18. I’ll be glad when my personal bully leaves for the show grounds and I can stop peeing my pants in fright. I’m too old for this sh*t.

Fatal Attraction

Cupid is skulking around the fringes of February, causing me to reflect on the lure that bound the Big Tuna and me together. I read a scientific study, okay maybe I read it in the National Enquirer, that you tend to pick a mate that looks hauntingly like you. That’s because it’s like looking in a familiar mirror, great, nothing like being attracted to someone who reminds you of your brother. Okay, now we’ve all thrown up a little in our mouths we can move on. This was confirmed by our trip to the Big Tuna’s 20 year class reunion.


Honey, how about this black velvet skirt and fancy red top to wear? Sure, looks fine, pack that, whatever. We arrive at the big event, wanna guess the school colors, you got it, BLACK and RED. Dude, really? Even the name tags fit the color scheme, black for alumni and red for the spouses. My saving grace was the couple that stood up at our nuptials gave me someone other than the wait staff and chaperones to talk to. The same married man that had given me the impression that he should have starred on the Dukes of Hazard was strangely surrounded by a giant pocket protection crowd. I had him pegged as more of shop class kind of guy rather than chess club.

On my way to the bar for a refill of white wine over ice, I was accosted by a slightly weaving woman, who insisted we’d had home economics together. Girlfriend, you must be mistaken, see my name is written in RED. But I just talked to you brother, the Big Tuna and after all, you’re wearing the school colors. Arghhhhh. We could not have less in common perhaps that is the glue that has held us together for almost 30 years. He’s meat and potatoes, I’m faux vegetarian. Shoot he’d never even eaten broccoli until he met me. Starbucks has given me a gold card, he drinks Pepsi with donuts. He likes fast sand cars in the dunes, I had to take Dramamine when we visited Disneyland. In honor Valentine’s Day, here is a recipe from Cosmo magazine. The claim is if you make it, your man will pop the big question.

Engagement Chicken
• 1 whole chicken (approx. 3 lb.)
• 2 medium lemons
• Fresh lemon juice (1/2 cup)
• Kosher or sea salt
• Ground black pepper

Place rack in upper third of oven and preheat to 400 degrees. Wash chicken inside and out with cold water, remove the giblets, then let the chicken drain, cavity down, in a colander until it reaches room temp (about 15 minutes). Pat dry with paper towels. Pour lemon juice all over the chicken (inside and outside). Season with salt and pepper. Prick the whole lemons three times with a fork and place deep inside the cavity. (Tip: If lemons are hard, roll on countertop with your palm to get juices flowing.) Place the bird breast-side down on a rack in a roasting pan, lower heat to 350 degrees and bake uncovered for 15 minutes. Remove from oven and turn it breast-side up; return it to oven for 35 minutes more. Test for doneness—a meat thermometer inserted in the thigh should read 180 degrees, or juices should run clear when chicken is pricked with a fork. Continue baking if necessary. Let chicken cool for a few minutes before carving.

But my official arm candy has a few interesting sensitive secrets. He’s a sucker for musicals and plays, he stops for little old couples broken down on the side of the road and always offers me the last shrimp. Since I have never understood the ins and outs of haikus, something about so many syllables, with some many lines, blah, blah, blah, I will instead wish my sweetie, Happy VD!! Valentine’s Day, get your minds out of the gutter.

What’s Your Sign my Little Zodiac Killer?

As a rule I don’t read my horoscope, sometimes vaguely checking it depending on how many stars they say my day was going to have. Never read anything less than a 3 star post, that would just be wrong. The first day of classes at ASU was ranked as a four star day, I chanced it.

Taurus-You are a learner, remember this, even when you feel like standing still in what you already know. Translation: Don’t spit on the 20 year olds, they may spit back.



But ASU f*cks you coming and going on random fees, parking permit…….$850 a year, Sheldon and I are sharing this little ransom pass. But it is the MOST amazing parking space. It overlooks the men’s diving team practice. Clap, clap, clap, clap, dive again my handsome Adonis, triple twist my young buck...ahem, I mean it’s important that the youth today exercise and not become couch potatoes getting fat right?

Wandering around campus made me feel like the uncoolest, unhippest, matronly woman on the planet. Usually when comparing myself to the same age plaintiffs on Judge Judy I think I’m holding up pretty well. Now I’ve gone from being the girl in high school that was eleventy feet tall to the woman who is eleventy years older. There is no way to compete with their player hair and bare midriffs. They just sucked all the pretty out of me. Gotta get me some spanks, that is a given.

My over control freak tendencies enabled me to show up with my color coordinated folders and sharpened number 2 pencils ready to roll. Glancing around I am easily the oldest of 450 students. As I had just driven straight from the salve market I was dressed as the middle aged professional that I am. I hiked up my control top pantyhose, mostly to hold in my fat, ready to absorb to finer points of Urban Planning. It’s an iPad versus iTampon world.

One class is an online adventure. Students are required to post their points of view on a discussion board about challenges facing third world countries. In every single post they were “shocked”. No one was surprised, upset , stunned, shaken, dismayed. Could it be that Mrs. Tuna is the only one who knows how to use a Thesaurus? Here’s a little something to hold you over until next week.

Microwave Spaghetti Carbonara
8 ounces spaghetti
10 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
3 tablespoons butter
¾ cup grated parmesan cheese
3 eggs

Cook pasta conventionally while microwaving bacon until done. In 2 quart casserole dish, microwave butter until melted. Mix in cheese, eggs and bacon. Drain pasta and add to casserole dish. Toss with cheese mixture. Microwave on high 2 to 4 minutes or until eggs are set, tossing every minutes.


I however am doomed. One required class is called “Cities and Cinemas”. Basically, you watch movies and write papers based on Urban Planning concerns. Really, Julie & Julia qualifies for this? I kid you not. My problem is I cry at movies and sad TV shows. I wept so much when George’s dad died on Grey’s Anatomy I gave myself a migraine. I cry every time at Homeward Bound when the dog falls in the hole, know he gets out, but nonetheless, big mascara stained tear tracks, this is going to be ugly. But I am a Taurus, I am not full of Bullsh*t, bring it.

Sheldon Does the Salsa

First week in the hormone filled school zone was just ducky. I may whip up a blog involving my amazing parking space overlooking the men's diving practice but for now I thought I'd recap my little Buttercup's nickname.

Nicknames are a funny thing. When your little bundle of joy arrives you coo out little terms of endearment, Sugar, Sweet Pea, Baby Girl. My Dad embarrassingly saddled me with Pooh for my love of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh. This was prior to them being trademarked by Disney and other forms of over animation and glitz. Here I’ll mention this was a man whose own mama called him Buzz until the day she died.

A little innocent comparison to someone evolves in to something that sticks no matter how much you try and shake it. I once knew a kid named Nimrod who tried to convince me it meant mighty hunter. Snort, yeah right.

So what about Sheldon? Why pick such a nerdy name for our strikingly beautiful daughter? She is a born and bred overachieving smarty pants. Her favorite day, March 14th, Pi Day (3.14159265), math geeks unite. She was the kid who was having lunch everyday with the guidance counselor in 6th grade to figure what she needed to do to get her hands on scholarship dough. When I was twelve, I was happy to find my classroom and a seat in the back of the room.

Sheldon and "The Girl"

When the television show “The Big Bang Theory” came out, the most intellectual guy was Sheldon. She thought we called her that since she was so smart, in reality it was his desire to have only order in his life and color only in the lines. Assigned seating and color coordinated food became our norm. Sheldon begged us for a Periodic Table shower curtain just like the cast. Actually snorted when they told funny inside math jokes. Who are you? Were you switched at birth?

But she makes a mean Salsa, I mean the stuff is like heroin, I can drink it from a cup, why bother with chips.

Sheldon’s Salsa

28 ounce can whole tomatoes
Juice from 1 medium lemon
4 green onions
1 cup cilantro
½ white onion
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper
5 jalapeños
1 whole tomato, cut X on ends
1 ¾ reserved liquid.

Place 5 jalapenos and tomato in a sauce pan with 3 cups of water, bring to a boil for 15 minutes, reserve liquid. Seed peppers and skin the tomato and liquefy with reserved liquid in a blender. I should mention it should be done in a well ventilated area and those darn peppers should be handled carefully. I once thought I blinded myself when I scratched my eye while handling. Run the remaining ingredients in a food processor and place in bowl, pour in pepper combination. If you’re inspired you can cut up a few avocados and throw in. Serve with tortilla chips.

But the Big Tuna and I are proud of our little flower, she graduated 44th of 808 kids in her high school class with a pretty darn good scholarship to ASU where she is triple majoring in secondary education, math and Geek. All I got left for those of you in the Big Bang Fan Club, Bazinga!!!

The New Adventures of a Naughty School Girl

A few months ago I documented my to Kool 4 Skool challenges on getting my ass in gear to get a degree in Urban Planning. The current economic climate made me realize I needed to put myself on my own pedestal. Since I have the social skills of a feral cat I know I need the technical edge to keep me from being eaten like a limping zebra. I was faced with the trials and tribulations of obtaining mimeographed transcripts from 1040 BC, getting my rabies shots and wading through used condom wrappers to get accepted at ASU.



But my personal life’s plate already shows signs of too many trips to the all you can eat buffet. What was I thinking? How can I crowbar in one more stinking thing? A typical week for Mrs. Tuna involves the following random acts.

I try and torture myself at 5 AM two or three mornings a week with Eva’s Braun’s best friend Helga the yoga instructor. You there, flamingo, spread your legs wider and get closer to the floor. This may be something I can let go, actually, I’m sure I can let go. I visit the invalid horse Lad an hour away once a week and ride the loaner horse 3 or 4 days a week. I sit on a variety of professional boards and lecture sweet young girls on the fabulousness of working in a man’s world. And oh yeah, a minimum 40 hour work week at Giant Engineering Company.

I also need to make time to wear my naughty girl school outfits, I mean make dinner for the Big Tuna. At this point in the blog Sheldon is poking her eyes with a sharp object to burn that image out of her head. Mommy and Daddy never did the nasty sweetie, we found you under a rose bush in the garden. Maybe honey child you should skip to the end of this post. Here is a fast during the week recipe so we’re eating more than drive thru next week.

Applesauce Pork Chops
1 jar of applesauce
4 medium thick pork chops
Cinnamon

Pour half the jar of applesauce in the bottom of a shallow square baking pan. Place pork chops on top and cover with remaining applesauce and sprinkle with cinnamon. Cover with foil and cook at 350 degrees for an hour. Serve with mashed or bake potatoes.

During the winter school break I sent an email, even using my real name to fellow blogger Mrs. 4444s about how to get more followers and comments. Her amazing counsel helped me grow from 25 to over 100 followers, over 50 comments and a tweet on my last post and meet up with a ton of amazing and way funnier peeps than me. It’s been wonderful to have other people besides my drunken friends tell me I have mad skills. But I’ve been devoting a lot of time to my blog this break and know I have to make a few adjustments with carrying a full time class schedule on top of everything else.

So here is my commitment to you my fellow readers, I will continue to post every single week, but I may cheat and repost some of my earlier silliness. I assure you, I was just as freaking funny six months ago when none of you knew I existed. Bear with me Team Tuna, don’t Unfollow me. (This is the Facebook equivalent of being Defriended) Same time, same place next week. Peace out. See I’m hipper and more of a sorority sister already.

The Chore Wheel of Death

It always seems to be an age old struggle of Men versus Women. While I had been a child bride in the stone ages, my mom ingrained in me that I wasn’t allowed to be a fragile flower and needed to be my own financial sugar daddy. The Big Tuna came from a more traditional upbringing where the little woman would hook up a big post church Sunday dinner and birthing babies. It’s all about negotiating. But somehow there are a few kinks in our chore wheel.



Every Saturday I do the grocery shopping, pen poised in hand quizzing Team Tuna on needed items. I do not have ESP to see that you are out of deodorant or ketchup a vegetable I do not eat has run dry. This however translates into 27 phone calls while at Safeway for missing items and several loops back to the condiment aisle thus ensuring my exercises for the day. I have to go before noon, heaven forbid there isn’t anything in the house for lunch for the starving masses.

But I have been making this trip for over 25 years, I’m always gone for 47 to 53 minutes and yet………no one is available to lug in the 83 pound bags. Excuses range from I was in the shed, taking a shower, mowing the lawn, going potty. Didn’t you hear me kicking the door in the 500 degree heat shrieking that the Cherry Garcia was melting?

Why is it that recycles are left at the end of the counter instead of walking the THREE additional steps to the recycle can. I even bought a great big one so you can’t complain it’s too full. A side note, the recycle people don’t take dryer lint, it cannot be woven into a new sweater. It should go in the other can, RIGHT NEXT TO IT.

Laundry is the bane of my existence, pushing it through the washer and dryer and piling it a gigantic pile in the middle of our bed does not constitute doing the laundry big guy. Nor does washing my work blouses and bras with jeans. I don’t mind folding it but untangling the maze of wire hangers to drape up our work clothes I hate. I live for when Kathy the Wonderful comes to clean the house every other week. She even DOES MY LAUNDRY, neatly folded and put away. Let’s bow our heads in thanks for the cleaning woman.

In honor of the Sunday dinner here is what we’re eating out our house tonight.

Beef and Broccoli

1 pound round or flank steak cut in 1/8” strips
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons oil
1 clove garlic minced
1 medium onion minced
2 ½ cups beef broth
2 cups broccoli florets cooked
1 ½ teaspoon corn starch
2 tablespoons soy sauce

Sprinkle beef with salt and pepper. In large skillet heat oil, add beef, onion and garlic and cook until meat is browned on all sides. Add beef broth, cover and simmer for 10 minutes. Mix cornstarch, soy sauce and a bit of the heated broth in a small bowl. Add to meat mixture, add broccoli and stir until sauce has thickened. Serve over hot rice.

In all fairness I’ve never mowed the lawn or strung the Christmas lights. All that mechanical stuff gives me the willies. One day at work I was rushing out of the office to get home in time to prepare our anniversary dinner my boss asked, “And how many years of marital bliss is the lucky Big Tuna having?” At the time we’d been swapping wedded saliva for 15 years I answer 2. You see it’s not always rainbows and puppies, marital happiness happens in 10 minute increments Viagra notwithstanding. Just call me Vanna White.