I am somewhere buried in a spreadsheet (or three) (okay, five), having brief breakdowns and not cleaning my house. If not for my mom, I doubt my kids would still be getting fed.

I, however, am a stress eater so I have been sustaining myself on bags of chips and cereal straight from the box. It’s not unusual, lately, for me to work well into the morning hours then sleep a few, only to get up and do it again. It’s like I’m a medical resident, only without the stethoscope.

This is my busy time. Like, walk-around-saying-there-aren’t-enough-hours-in-the-day-and-REALLY-MEANING-IT busy. Like, I’ve-seriously-considered-a-catheter busy.

Why would anyone beat themselves up like this? I do it because I love my job. I love what I do, with whom I do it and for whom I do it. I am passionate about what the internet can do for people. I know a lot of people scratch their heads and wonder why I work so much, but I scratch my head and wonder how they work at jobs they hate.

So, if you’ve emailed me, called me, or knocked on my door, there’s a reason why I haven’t answered. In a couple of weeks, things will calm down a little bit.

Until then, pass the chips.

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School has been out for 18 days and my head hasn’t exploded. I’d say that’s a win.

Of course, this is not for my kids’ lack of trying. They have given it their all, what with the constant bickering and sometimes kicking. There may have also been biting, but I haven’t confirmed they were actual teeth-marks.

It wasn’t that long ago that they loved each other. I remember it! I don’t remember a lot (*waves at Ambien*), but I do remember that there was once affection and kindness where now there is none.

Sigh.

My mom tells me this is normal; that because my sisters were so much older than me, I was like an only child and I didn’t have the benefit of squabbling with a sibling. I do, however, remember two of my sisters fighting. I was 5, they were 18 and 20. I don’t recall much other than our toy-fox terrier taking a bite out of one of their ankles and there weren’t a lot of fists being thrown. Scratches and hair-pulling, yes. Punches, no. At least it was a fair fight.

In my house, with an average-size 13 year old and a 10 year old who can still get into amusement parks for free, my daughter has an unfair advantage; at least in the height-department. My son makes up for this with his skilled mind tricks though. Like when he purposely falls over his sister’s foot and claims she tripped him.

He also knows exactly how to push her buttons and how to irritate her with maximum efficiency and little effort. Just for the record, he inherited that trait from his dad. Last night, my husband asked me out of the blue, “So, would you be mad at me if I tried bath salts? My guy, stirring up trouble since 1971.

People, please tell me that the arguing will stop someday and my kids will love each other again. If you feel like being generous, tell me that day will be soon.

My mental health is depending on it.

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In the seventh grade, I was in a stage production of Oliver! I acted in the bar scene, where I pumped a beer stein back and forth while singing, “Oom Pa Pa” with an ensemble. That is where they put you when you can’t sing; they make you be part of a group and pretend you’re drunk.

An added bonus? I played a boy. This should not be a surprise, because I was a 5′ 9″ twelve year old. I filled in whenever height was necessary. Need a fifth person for a pick-up game? Ask Momo! Even if she just stands there, we’ll have enough for a team!

I suppose you could say that Oliver! is where my food career started. “Please sir, may I have some more?” Also, my beer career. Though I gave up knickers, knee socks and vests long ago, the rest of my stage debut stuck. Right to my thighs.

Last weekend, while in Seattle for the BlogHer Food Conference, I heard over and over how food is part of who we are and the stories we tell. Through pain, laughter, anger and joy, food is always there. No matter where we go and what we do, it is a constant presence in our lives. Again, just ask my thighs.

You can’t have a party without food; you can’t have a wake either. What is a movie without popcorn, a baseball game without peanuts, a wedding without a cake or a cookout without potato salad? It’s just a boring, old, regular day, that’s what.

For instance, I can’t think of my grandma without smelling her spaghetti sauce. Though, it was never accompanied by spaghetti, always rigatoni, and she called the noodles “sewer pipes.” That’s right. Sewer pipes. Mmm.

That food memory is, hands-down, my favorite. Though, there are so many others. So. Very. Many. Picking mulberries fresh from the tree is right up there, as was watching my mom prepare the food for my sister’s wedding reception.

There are bad ones too; like when my cousins would make me eat a spoonful of peanut butter, relish and cocoa powder in a game of Spoons-Meets-Truth-or-Dare. *shudder*

Now I eat things like tofu which, apparently, makes other people shudder.

Whether your food memories make you queasy or make you smile, I want to know what they are. Tell me, boys and girls, what food takes you back to a place and time, and why? What is the single culinary delight, kitchen accessory or truth-or-dare moment that never fails to stir something in you? Let’s sit awhile and listen to each others’ stories.

I’ll bring the beer stein.

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A few days ago, we pulled the kids out of school, piled into a car with some friends and drove to an amusement park where we spent the day going in loops and curves, laughing, and preparing ourselves for the oh-so-wonderful-post-amusement-park-shampoo-and-shower.

We had so much fun, minus the few minutes I spent on the swings with my son, where I had my eyes tightly shut and spent the entire time trying to distract myself by counting. Not to any particular number, mind you, but just counting because OHMYGOODNESS the spinning.

Of course, roller coasters and swings aren’t the only attractions. If you are an amusement park aficionado, you know that the rides are great, but equally enjoyable is the people-watching. For instance, the woman who won our prize for “Best Outfit” was wearing very tiny, cut-off shorts and a hoodie that stopped just under her breasts; her belly free to hang out from in between.

Because my ten year old son often says whatever is on his mind, we have been attempting to show him how to filter his words. I have gone so far as to draw a brain and write words that are allowed to be in there, but that shouldn’t come out of his mouth.

And, apparently, the adults in our group weren’t the only ones who were people-watching at the amusement park, because when we pulled into our driveway at the end of the day, my son said, “Mom, I did a REALLY good job of keeping my thoughts inside my head today!”

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