As we drove home tonight, we passed a big hub-bub at the elementary school. D mentioned that he thought maybe we were missing some special election of something-or-other that he had heard about on the radio but to which he had paid no attention. I slammed on the brakes and veered to the side of the road.
K: We can’t NOT vote. It’s just wrong.
D: We don’t even know if it is a vote.
K: Look at all the old people going into the building. It has to be a vote for something.
We jumped out of the car and ran inside, only to find the old people setting up chairs in the gym. Suddenly I got the “slimy lawyer” vibe. I turned around and one almost walked into me. Then another. And another. To attend this meeting it appears that you had to be over 80 or wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit.
K: We gotta get out of here. Too many lawyers.
D corralled an old lady to find out what was going on. She said it was a civic association meeting to discuss the proposed buildup of the town. She implored him to attend. It was like “Cocoon” meets “Rock the Vote.” We left, of course, because we are for big business, big buildup and all those other horrific capitalist qualities.
K: You know, if they build up this dump of a town, that deserted restaurant down the street could be a real hotspot.
D: You aren’t kidding.
K: Maybe we really could have our own brew pub.
Then we got home and realized that we can’t even afford our Direct TV and now I am going to have to give up my Starz package or put the thermostat down to 55 degrees. The brew pub will have to remain a fantasy.
We sat down for dinner and my son initiated a hunger strike. He has decided recently that he only likes the food he is getting at the babysitter’s house. Apparently my food is too bland. The babysitter has taken to sending food home with him so now he looks at me like I’m a lunatic when I offer him carrots or mashed potatoes. I remember when he used to LOVE wasabi mashed potatoes. Oh, now he is too good for them. A regular food snob. When I offered him pork tenderloin last night he threw it on the floor. I think he might be Muslim now. Which would be helpful to know by perhaps saying, “I don’t eat pork, you heathen” rather than screeching maniacally and throwing the food directing into the dog’s open mouth below.
So it appears that until I learn how to cook Middle Eastern and Ethiopian food, I’m going to have to ask the babysitter to send home a little extra. Either that or I can just start putting berbere in his YoBaby yogurt. Whatever.Share on Facebook