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    Fantasies and food

    January 31, 2006

    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.

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    Who are you and what have you done to my husband?

    This is the link my husband sent to me this morning as a suggestion for a present for E’s impending birthday.

    Only if you promise to get a matching one, babe.

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    It’s only because he is such a great mediator

    January 29, 2006

    Lately we have been having all of our important conversations through the baby.

    D: Hey buddy. Do you want a baby brother?
    K: Huh?
    D: (thinking that perhaps he has just made a gender error) A baby sister?
    K: Buddy, since Mom took an antibiotic that has the half-life the same as, say, uranium, Dad’s penis won’t be coming anywhere near Mom’s Vahh-GIII-na anytime soon.

    Oh, that’s what I said. Vahh-GIIII-na. I let the “gi” hang in the back of my throat and then roll off my tongue just like my niece does. My niece realized that she could say the word “vagina” and it would have the fabulous effect of making everyone slightly nervous but no one would ever tell her not to say it because who wants to be responsible for contributing to the cultural dysfunction that will descend on its own by junior high?

    D: Why do you have to say that?
    K: What do you want me to say? Do you want me to refer to it by the anatomically correct term of “woo-woo?” How about “cooch?”
    D: Why do you have to do it?

    Just to bug you. See button, will push.

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    A Meme

    January 25, 2006

    I never have any time to do meme’s but this one was just too easy and Jenell was so nice to tag me.

    1. Selling pantyhose at Parklane Hosiery
    2. Selling Turkish rugs
    3. Kept 10 2-year olds from killing themselves before mommy and daddy picked them up after work
    4. Customer service rep for a now-defunct two-bit airline started by old (and I mean OLD as well as former) Eastern airline employees

    1. Overboard
    2. Dave
    3. Sense and Sensibility
    4. Pride and Prejudice

    1. Grey’s Anatomy
    2. House
    3. One Tree Hill
    4. Deadwood

    1. Professional wrestler
    2. Barista at Starbucks
    3. Chef at a bed and breakfast
    4. Owning my own brew pub

    1. Economist (what the hell do these people do anyway?)
    2. Meeting planner (who cares if you got your invitation a day late–you were one the backup list anyway)
    3. Lawyer
    4. Lawyer

    1. Tierra del Fuego
    2. Antarctica
    3. Moorea
    4. Beijing

    1. Chubby Hubby
    2. Penne a la vodka
    3. Creme Brulee
    4. Flourless Chocolate Torte

    1. Burn it down.
    2. Throw out everything owned by my husband.
    3. Extend my kitchen by 750 square feet and add a double oven and a six burner stove
    4. Burn it down.

    1. Amstel Light
    2. Any Hoppy Dog Brew
    3. Grolsch
    4. Heineken

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    Oscar isn’t the only one using the trash can for entertainment purposes

    Remember all that crap I wrote in a prior post about being a good mom. It was BS. Because I resorted to writing about it, I clearly am trying to convince myself that no, I don’t need to be carted away for my poor maternal behavior.

    Take this morning, for instance. I was in the shower trying to decide if my nasal passages were ever going to feel the air again or if I was forever destined to walk the earth with a head full of snot.

    As I contemplated this, the baby was wandering around the bathroom. I figure that as long as I don’t hear the toilet seat go up, we’re good. But then he started to cough. I peaked around the side of the shower curtain and there he was, standing in the middle of the bathroom, trying to cough out little pieces of toilet paper from the last square left on the the roll that had been thrown in the trash can.

    You guys know that last square. The square of toilet paper that is stuck to the roll that you neglect to liberate now because, by God, you have a little more money and you don’t need to get that roll out of the trash can and use the last square like you did in college. The efforts you used to take to liberate the last millimeter of toilet paper on the roll back in college because damn it, you didn’t have any money to buy toilet paper and you meant to steal some from the john at school but you got distracted by that really hot guy that sits in front of you in English, and now you are going to have to try to use the brown roll because the last square isn’t cutting it.

    I went back to my shower because if I don’t figure out how to breathe soon, we are going to have bigger problems than toilet-paper-breath on the baby. I finished my shower and flung open the shower curtain to find my child standing in the middle of the bathroom with a used Q-Tip dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. Gross? yes. But did I get my shower? yes.

    I say there is another side of that Q-Tip when you are finished with that one, buddy. I still have to get dressed.

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    A monk, a nun and 2 red bras

    January 24, 2006

    Every year my in-laws go to the Caribbean for 2 weeks with three other couples. They have been doing this forever. They come home every year and regale us with stories that would make your ears curl up and fall off your head. Tales of costumes, skits, songs. It sounds like kid’s summer camp, except instead of bug juice there is a lot (A LOT) of gin and tonics. And wine. And beer. Enough that my FIL always says that one of these years they are going to swing by Betty Ford for a couple of days on the way home to air out.

    Apparently crazy things always happen at the beach. Just last week they were discussing the nun habit that my FIL got for my MIL to wear this year. He has a monk outfit. But our favorite story is the year my MIL was showing the vacation pictures to a friend and she had forgotten to take out the picture of my FIL, wearing only an apron. I didn’t ask if the view was from the front or the back. I now refuse to look at vacation pictures. You can never be too cautious.

    This year the ‘rents decided to swing by our town on their way down. I picked them up from the airport yesterday, with the Boo in tow.

    MIL: Can we stop by a department store? We need to buy red bras for FIL and Tommy.

    That kind of comment will send you careening off the road. Into opposing traffic. Full of semis. What do you say to that? Part of me was freaking out but part of me was fascinated that I could participate in this psychosis. So off we went to Target. I couldn’t see buying my FIL a Victoria’s Secret bra that he would only wear for 2 weeks. Really. 15 minutes later we were in the Lingerie department.

    And there he was. My 6’5″ FIL, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, trying on a lovely red lace bra over his green shirt. It fit.

    I could go on about Gonzalo, Target’s Customer Service Representive/Traumatized Checker, but I have already gone too far. These people sure know how to have a good time.

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