I spent $40 on myself on nothing practical. I got a manicure, a pedicure, and my bows waxed. It felt good.
Of course the shoes Kiddo made me wear smudged one of the big toes, and I have no comparable polish, but I don't care, because I have pretty eyebrows and no more unsightly cuticles!
Mom and Kidlet got me my x-mas presents and I have NO IDEA what they are, which is incredible. All the x-mas crap is done except for the wrapping. I'm on call tomorrow, and for once I really do have a clear schedule just in case I have to run out and sit somewhere for money. If I don't have to go anywhere then I have bonus time cooped up with the kid who is so starved for my attention lately.
This feels good, this feels right.
Mutha-fuckin' OM.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Solemn Truths
Today I found out why my son has been an absolute terror lately. He's usually been none too thrilled when I go to work, but lately he's been beastly. Now I know why.
He thinks if he's really bad for his grandma, I'll have to stay home with him every day.
He's only 3 1/2 and I know he doesn't understand, no matter how often I explain it, but what else can I do? Once again we snuggled down and I told him that it was something I had to do not just for me, but him, grandma and the pets too. I also told him that even though grandma's knees won't let her work like I do, she works in his heart taking care of him when I can't be here, and last but not least that I missed him just as much as he missed me when I was gone.
I don't know if it sunk in any more tonight then it has in the past, but again what can I do?
Doesn't stop me from feeling like crap about it, though.
He thinks if he's really bad for his grandma, I'll have to stay home with him every day.
He's only 3 1/2 and I know he doesn't understand, no matter how often I explain it, but what else can I do? Once again we snuggled down and I told him that it was something I had to do not just for me, but him, grandma and the pets too. I also told him that even though grandma's knees won't let her work like I do, she works in his heart taking care of him when I can't be here, and last but not least that I missed him just as much as he missed me when I was gone.
I don't know if it sunk in any more tonight then it has in the past, but again what can I do?
Doesn't stop me from feeling like crap about it, though.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
So....Much....Fudge
Like every other human being on the planet, I love fudge. Even people with chocolate allergies love it, and I'm still not thoroughly convinced that chocolate allergies aren't just the Aliens' way of avoiding the only thing that will bring them down.
It's chocolate, but MORE. You know what I'm talking about. If chocolate is sex, then fudge is the deeply satisfying kinky shit you can only get from an ad on Craigslist.
You, um, may just have to trust me on that one.
Wow. Awkward.
ANYWAY...it's good stuff, but it is a pain in the ass to make. The recipe I use involves cooking a mixture of butter, evaporated milk, and sugar then pouring it over chocolate, marshmallows, and flavoring. Anybody who's done any kind of candy making knows that sugar + stove = a metric asston of mess if not watched, stirred, lovingly caressed and told that the saucepan doesn't make it look fat. Then you pour it over the other stuff and stir like your life depended on it. You stir like Dennis Hopper will blow you up if you stop and then you'll have Keanu and Sandra chunks all over the gingersnaps.
Fudge making isn't for wimps.
It's frakkin' good though.
It's chocolate, but MORE. You know what I'm talking about. If chocolate is sex, then fudge is the deeply satisfying kinky shit you can only get from an ad on Craigslist.
You, um, may just have to trust me on that one.
Wow. Awkward.
ANYWAY...it's good stuff, but it is a pain in the ass to make. The recipe I use involves cooking a mixture of butter, evaporated milk, and sugar then pouring it over chocolate, marshmallows, and flavoring. Anybody who's done any kind of candy making knows that sugar + stove = a metric asston of mess if not watched, stirred, lovingly caressed and told that the saucepan doesn't make it look fat. Then you pour it over the other stuff and stir like your life depended on it. You stir like Dennis Hopper will blow you up if you stop and then you'll have Keanu and Sandra chunks all over the gingersnaps.
Fudge making isn't for wimps.
It's frakkin' good though.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Baking, Day 1
So this weekend is Baking Weekend. I love baking, don't get me wrong, but I prefer to just go in the kitchen on a whim and make some cookies instead of planning it out around holidays and shipping schedules. Today I managed to complete the cranberry bread.
Cranberry bread is one of those things from my childhood that was always made for the neighbors because it's just so damn Christmassy. It was a no-brainer to make cranberry bread, I even figured on using some orange extract I have to make a nice glaze. Cranberry and orange are a popular combo, right? One thing about me you don't know, dear 1.5 readers?
I fucking HATE cranberries. They are a utilitarian fruit put on this earth to rid the bodies of pesky Urinary Tract Infections, and they are flavored as they are to be a deterrent from ever getting another UTI.
But I know I am in the minority in my hatred of cranberry, so I make the bread. We always used, of all things, the Pilsbury Quick Bread mix, because it tasted good (I was told) and was a lot easier than farting around with Bladder Fruit. A nice mix with a homemade glaze? No problemo....
Except I couldn't find the mix. I found pumpkin, banana, nut, cinnamon and even fucking DATE bread mix but no cranberry. I had to settle for another brand of cranberry/orange muffin mix, a brand that in the past has produced nothing but some sort of cross between sawdust and cardboard flavored baked goods. Oh hell, that's what doctoring is for. It works for cakes, no reason it can't work for muffin/bread mix, right?
Well there was one thing I had forgotten about. My mother the kitchen grump queen. This brand of mix is one of those "just add water" mixes. Never do this. Here is a transcript from my kitchen, shortly after lunch:
Me: "Just add water"? No I don't think so.
Mom: Don't experiment with the mix, mixes aren't for experimenting!
Me: You sure like the cakes that come from this kind of experimenting, why not do it to this mix?
Mom: Just make it the way they say, there's milk and eggs and things already in there!
Me: So? They're already in cake mixes too, and, again, messing with them turns out well.
Mom: But why? What do you want to do?
Me: I'm adding 2 cups of milk instead 2 cups of water, beyond that, I don't know until it's mixed up.
Mom: But why add more milk?
Me (losing my temper at this point): BECAUSE THESE CRAP MIXES ARE JUST LIKE BISQUICK KNOCK-OFF PANCAKE MIXES. YOU JUST ADD WATER TO THOSE AND WHAT DO THE FINISHED PRODUCT TASTE LIKE?
Mom: They taste like flavorless crap.
Me: And how did YOU teach me to fix them so that didn't happen?
Mom (mumbling): add milk
Me: RIGHT. NOW LET ME DO THIS.
What I ended up doing was using milk instead of water, added a touch of cinnamon to the mix and making a glaze with powdered sugar, orange flavor, vanilla, cinnamon, a little water and a dash of milk.
And how does it taste?
I don't fucking know. I HATE cranberries, remember?
Cranberry bread is one of those things from my childhood that was always made for the neighbors because it's just so damn Christmassy. It was a no-brainer to make cranberry bread, I even figured on using some orange extract I have to make a nice glaze. Cranberry and orange are a popular combo, right? One thing about me you don't know, dear 1.5 readers?
I fucking HATE cranberries. They are a utilitarian fruit put on this earth to rid the bodies of pesky Urinary Tract Infections, and they are flavored as they are to be a deterrent from ever getting another UTI.
But I know I am in the minority in my hatred of cranberry, so I make the bread. We always used, of all things, the Pilsbury Quick Bread mix, because it tasted good (I was told) and was a lot easier than farting around with Bladder Fruit. A nice mix with a homemade glaze? No problemo....
Except I couldn't find the mix. I found pumpkin, banana, nut, cinnamon and even fucking DATE bread mix but no cranberry. I had to settle for another brand of cranberry/orange muffin mix, a brand that in the past has produced nothing but some sort of cross between sawdust and cardboard flavored baked goods. Oh hell, that's what doctoring is for. It works for cakes, no reason it can't work for muffin/bread mix, right?
Well there was one thing I had forgotten about. My mother the kitchen grump queen. This brand of mix is one of those "just add water" mixes. Never do this. Here is a transcript from my kitchen, shortly after lunch:
Me: "Just add water"? No I don't think so.
Mom: Don't experiment with the mix, mixes aren't for experimenting!
Me: You sure like the cakes that come from this kind of experimenting, why not do it to this mix?
Mom: Just make it the way they say, there's milk and eggs and things already in there!
Me: So? They're already in cake mixes too, and, again, messing with them turns out well.
Mom: But why? What do you want to do?
Me: I'm adding 2 cups of milk instead 2 cups of water, beyond that, I don't know until it's mixed up.
Mom: But why add more milk?
Me (losing my temper at this point): BECAUSE THESE CRAP MIXES ARE JUST LIKE BISQUICK KNOCK-OFF PANCAKE MIXES. YOU JUST ADD WATER TO THOSE AND WHAT DO THE FINISHED PRODUCT TASTE LIKE?
Mom: They taste like flavorless crap.
Me: And how did YOU teach me to fix them so that didn't happen?
Mom (mumbling): add milk
Me: RIGHT. NOW LET ME DO THIS.
What I ended up doing was using milk instead of water, added a touch of cinnamon to the mix and making a glaze with powdered sugar, orange flavor, vanilla, cinnamon, a little water and a dash of milk.
And how does it taste?
I don't fucking know. I HATE cranberries, remember?
Friday, December 17, 2010
On Ballet And Taking A Leak
For those of you keeping score, please go read a book.
Ahem, sorry, not a great day. So tonight's monster was red, with pointy things, and red eyes, and to quote the bizarre creature I call Son, "It's craaaaaaaaazy."
Thank goodness for Lysol, I mean, Monster Spray.
Once this latest menace was taken care of, he asked for a story, which I read to him (previous attempts were thwarted by jerkishness) and when he asked if he could put the book away I said yes, but he had to go potty again when he was done.
Eventually he was rounded up in the bathroom and after I failed to believe that he had really "ga-looed" the toilet lid shut (I didn't ask) he decided to whiz standing up, or as he calls it "peeing like a fireman."
Now this was something to see, and I had no choice but to see it as I was standing in the doorway to prevent further escape, like some sort of Urine Goalie I suppose. He lifts the lid and seat, he gets in position kind of off to the side of the bowl, he tucks his shirt under his chin, he bounces on the balls of his feet, bends his knees a little, almost achieves en pointe, clenches his little buttocks into a pair of pink kidney beans and lets fly!
I don't think NASA ever prepared as much for a shuttle launch.
It got me thinking though. If all little boys are this good at en pointe and other ballet-like moves at the john, why aren't there more male danseurs? Seriously, is it the lack of toilets in ballet? I think it is. I say we all band together and this holiday season we demand a rewrite to accommodate the natural proclivities of today's culture-starved boys. I, for one, am not going to rest until The Dance Of The Ty-D-Bol Fairies is a reality!
Who's with me?!
Ahem, sorry, not a great day. So tonight's monster was red, with pointy things, and red eyes, and to quote the bizarre creature I call Son, "It's craaaaaaaaazy."
Thank goodness for Lysol, I mean, Monster Spray.
Once this latest menace was taken care of, he asked for a story, which I read to him (previous attempts were thwarted by jerkishness) and when he asked if he could put the book away I said yes, but he had to go potty again when he was done.
Eventually he was rounded up in the bathroom and after I failed to believe that he had really "ga-looed" the toilet lid shut (I didn't ask) he decided to whiz standing up, or as he calls it "peeing like a fireman."
Now this was something to see, and I had no choice but to see it as I was standing in the doorway to prevent further escape, like some sort of Urine Goalie I suppose. He lifts the lid and seat, he gets in position kind of off to the side of the bowl, he tucks his shirt under his chin, he bounces on the balls of his feet, bends his knees a little, almost achieves en pointe, clenches his little buttocks into a pair of pink kidney beans and lets fly!
I don't think NASA ever prepared as much for a shuttle launch.
It got me thinking though. If all little boys are this good at en pointe and other ballet-like moves at the john, why aren't there more male danseurs? Seriously, is it the lack of toilets in ballet? I think it is. I say we all band together and this holiday season we demand a rewrite to accommodate the natural proclivities of today's culture-starved boys. I, for one, am not going to rest until The Dance Of The Ty-D-Bol Fairies is a reality!
Who's with me?!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Like You Never Did This...
A Special Moment In Parenting
So here I am with my earphones plugged in, watching Penn and Teller's Bullshit (great show) when my mom taps me on the shoulder to tell me Kiddo has a monster in his room and I am the only one who can help. Oh yes, he has horns like this *wiggles forefingers near temples*.
Okay, let's see what we can do.
"What up Kiddo?"
"There's a monster in here and he has horns like this" *wiggles forefingers near temples*
"So I heard. Where is it?"
"In the closet, here, you hold my little bunny."
*thinking to self, "where the hell did the bunny come from?"
"There he is. Ssssh!"
"Which shelf?
"I think he's on the bottom shelf, let me move my shoes."
Okay I know if we start this shtick he will use it as an excuse to stay up all damn night and I have to get up early tomorrow, so it's time to nip this in the bud.
"Okay, before you move the shoes, what exactly do you want me to do with this monster, do you want me to get rid of him?"
"Yes. Get rid of him."
"Do you know the monster's name?"
"Yes. It's Red."
"Red? Okay, let me go get my can of Red the Monster remover."
Please keep in mind that I am pulling all this out of my ass as I go. I walk 3 steps to the bathroom and grab my can of Red the Monster Remover, also known as Lysol Neutra Air Freshener in Clean Linen scent. Monsters HATE the smell of clean linen, it's a fact. Give me 10 minutes and you could even find it on wikipedia.
Okay, so back in the room, I explain the way the spray works, and with a *fwoosh* no more monster. You know how you can be sure? They smell like clean linen when they vaporize.
So I tucked the critter back in bed and walk back into the living room where my mom is trying hard not to snicker.
"What's your problem? It's the best I could think of, okay?"
"Oh I think it's great. Anti-monster spray, I love it!"
"Well, the poor thing was lounging on Kiddo's shoes, I figure he'd appreciate it."
"So it was a mercy killing?"
"Exactly."
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Why I Am Not An Anthropologist
**BEWARE- BLOGGER HAS DONE NO REAL RESEARCH BECAUSE SHE IS LAZY**
Okay folks, it's time for another trip into my weird little mind, brought to you today by Man Vs. Food. I love that show, man. It's like a soap opera for fat chicks. There's the intriguing leading man, (an absolute cutie who wouldn't mind me cleaning my plate? be still my possibly enlarged heart) the ongoing ups and downs of emotion; you feel the thrill of victory when the host manages to down that barbecued half cow in 15 minutes (plus sides), and the emotional trough when he throws up after the 25th pound of deep-fried butter. It's addictive as hell and I'm still pissed I didn't have cable and knew nothing of the show before he came to Tucson.
Anyway, back on topic.
I saw a bit from a restaurant in Hawaii where the audience was being shown how to make this traditional pork and butterfish thing, and it occurred to me:
Where did the pig come from?
These are small groups of islands, the idea that some species of wild pig had been evolving in these little South Sea dots of rock since the breakup of Pangaea kind of sounds iffy to me. Especially when you consider the largest comparable land mass, Australia, didn't have pigs until they were introduced in modern (as in not paleolithic) times. So, there were pigs on these little dots, but none on the huge frakkin' continent? Huh. That's a noodle scratcher. So from that I formed 3 possible answers to how there could be South Sea pork recipes of such perfection and understanding of the ingredient.
1. The recipes are newer than the seeming perfection of them would make you think, and were, in fact, perfected fairly recently after the introduction of the pig.
2. The recipes are old ones that were made with indigenous ingredients and then mildly adapted for the new ingredient of luscious piggy.
3. The recipes were perfected with something indigenous that is very close to pork but fell out of favor with the arrival of white people, and presumably pigs. Yes, I'm going there.
I think it is possible the fantastic island pork dishes folks love are in fact adapted from similar if not the same ways of preparation used back in the days of cannibals.
Before the flames are kindled, let me remind you all that I am in no way an anthropologist and I didn't even bother to do a quick check on wiki-freaking-pedia to try and find out if and/or when pigs were introduced to the South Sea Islands.
Let the games begin.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Damn, Missed A Day
Well crapsticks, I missed a day. Completely forgot. Mom and I took Kiddo to see Santa, and it was great. We had lunch at the mall food court, and because I remembered cash for a change we could all have what we wanted. Mom got her Kobari Beef, Kiddo got his McNuggets, I got a gyro because every once in awhile I love to spend my afternoon burping oregano.
Went to Trader Joe's for coffee and jelly and baklava for me, because sometimes I like to spend my time sticky with honey and crunching phyllo and nuts.
I never claimed to be interesting, you know.
Monday evenings I go and see a horrible movie at The Loft and yell at the screen along with everybody else. It's very cathartic and I ran into my hairdresser and her boyfriend. She is, like me, short and round. He is skinny and just keeps going up. When they hug it looks like a lowercase "b". It's adorable.
After all that I just flat out forgot to blog. So much for my great intentions of sticking to something, anything. Ah well, for all my fans (both of you) there will be better tales to come as I will be back in the office later this week. Real estate, even if it is just apartment rentals, often allows for wonderful stories. Want to know one of my favorite ones? I answered the phone at one complex and this loud, gruff voice says, "Do you accept felons?" My response?
"We prefer check or money order."
Good night, Cleveland!
Went to Trader Joe's for coffee and jelly and baklava for me, because sometimes I like to spend my time sticky with honey and crunching phyllo and nuts.
I never claimed to be interesting, you know.
Monday evenings I go and see a horrible movie at The Loft and yell at the screen along with everybody else. It's very cathartic and I ran into my hairdresser and her boyfriend. She is, like me, short and round. He is skinny and just keeps going up. When they hug it looks like a lowercase "b". It's adorable.
After all that I just flat out forgot to blog. So much for my great intentions of sticking to something, anything. Ah well, for all my fans (both of you) there will be better tales to come as I will be back in the office later this week. Real estate, even if it is just apartment rentals, often allows for wonderful stories. Want to know one of my favorite ones? I answered the phone at one complex and this loud, gruff voice says, "Do you accept felons?" My response?
"We prefer check or money order."
Good night, Cleveland!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Drunken Post- NSFW-ish
I'm not going to talk about today. That's the kind of day it was, I just do not want to discuss it. Instead of diligently blogging I watched several episodes of Bridezilla (which I had never watched before) and had a minor breakdown. Not because of Bridezilla, but because of stuff I am not going to discuss that may or may not have anything to do with a toddler who may or may not have been swapped with an evil alien who was raised by wolves.
Anyway, he's in bed and I have consumed a Large Adult Beverage. Unfortunately for you guys, I drank it before I remembered my obligation to the gods of Holidailies. I had nothing ready to go, so I will just say this:
Right now I'm watching Iron Chef America and the secret ingredient is pork fat.
Somewhere out there, Emeril Lagasse is masturbating furiously.
That is all.
Anyway, he's in bed and I have consumed a Large Adult Beverage. Unfortunately for you guys, I drank it before I remembered my obligation to the gods of Holidailies. I had nothing ready to go, so I will just say this:
Right now I'm watching Iron Chef America and the secret ingredient is pork fat.
Somewhere out there, Emeril Lagasse is masturbating furiously.
That is all.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
No, I DON'T Feel Lucky As A Matter Of Fact
It is now 1:57 pm MST and it is already a rotten day.
Woke up to discover that the toddler who has been up since I don't know when has ransacked the kitchen and hidden his swag of chip clips, flashlight, and fortune cookie under his blanket. Oh yes, he also peed on the kitchen floor.
Apparently my son has once again dipped into his stash as his behavior can only be described as "Mosquito with ADHD high on crack." He won't stay still, he won't listen, he is doing everything he possibly can to rile me.
I know why he's doing it, but of course I can't make him understand. I have to work, and when I don't work I have other things that need to be done. I can't spend 100% of any one day just with him. I don't exactly have somebody pulling in the dollars for us so I can spend the day with him. I don't even have the money to put him in day care to spend time with kids his own age, all I can afford is my mother who doesn't have the physical ability to watch him more than 3 days in a row, and does not drive. I feel like I'm being punished by the boy for the crime of having to do the work of both mom and dad, which (and of course he's too little to understand this) if I had my choice would NOT be the case.
Okay, so as the only driver, grocery shopping is my job. Of course all the stores got together and decided to hold sales on just a couple things I need per store. Here's the game plan: Kiddo and I hit Safeway, then Sonic for corn dogs, and another store at least. What happened instead?
We went to Safeway (after the Kiddo was properly attired in shirt, jeans, monkey sandals, plaid hat, sunglasses and track jacket; he looked like a snowbird.) and I locked my purse in the trunk. No keys. No phone. No wallet. Luckily my dad (who rocks sometimes) pays for a yearly AAA membership. Back to the store. Call AAA. Wait for the guy to unlock the car. Get approached by a panhandler that looked exactly like a hungover college kid and not the hungry homeless guy he claimed to be.
"Could you spare some money so I can get something to eat?"
"Can you spare a AAA driver to get my car open so I can get to my wallet?"
"That would take me a while."
"Then I can't help you."
Well the dude showed up and opened the door with, I shit you not, a blood pressure cuff. Okay! Trunk's open, keys in hand, off to Sonic!
We're happily munching away...okay that's not true. I am angrily munching away as Kiddo complains that his food is too hot and he wants his chocolate milk. I was waiting for a little cup with lid and straw for the milk, since that's way easier for him to handle. Get the milk all set up. Munch, munch, mu- "Mama! I gotta go to the bathroom!!!"
"Now?!"
"NOW."
By the time I got to the backseat, it was already too late. Ho-kay, go to restroom, convince toddler that restroom will have to do even if it is poorly lit and a bit scary. Remove wet pants and undies. Take track jacket (how glad I am he insisted on wearing it) and fashion it into a sarong. Take every napkin in the car and put in car seat, go home. Mom changes kid into new undies and sweat pants, I disengage cover from car seat and get it in the machine. Toddler has removed the top and straw from his remaining chocolate milk and when I said for him to give it to me, danced away from me while laughing, took a big gulp and spilled it all over his shirt and the floor.
It was at this point I seriously contemplated taking up alcoholism.
Remove shirt and put it in washer along with car seat cover, jeans, undies, and track jacket. The only original piece of clothing he is still able to wear is his hat which he then volunteered for the washer. I still don't know why.
When did I get this twitch in my left eye?
Right. Enough of that, the child needs scrubbing after all this.
"You. Child. Go get naked. It's shower time."
Scrub the bejeezus out of son, dry thoroughly, dress, send straight to bed. Why?
"So I do not kill you, Son. Say GoodNap to Gramma and. Go. To. Sleep."
It is not even 2:00pm. I still have mondo shopping to do, but I'm waiting until these twitches stop and I no longer sound like Dirty Harry when I speak.
What a rotten Saturday.
Woke up to discover that the toddler who has been up since I don't know when has ransacked the kitchen and hidden his swag of chip clips, flashlight, and fortune cookie under his blanket. Oh yes, he also peed on the kitchen floor.
Apparently my son has once again dipped into his stash as his behavior can only be described as "Mosquito with ADHD high on crack." He won't stay still, he won't listen, he is doing everything he possibly can to rile me.
I know why he's doing it, but of course I can't make him understand. I have to work, and when I don't work I have other things that need to be done. I can't spend 100% of any one day just with him. I don't exactly have somebody pulling in the dollars for us so I can spend the day with him. I don't even have the money to put him in day care to spend time with kids his own age, all I can afford is my mother who doesn't have the physical ability to watch him more than 3 days in a row, and does not drive. I feel like I'm being punished by the boy for the crime of having to do the work of both mom and dad, which (and of course he's too little to understand this) if I had my choice would NOT be the case.
Okay, so as the only driver, grocery shopping is my job. Of course all the stores got together and decided to hold sales on just a couple things I need per store. Here's the game plan: Kiddo and I hit Safeway, then Sonic for corn dogs, and another store at least. What happened instead?
We went to Safeway (after the Kiddo was properly attired in shirt, jeans, monkey sandals, plaid hat, sunglasses and track jacket; he looked like a snowbird.) and I locked my purse in the trunk. No keys. No phone. No wallet. Luckily my dad (who rocks sometimes) pays for a yearly AAA membership. Back to the store. Call AAA. Wait for the guy to unlock the car. Get approached by a panhandler that looked exactly like a hungover college kid and not the hungry homeless guy he claimed to be.
"Could you spare some money so I can get something to eat?"
"Can you spare a AAA driver to get my car open so I can get to my wallet?"
"That would take me a while."
"Then I can't help you."
Well the dude showed up and opened the door with, I shit you not, a blood pressure cuff. Okay! Trunk's open, keys in hand, off to Sonic!
We're happily munching away...okay that's not true. I am angrily munching away as Kiddo complains that his food is too hot and he wants his chocolate milk. I was waiting for a little cup with lid and straw for the milk, since that's way easier for him to handle. Get the milk all set up. Munch, munch, mu- "Mama! I gotta go to the bathroom!!!"
"Now?!"
"NOW."
By the time I got to the backseat, it was already too late. Ho-kay, go to restroom, convince toddler that restroom will have to do even if it is poorly lit and a bit scary. Remove wet pants and undies. Take track jacket (how glad I am he insisted on wearing it) and fashion it into a sarong. Take every napkin in the car and put in car seat, go home. Mom changes kid into new undies and sweat pants, I disengage cover from car seat and get it in the machine. Toddler has removed the top and straw from his remaining chocolate milk and when I said for him to give it to me, danced away from me while laughing, took a big gulp and spilled it all over his shirt and the floor.
It was at this point I seriously contemplated taking up alcoholism.
Remove shirt and put it in washer along with car seat cover, jeans, undies, and track jacket. The only original piece of clothing he is still able to wear is his hat which he then volunteered for the washer. I still don't know why.
When did I get this twitch in my left eye?
Right. Enough of that, the child needs scrubbing after all this.
"You. Child. Go get naked. It's shower time."
Scrub the bejeezus out of son, dry thoroughly, dress, send straight to bed. Why?
"So I do not kill you, Son. Say GoodNap to Gramma and. Go. To. Sleep."
It is not even 2:00pm. I still have mondo shopping to do, but I'm waiting until these twitches stop and I no longer sound like Dirty Harry when I speak.
What a rotten Saturday.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Beatles Brain Cramp
One of the best things about my job is that I get quite a bit of freedom sometimes. Freedom to read a good book, freedom to finish an art project, sometimes freedom to run out and finish Christmas shopping for the kid at the conveniently located Bullseye store, and especially the freedom to not get back for an hour and 10 minutes and have nobody notice.
Not that I would ever do such a thing without properly noting it on my timesheet.
So anyway, I went there looking for one, maybe two things and I ended up getting:
a robe covered in skulls and crossbones
a set of Iron Man pajamas
a Batman tee shirt
3 pairs of Spider Man undies (see a theme?)
a miniature Robo Sapien
a guitar
Nope...not spoiled at all.
Before I left for the store I called home and asked Mom if there was anything I should look out for. Not wanting to give anything about the guitar away to the eavesdropping toddler she said, "That thing that Paul McCartney uses."
Paul. McCartney.
I shit you not.
Totally flabbergasted by this description my brain froze and, faltering, said the first thing that came to my mind.
"Women??"
Yeah. Not my best moment. I'll tell you one thing though, after that there was no way in hell I was forgetting that damn guitar.
Not that I would ever do such a thing without properly noting it on my timesheet.
So anyway, I went there looking for one, maybe two things and I ended up getting:
a robe covered in skulls and crossbones
a set of Iron Man pajamas
a Batman tee shirt
3 pairs of Spider Man undies (see a theme?)
a miniature Robo Sapien
a guitar
Nope...not spoiled at all.
Before I left for the store I called home and asked Mom if there was anything I should look out for. Not wanting to give anything about the guitar away to the eavesdropping toddler she said, "That thing that Paul McCartney uses."
Paul. McCartney.
I shit you not.
Totally flabbergasted by this description my brain froze and, faltering, said the first thing that came to my mind.
"Women??"
Yeah. Not my best moment. I'll tell you one thing though, after that there was no way in hell I was forgetting that damn guitar.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Ever Wanted to Beat Your Head Against a Yule Log?
Another day, another little slice of Christmas taken care of. The only things left to do are:
*Take the Kiddo to see Santa (and if he's very lucky I won't pull the big guy aside and tell him the truth).
*Do all my shopping
*Finish the drawing I started several months ago
*Get it framed and ready to ship along with possibly a t shirt and some baked goodness
*Make the baked goodness
*Deliver baked goodness to all in-town recipients
*Wrapping all gifts (once bought)
*Purchase all ingredients for Christmas and New Years dinners
Plus all the usual crap like work and sleep and trying to raise a child whose developing personality convinces me every day that he doesn't need a preschool so much as a sideshow.
It's times like this I wish I was Jewish. Not because I believe Hanukkah is easier or that I think it's better than Christmas, it's just, well...Hanukkah is over.
L'Chaim!
*Take the Kiddo to see Santa (and if he's very lucky I won't pull the big guy aside and tell him the truth).
*Do all my shopping
*Finish the drawing I started several months ago
*Get it framed and ready to ship along with possibly a t shirt and some baked goodness
*Make the baked goodness
*Deliver baked goodness to all in-town recipients
*Wrapping all gifts (once bought)
*Purchase all ingredients for Christmas and New Years dinners
Plus all the usual crap like work and sleep and trying to raise a child whose developing personality convinces me every day that he doesn't need a preschool so much as a sideshow.
It's times like this I wish I was Jewish. Not because I believe Hanukkah is easier or that I think it's better than Christmas, it's just, well...Hanukkah is over.
L'Chaim!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Son The ChefBot
This conversation took place in less than 15 minutes. I don't know what inspired it. I was just sitting here at the desk doing nothing special when in a robot voice worthy of any Cyberman, my son flops his favorite frog on my desk and says:
"Here is Froggy. He is cooked."
"Um...why did you cook Froggy?"
"It is your dinner."
"I can't eat Froggy! I just had a tooth out, you know."
"But it is good."
Next thing I know he's dug out his toy frying pan and put it on the "stove". Mom says, "Look out Scruffy Puppy, he's cookin' now!" Kidbot takes it as a cue:
"Puppy, you will be cooked."
*Silence from Mom*
"There is your dinner."
*Mom picks up her dinner and snuggles it, almost sympathetically*
"I'm going to get more stuff."
*Look of abject terror on Mom's face*
Well, he didn't get more stuff, just yelled at for messing with a beagle. Next thing I know, the ChefBot has delivered more pretend nummies to the desk:
"Here is your ham and peanut butter."
"Ham and peanut butter?! Why?!"
"(Mom) You forgot the chips!"
"Chips, coming up!"
"Thanks, Mom."
"Here are your chips."
"Anything else, you strange little Kidbot, you?"
"Here is a fresh cooked truck."
So at this point we have a fresh cooked Froggy, topped with pretend ham and peanut butter, and a fresh cooked hot wheels pickup truck. I was hoping my meal was now complete, and for a minute or two it seemed like he's moved on to something new, but I guess Mom didn't like her Scruffy Puppy becuase ChefBot was back, adding Scruffy to the mix on the desk.
"Here is some fresh cooked puppy for your plate."
"Well Hallelujah for that."
"(Standing next to the dog bed) Now I am going to jump in your swimming pool."
"Right-o."
"I am in the swimming pool."
"Of course you are."
This kid doesn't need presents, he has everything he needs right between his ears. Mommy however is still hoping for a pedicure and earplugs.
"Here is Froggy. He is cooked."
"Um...why did you cook Froggy?"
"It is your dinner."
"I can't eat Froggy! I just had a tooth out, you know."
"But it is good."
Next thing I know he's dug out his toy frying pan and put it on the "stove". Mom says, "Look out Scruffy Puppy, he's cookin' now!" Kidbot takes it as a cue:
"Puppy, you will be cooked."
*Silence from Mom*
"There is your dinner."
*Mom picks up her dinner and snuggles it, almost sympathetically*
"I'm going to get more stuff."
*Look of abject terror on Mom's face*
Well, he didn't get more stuff, just yelled at for messing with a beagle. Next thing I know, the ChefBot has delivered more pretend nummies to the desk:
"Here is your ham and peanut butter."
"Ham and peanut butter?! Why?!"
"(Mom) You forgot the chips!"
"Chips, coming up!"
"Thanks, Mom."
"Here are your chips."
"Anything else, you strange little Kidbot, you?"
"Here is a fresh cooked truck."
So at this point we have a fresh cooked Froggy, topped with pretend ham and peanut butter, and a fresh cooked hot wheels pickup truck. I was hoping my meal was now complete, and for a minute or two it seemed like he's moved on to something new, but I guess Mom didn't like her Scruffy Puppy becuase ChefBot was back, adding Scruffy to the mix on the desk.
"Here is some fresh cooked puppy for your plate."
"Well Hallelujah for that."
"(Standing next to the dog bed) Now I am going to jump in your swimming pool."
"Right-o."
"I am in the swimming pool."
"Of course you are."
This kid doesn't need presents, he has everything he needs right between his ears. Mommy however is still hoping for a pedicure and earplugs.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Bite Me, Tooth Fairy
Today I had a tooth pulled. It needed to be done, don't get me wrong, and I was just glad to have the money to get it done, now that AZ medicaid has been slashed to hell. The dentist is all kinds of wonderful, and is liberal with the laughing gas. The thing I hate most about it, aside from the obvious pain, is the fact that it hampers my ability to talk. You've got to keep that gauze clamped in your new bloody mouth hole until the clot forms, after all.
I never realized how much I really do talk to myself until I couldn't do it. Here I am, waiting for my antibiotics and painkillers, doing a little grocery shopping, praying I can get that sweet sweet Percocet home before the rest of the Novocaine wears off and I hear coming from the next aisle over:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
This voice could not have belonged to anyone over 30, and as someone who lives with a woman in her fifties and in need of 2 new knees, I thought this person was being just a tad over-dramatic. Onward I shopped and I met saw this suffering woman in the flesh. She didn't even have a limp. Skinny jeans proved she had no cast or brace, not even a bandage to give reasonable doubt to a bad scrape. She was bouncing back and forth across the baking aisle showing her muffin-topped companion all the wondrous things she found. Like...JELLO. I'm trying to scope out some quick bread mix and this silly woman is like the ADHD Vanna White of the baking aisle! And I can't talk! On the outside I'm glaring but on the inside I am bellowing, "MOVE YOUR HYPER HIPSTER ASS OR BETTY CROCKER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR HEAD!"
Then just as I get by (her muffin-topped friend was very polite and much more aware of her surroundings) I hear Hipster Girl say:
"This says it's good with caramel sauce. We need to get some caramel sauce! Wait, what's caramel sauce?"
No, I couldn't have heard that right, I told myself. I refuse to believe that is what I heard. Even stoners know what caramel sauce is. Hell, especially stoners know what caramel sauce is!
"Seriously, what the fuck is caramel sauce?!"
And dear readers, I had an epiphany. I may not be able to talk, but I got my feelings across perfectly and discovered that nothing beats a well-timed FacePalm.
I didn't turn around but I have the distinct feeling they saw me. I heard nothing more of caramel sauce, but I'll be damned if I didn't hear one last utterance as I swerved my way into the pasta aisle:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
Never did find my bread mix.
I never realized how much I really do talk to myself until I couldn't do it. Here I am, waiting for my antibiotics and painkillers, doing a little grocery shopping, praying I can get that sweet sweet Percocet home before the rest of the Novocaine wears off and I hear coming from the next aisle over:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
This voice could not have belonged to anyone over 30, and as someone who lives with a woman in her fifties and in need of 2 new knees, I thought this person was being just a tad over-dramatic. Onward I shopped and I met saw this suffering woman in the flesh. She didn't even have a limp. Skinny jeans proved she had no cast or brace, not even a bandage to give reasonable doubt to a bad scrape. She was bouncing back and forth across the baking aisle showing her muffin-topped companion all the wondrous things she found. Like...JELLO. I'm trying to scope out some quick bread mix and this silly woman is like the ADHD Vanna White of the baking aisle! And I can't talk! On the outside I'm glaring but on the inside I am bellowing, "MOVE YOUR HYPER HIPSTER ASS OR BETTY CROCKER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR HEAD!"
Then just as I get by (her muffin-topped friend was very polite and much more aware of her surroundings) I hear Hipster Girl say:
"This says it's good with caramel sauce. We need to get some caramel sauce! Wait, what's caramel sauce?"
No, I couldn't have heard that right, I told myself. I refuse to believe that is what I heard. Even stoners know what caramel sauce is. Hell, especially stoners know what caramel sauce is!
"Seriously, what the fuck is caramel sauce?!"
And dear readers, I had an epiphany. I may not be able to talk, but I got my feelings across perfectly and discovered that nothing beats a well-timed FacePalm.
I didn't turn around but I have the distinct feeling they saw me. I heard nothing more of caramel sauce, but I'll be damned if I didn't hear one last utterance as I swerved my way into the pasta aisle:
"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."
Never did find my bread mix.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Cookies For Breakfast
Most people have an alarm clock. I have a toddler. I also have a mom who, kind soul that she is, lets me sleep in most mornings I don’t have to be at work and gives the Kiddo his breakfast, etc.
Well even Mom has her limits. This morning it was barely 9 am I had a toddler unceremoniously shoved in my bed with the terse command of “Go snuggle your Mama. She needs a snuggle.” Good morning to you too, Mom! So now I have an extra wiggly giggle box under my covers. He’s burrowed under completely and starts talking about Treasure. Treasure in my blankets? It’s called heat and comfort, Son and you’re wrecking both. Curiosity got the better of my grumpiness (or perhaps that part of my brain wasn’t awake yet) and I waited to see the Treasure.
By the way my son held his arms it was obvious that he was hauling out a largish trunk from under my blankets. He heaved open the huge creaky lid (I could tell it was creaky because Kiddo made a “creeeeeeeak” sound) and feasted his little eyes on a wondrous collection of the finest pretend Treasure ever hauled from under treacherous blankets.
“COOKIES!”
“What kind of cookies, Baby?”
“Treasure Cookies! Want one?”
“Of course. *taking big bite* Mmfankoo.”
“*cheeks full of his own cookie* Wulcom. *big swallow* That was GOOD!”
“What did your cookie taste like?”
“Treasure.”
“Okay…what does Treasure taste like?”
“Cookies!”
So there you go. Treasure tastes like cookies, and cookies taste like Treasure.
Cookie Treasure. It’s what’s for breakfast.
Well even Mom has her limits. This morning it was barely 9 am I had a toddler unceremoniously shoved in my bed with the terse command of “Go snuggle your Mama. She needs a snuggle.” Good morning to you too, Mom! So now I have an extra wiggly giggle box under my covers. He’s burrowed under completely and starts talking about Treasure. Treasure in my blankets? It’s called heat and comfort, Son and you’re wrecking both. Curiosity got the better of my grumpiness (or perhaps that part of my brain wasn’t awake yet) and I waited to see the Treasure.
By the way my son held his arms it was obvious that he was hauling out a largish trunk from under my blankets. He heaved open the huge creaky lid (I could tell it was creaky because Kiddo made a “creeeeeeeak” sound) and feasted his little eyes on a wondrous collection of the finest pretend Treasure ever hauled from under treacherous blankets.
“COOKIES!”
“What kind of cookies, Baby?”
“Treasure Cookies! Want one?”
“Of course. *taking big bite* Mmfankoo.”
“*cheeks full of his own cookie* Wulcom. *big swallow* That was GOOD!”
“What did your cookie taste like?”
“Treasure.”
“Okay…what does Treasure taste like?”
“Cookies!”
So there you go. Treasure tastes like cookies, and cookies taste like Treasure.
Cookie Treasure. It’s what’s for breakfast.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)