My daughter just called and asked “unsalted butter or salted?”
I’m so proud.
(Not that she’s baking-she’s been able to follow a recipe for years, but that she knows about salted and unsalted butter and that the use of one vs. the other could make a difference in her final product.)
Alternate title: Yes, I’m a big, fat, baking geek….
I’m taking a poll, what do you think is the weirdest thing about me?
Seriously, I won’t be offended; I really need to know, and I’ll let you know why I’m asking next week.
At Easter I (finally) met my sister K.’s boyfriend. I introduced him to my dad and said “This is K.’s buh buh… friend” Stumbling over the “boy” part, unsure if they are “official.”
Do thirty year olds call their significant other “boyfriend/girlfriend?” It sounds very high school to me.
My other sister, M., may or may not have had breast implants. No one knows. No one is willing to ask. I tried to get a profile shot so that I could show my friends and we could “evaluate” the situation.
Is it possible to go from an “A” to a “C” via non-surgical methods?
I don’t think so.
On the other hand, can someone with three kids, no hubby and a part-time job (not stripping) afford breast implants?
I don’t think so.
See, it’s a mystery! And I’m apparently not a Velma-quality investigator.
I was expounding upon this to my husband and he said, in voice dripping with “duh” overtones; “Oh, yeah, she had those LAST time she was here.” My response? “Umm… you were looking?”
So the “do they look bigger?” part is solved but the method of said inflation is not. Too bad Billy wasn’t on the Easter invite list.
My daughter’s bedroom has the largest landfill closet in the house. And, apparently, she has been utilizing it as the fastest method of bedroom cleaning.
We discovered the problem this weekend, but really should have picked up on it earlier, due to our dwindling supply of bath towels and teaspoons.
A closet cleaning mandate was delivered with work starting Friday.
Two garbage bags of random detritus has been removed and some interesting artifacts have been found.
One axe.
A baby caterpillar. (I questioned “dead or alive?” and was told “IDK; I just threw it away”)
1/2 a hamper of white socks.
A ball-peen hammer.
Random stuffed animals
An interesting mix of possibly deadly and soft and cuddly. A lot like my daughter, who, on Friday morning, had a temper tantrum befitting a four year old. “I hate you!” “You’re mean!” “I have THE WORST PARENTS EVER!”
She spent all of Friday in her room.
Saturday she was wonderful; hopefully the product of thoughtful rumination on her sins, more likely the result of a good night’s sleep and a desire to get her cell phone back.
She helped me make food for Easter.
We spent hours shopping for Easter in a crowded store and she didn’t complain.
She dyed eggs for a centerpiece, stuffed plastic eggs with candy for an Easter egg hunt.
Voluntarily cleaned the bathroom. (I almost swooned in disbelief.)
She even said, at one point, “You know, it’s weird, right now I have everything I want.”
Rather than her cell phone, clothes, and i-pod, I’m chosing to believe that she was referring to intangibles, to a sense of contentment with her life, with her family, friends and school. Because, ultimately, that is what I desire for both of my children.
Yes, really.
Those of you that know him, understand why this is funny. Taylor loves to read. He likes to play video games. He’s smart, and cute and kinda geeky.
His reasoning? “No Homework!”
His shortsightedness is driving me crazy.
He gets to pick three electives and wants to take World Geography and Art for the other two. Reasonable choices, I must admit.
Nevertheless, I am intent upon him taking Spanish, the only foreign language offered at his school.
Taylor is fourteen; at what point do we let him make autonomous decisions that may ruin effect his future?
Currently, I’m considering telling him he has to take Spanish, but may pick whatever he wants for the other two electives.
My reasoning:
1. The college that Taylor is currently interested in requires two years of a language for admission, as do most schools within the state of IL.
2. It would be best for him to take the two years starting as a freshman, as his peers will be in that class (if he takes it as a Junior and Senior the classes will consist mainly of Fresh/Soph) so he will have study partners. Additionally, languages are a lot of work, especially on top of his other AP classes. As a junior and senior he will likely have a job, and have less time to study than as a freshman and sophomore.
2. Taylor’s thinking at this point is pretty short-term. (See above mention of “No Homework!) I feel it is my duty, as a parent, to look out for his best interests, since he is not currently mature enough to adequately do so.
3. Shop class, really? Okay, I’m a snob, but shop class?
I just heard thunder. Shit. It’s MARCH for god’s sake and I’m wearing flats without socks.
I had a great weekend, though. Celebrating a friend’s new job and a new friend’s 30th birthday. We had fun at Po’ Boy’s and no one one added any drinks to our tabs!
But why are all my new friends so damn young? Thirty shmirty. I’m looking forty right in the eye and I’m winking, goddamn it!
Late Saturday afternoon, after our local library was closed, Taylor mentioned that he had to bring two non-fiction books on one topic to school on Monday, for a term paper. I own a lot of books, mostly modern fiction; I did offer up copies of “Our Bodies, Our Selves” and “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” but he didn’t find either appealing.
After much brainstorming he decided to write about “Stupid Rules in the Bible.” (Working title.) Thus he took two books to school today, “The Year of Living Biblically” and a Bible. Of course, this caused a debate, is the Bible fiction or non-fiction?
Maybe there needs to be a new catagory of books. “Crap that’s made up but that people pretend is real.” It could contain “The Secret,” “Dianetics,” books on white supremacy, religious texts and diet books.
I just spent one hour, ten minutes and 37 seconds on the phone with tech support. One of my work sites has a malfunctioning all-in-one copier/fax machine/printer. And it’s my job to fix it, dangnabbit.
The situation is complicated because the offending machine is in Kankakee and I’m in Princeville. The employee in Kankakee doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Spanish (“Mi llamo Jennifer. Donde esta el bano?) and the tech support guy, David, I’m guessing, speaks an Indian dialect and passable English.
Thus, David was giving me directions; I would relay them to Maria, who, on the phone with RosaEmma, would translate them to Spanish. RosaEmma would follow the directions, report back the results to Maria, who would translate them into English for me, so I could relay them to David. For over an hour.
The first step? Unplugging the machine.
The second? Pushing the number six button and # symbol simultaneously with one hand, while re-plugging in the machine. I really think that RosaEmma thought we were fucking with her. Especially since we were laughing hysterically.
The third? Push the one, the four, the seven, while standing on one foot and eating Jello. That one she didn’t believe. Pudding, maybe, but Jello?
By the third time through this multi-step rigamarole of brobdingnagian proportions, the tech guy was laughing too. And finally, finally, he gave up and they are sending us a new copier/printer/fax machine. For free.
So, much like the unintended consequences earlier this week, something that would normally be frustrating is leaving me feeling elated.
I won!
WTF is up this winter? My daughter, who never gets sick, has been sick three times since mid-January.
Last time she was sick Chris took her to the doctor. He did a strep test and also a test for mono.
Reagan and I both were puzzled, MONO?
Her, because she had never heard of it, and
me, because, damn! She’s only 13, and mono is the “kissing disease.”
A mystery is solved and it’s drawn me out of yesterday’s malaise.
For several days I’ve been driving my friends crazy with this question: “Why did she honk at me?” Obsessing endlessly over an asinine, inconsequential occurrence.
You see, there is a mom, “Carrie,” that hates me. And trust me, she’s loony. A recent example, she told her daughter, Venus, that she “can’t invite any of those 7th grade bitches” to her birthday party. Ummm, the “7th grade bitches” in question just happen to be Venus’s best friends.
The other day Carrie and I were facing each at an intersection. We made unexpressionless eye contact, and, as our cars crossed each other in the intersection, she honked. Not a “HOOONNNKKKK!!!!!!” but a mere “Honk.” Longer than an accidental one but shorter than a malicious one. In essence, it seemed rather neutral.
Which has been driving me crazy. What was the meaning behind the honk? Was it a conciliatory gesture? Was it meant to be threatening? Was it an accident?
I’ve been consumed with figuring it out.
It’s a sad facet of my personality, my need to be liked, and, while I think she’s batshit crazy, I must admit, in my heart, I wish that she liked me and hate it that she hates me. Thus, I’ve been pondering the honk for clues to her current opinion of my character, playing amateur Columbo psychologist. (I know, I know, it’s a bit ironic that I just called someone else “batshit crazy”)
But, back to the good news. The mystery of the ambiguous honk has been solved. This morning my husband went in to the gas station and Carrie was there.
She flipped him off.
In Casey’s.
I am now quite certain the “honk” was a attention getting method, followed by a poorly timed bird.
Who’da thunk that a rude gesture would be a mood lifter?
I’m drinkiing generic Kool-Aid, the red flavor.
Eating generic cool-whip from the container.
I was grumpy at both kids after work today.
I suck at Monopoly.
I have $1.92 in my checking account (after a $2.00 deposit.). Which, sadly, feels like a victory, because it’s better than a negative balance.
The mere existence of my dog is pissing me off.
I’m feeling whine-y and bitchy and put upon.
And guilty about feeling whine-y and bitchy and put upon, when there are people with actual tragedies occurring in their lives….
