A Bad Culinary Decision

A few days ago, on a whim, I bought a bag of Lay's Potato Chips in their new Chicken and Waffles flavor. I figured my kids (who love both chicken and waffles) would enjoy it, and I was curious to see how Lay's managed to deliver this flavor via a potato chip.

Worst.

Decision.

Ever.

The taste can't decide if its chicken, waffles, or some terrible hybrid of the two that ends up just tasting like syrup-drenched roadkill. And the aftertaste? Holy Noxious Swill, Batman! Soooo bad. And it just does NOT fade.

Even my boys, who will eat anything and who regularly come up with concoctions no sane person would eat (Chocolate sauce and gummy bears in a rootbeer float, for example. Or pouring the ramen seasoning packet over the UNCOOKED noodles and munching on it for hours.) wouldn't eat more than one chip.


Basically, eating a single Lay's Chicken and Waffles potato chip looks like this:

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I Hear Things

Some things I've overheard recently:

Daredevil (while playing a James Bond video game): "Dude, look at that guy!"

Starshine (looks): "Nice mirdle."

Daredevil: "I was talking about his gun."

Starshine: "It's kind of hard to notice his gun when all I see is a man in a mirdle."



Starshine (while taking a bath with Princess J): "Hey! There's something floating in the water! I think it's cookie dough!"

Hubby: "Cookie dough?"

Starshine (leans closer to inspect the object of his attention and then glares at Princess J): "Never mind. That's not cookie dough."

Hubby: "Nope. That's justice."

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Cockroach and Cat Litter

Once again, I bring you a transcript of a very disturbing run while you can! chat I had with Jodi Meadows. Read at your own risk.

ETA: After this posting, my mom made it clear that the cat box was brand new and unused and she disinfected the toothbrush. I've edited this to keep her reputation as an OCD cleaner intact. :)

Jodi Meadows: AND NOW A BUG KILLED ITSELF IN MY ORANGE JUICE


C.J. Redwine: GROSS

Jodi Meadows: I have possibly the grossest story ever to tell you

C.J. Redwine: that is exactly the reason why I cannot drink without looking in my glass

Jodi Meadows: it does involve bugs

C.J. Redwine: OH NO

Jodi Meadows: (yeah, I always look)

C.J. Redwine: *gags preemptorily*

C.J. Redwine: bring it

Jodi Meadows: okay

Jodi Meadows: so it all starts on Thursday night

Jodi Meadows: at my mom's

Jodi Meadows: My brother and I are in the kitchen cleaning up

Jodi Meadows: and he jumps back

Jodi Meadows: and shrieks

Jodi Meadows: (my brother is not what you'd call a manly boy)

Jodi Meadows: because a GIANT COCKROACH just crawled under the ledge of the counter

Jodi Meadows: we both try to destroy it

Jodi Meadows: but it escapes into the crevice between the dishwasher and the counter

Jodi Meadows: we admit defeat

Jodi Meadows: but LATER

Jodi Meadows: one of the cats starts staring at the ceiling

Jodi Meadows: and I see THE COCKROACH on the ceiling

Jodi Meadows: fortunately I have an empty cup

Jodi Meadows: so I get on a chair, grab a napkin, and trap it in the cup

Jodi Meadows: and then toss it outside

Jodi Meadows: (I can't squash them. I can't take the crunch)

Jodi Meadows: and then I think all is well

Jodi Meadows: FAST FORWARD TO FRIDAY

C.J. Redwine: crunch is bad

Jodi Meadows: Mom and I are in her bathroom brushing our teeth

Jodi Meadows: everything is great

C.J. Redwine: oh please no

Jodi Meadows: my teeth are clean

Jodi Meadows: it's wonderful

C.J. Redwine: gag gag gag already

Jodi Meadows: and then I get the cup that I'd been keeping my toothbrush in (bristles down)

Jodi Meadows: and using to rinse with..

C.J. Redwine: GAG GAG

Jodi Meadows: AND THERE IT IS

C.J. Redwine: STOP

Jodi Meadows: IN THE CUP

C.J. Redwine: I'M BEGGING YOU

C.J. Redwine: OMG

C.J. Redwine: HOLY VOMIT

Jodi Meadows: SNUGGLING UP TO MY TOOTHBRUSH

C.J. Redwine: AIDOHEIOANIOEW8U3029UR09 J

Jodi Meadows: WHICH I'D ALREADY USED

C.J. Redwine: YOU JUST KILLED ME

C.J. Redwine: DEAD

Jodi Meadows: COCKROACH COOTIES ON

Jodi Meadows: MY

Jodi Meadows: TEETH

Jodi Meadows: ON

Jodi Meadows: MY

Jodi Meadows: TONGUE

C.J. Redwine: did you puke?

Jodi Meadows: YES

C.J. Redwine: because I would totally puke

C.J. Redwine: I'm puking NOW

C.J. Redwine: on your behalf

Jodi Meadows: me too

Jodi Meadows: gag

Jodi Meadows: gag gag

C.J. Redwine: aaaaahhhhhhh

Jodi Meadows: I YELPED

Jodi Meadows: and trapped it

C.J. Redwine: my tongue doesn't know what to do with my teeth!

Jodi Meadows: and took it outside again

C.J. Redwine: blech blech

C.J. Redwine: JODI

Jodi Meadows: and then rinsed with peroxide

C.J. Redwine: KILL THE COCKROACH

C.J. Redwine: KILL IT

Jodi Meadows: THAT IS WHAT MY MOM SAID WHEN I GOT BACK

Jodi Meadows: SHE SAID WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT IT DOWN THE TOILET

C.J. Redwine: see???

C.J. Redwine: drown the sucker

Jodi Meadows: AND I SAID BC AT MY HOUSE, ONLY POOP GOES DOWN THE TOILET

Jodi Meadows: I HAVE A SEPTIC

Jodi Meadows: AND I ALWAYS FORGET

C.J. Redwine: did it lay eggs on your toothbrush, do you think?

C.J. Redwine: is helpful*

Jodi Meadows: GROSS

C.J. Redwine: you're going to unfriend me on FB now, aren't you?

Jodi Meadows: I PUT PEROXIDE IN MY MOUTH

C.J. Redwine: it whitens teeth!

Jodi Meadows: yes!

C.J. Redwine: and kills cockroach eggs!

Jodi Meadows: and then I brushed again with a new brush

C.J. Redwine: darn it, now I'm all gaggy and pukey

Jodi Meadows: I warned you

C.J. Redwine: I will tell you a story in return

C.J. Redwine: BRACE YOURSELF

Jodi Meadows: oh man

C.J. Redwine: this is worse

C.J. Redwine: because of the insidious nature

Jodi Meadows: (the cup was dark blue, otherwise I would have seen the sucker)

C.J. Redwine: of my parental unit

C.J. Redwine: well, there's your problem

C.J. Redwine: CLEAR CUPS, JODI

Jodi Meadows: YES
C.J. Redwine: ok, so

Jodi Meadows: your story

C.J. Redwine: my parents have multiple cats

C.J. Redwine: and after I moved out to go to college, somehow the cat box ended up in our bathroom

C.J. Redwine: right below the window against the wall

C.J. Redwine: which is fine

C.J. Redwine: my sister was the only one using the bathroom and she could use my counter

Jodi Meadows: oh

C.J. Redwine: my mom told me this story YEARS after it happened

C.J. Redwine: which is disturbing

C.J. Redwine: because WHAT STORIES ISN'T SHE TELLING ME?

C.J. Redwine: anyway, she told me she was cleaning the bathroom

C.J. Redwine: and she accidentally knocked my sister's toothbrush INTO THE CATBOX

Jodi Meadows: ...

Jodi Meadows: WHAT

C.J. Redwine: what would you do with said toothbrush?

Jodi Meadows: THROW IT AWAY

Jodi Meadows: THROW

Jodi Meadows: IT

Jodi Meadows: AWAY

Jodi Meadows: IT IS TAINTED

C.J. Redwine: of course!

C.J. Redwine: NOT MY MOTHER

C.J. Redwine: she WASHED it and PUT IT BACK

Jodi Meadows: DEFILED

Jodi Meadows: NOOOOOO

Jodi Meadows: NO NO NO GROSSSSSS

C.J. Redwine: and didn't tell my sister!

C.J. Redwine: !!!!

Jodi Meadows: D:

C.J. Redwine: so of course, I begin to scroll back through my ENTIRE CHILDHOOD

C.J. Redwine: and wonder

Jodi Meadows: RIGHT???

C.J. Redwine: how many times did MY toothbrush get washed and put back?

C.J. Redwine: HOW MANY, JODI?

Jodi Meadows: AT LEAST FIVE

C.J. Redwine: the bathroom grout was always clean

C.J. Redwine: now I find that suspicous!

Jodi Meadows: probably a reason for that

C.J. Redwine: I finally told my sister

C.J. Redwine: she didn't take it well
Jodi Meadows: seriously

Jodi Meadows: GAG

C.J. Redwine: now I don't know what to do with my mouth

C.J. Redwine: if I open it, I gag

C.J. Redwine: this is your fault

C.J. Redwine: this is like the time I felt a spider on my face at night

C.J. Redwine: and panicked and slapped it GOD KNOWS WHERE

Jodi Meadows: AGAHHHH

C.J. Redwine: and then I was terrified to sleep because where did it go?

C.J. Redwine: those suckers hold a grudge

Jodi Meadows: INDEED

C.J. Redwine: what if it crawled into my mouth?

C.J. Redwine: up my nose?

Jodi Meadows: we know how those things go

C.J. Redwine: oh yes

Jodi Meadows: O__O

C.J. Redwine: lay eggs in my brain
Jodi Meadows: OMC

Jodi Meadows: that's where defiance came from!

C.J. Redwine: one day I sneeze and BAM! spiders

C.J. Redwine: ahahahahaha

C.J. Redwine: yes!

C.J. Redwine: spider in the brain

C.J. Redwine: Incarnate came from cockroach in the mouth

Jodi Meadows: BRAIN SPIDER

C.J. Redwine: *pukes*

Jodi Meadows: GAHHH

C.J. Redwine: *gags*

C.J. Redwine: revisits dinner*

C.J. Redwine: why do you do this to me?

Jodi Meadows: I don't know

Jodi Meadows: I'm sorry
C.J. Redwine: this is a blog post

C.J. Redwine: you realize this
 
There you have it. That's what I did with my Friday night ...

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Lol

Source: youtube.com via Jeffrey on Pinterest

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Oh Yeah. We Went There.

Today, for your entertainment, I bring you a transcript of a chat I had last Thursday night with Jodi Meadows. I often tell her we should make some of our transcripts public, though we've both wondered if that might be social suicide.

So ... throwing caution to the wind and acknowledging that my deadline is fast approaching and my creative brain cells are all focused on my manuscript and so this is as close to a personally written blog post as you're likely to see from me for a bit, I give you what happens when I ask Jodi a very innocent grammar question.

C.J. Redwine: oh bugger me ... it's stupid question time!

C.J. Redwine: is it "gentler" or "more gentle"?

Jodi Meadows: gentler

C.J. Redwine: that's what I typed

C.J. Redwine: but now it all looks wrong

Jodi Meadows: hee

C.J. Redwine: gentle looks like the worst word every made

Jodi Meadows: yes

C.J. Redwine: it still isn't as bad as moist

C.J. Redwine: ugh

C.J. Redwine: I can't even type it without sneering

Jodi Meadows: nothing is as bad as moist

C.J. Redwine: nothing

C.J. Redwine: except maybe moister

C.J. Redwine: and moistest

Jodi Meadows: moistiest

Jodi Meadows: moisty

C.J. Redwine: ahahahahahahah

C.J. Redwine: MOISTY

Jodi Meadows: :D

C.J. Redwine: that could be profanity

C.J. Redwine: son of a moistier!

C.J. Redwine: what the moist?

Jodi Meadows: it should be profanity!

Jodi Meadows: go moist yourself

C.J. Redwine: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

C.J. Redwine: *gags*

Jodi Meadows: *ded*

C.J. Redwine: moist off

Jodi Meadows: *laffs and laffs*

C.J. Redwine: ha!

Jodi Meadows: *laughs moistily*

C.J. Redwine: gags even more moistierly*

Jodi Meadows: MOISTIERLY

C.J. Redwine: you know, if we ever put transcripts of our chats up on our blogs, we'd either gain a ton of followers or lose them all

C.J. Redwine: they'd call us the Moist Sisters

Jodi Meadows: soooooo gross!

C.J. Redwine: and the movie would be Career Suicide: Go Moist Yourself

Jodi Meadows: who would play us?

Jodi Meadows: I hope they would get Hans Zimmer to do the original score

C.J. Redwine: Jennifer Garner and Amy Adams

C.J. Redwine: oh we'd insist

Jodi Meadows: oh niiiice

C.J. Redwine: he would tell his musicians to play moistly

C.J. Redwine: and the trombone players would be all "Um ... duh"

Jodi Meadows: spit flying out the ends of flutes

C.J. Redwine: spit flying everywhere

Jodi Meadows: and trumpet players would be all "yeah" *empties spit valve*

C.J. Redwine: and all the clarinets and oboes would have moist reeds

C.J. Redwine: it would all work

Jodi Meadows: yes

C.J. Redwine: I have to go puke up my dinner now.

Jodi Meadows: okay

Jodi Meadows: that should be moist

C.J. Redwine: AHAHHHHHHHHH

Jodi Meadows: you're welcome

C.J. Redwine: *literal gagging*

C.J. Redwine: *sigh*

C.J. Redwine: see what happens when I ask for one simple little word?

Jodi Meadows: chaos

Jodi Meadows: moist chaos!

C.J. Redwine: DESIST

Jodi Meadows: like a bog

C.J. Redwine: *GAGS*

Jodi Meadows: or a swamp

C.J. Redwine: I am going to call you in a minute

C.J. Redwine: and all I'm going to do is gag in your ear

Jodi Meadows: or a stagnant pond

Jodi Meadows: LOL

C.J. Redwine: I'm told it sounds remarkably like a pregnant moose

Jodi Meadows: if you do, I will probably go puke too

C.J. Redwine: JUSTICE

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Dibs

My hubby and I had an argument of sorts the other day. One which I won because he finally called me a dork and walked away. If you quit the battlefield, you might as well wave a white flag and hand me a handwritten note acknowledging the brilliance of my logic.

Besides, I had the unalienable right of DIBS on my side. HIS dibs. Which he can not take back, no matter how much he might wish he could.

What did we argue about? Well ... we started this disagreement years ago over the salient issue of french fries and ended up two days ago agreeing that I get the next new car we buy.

Mind you, he didn't verbally agree to this new car arrangement, but he did quit the battlefield because in the face of my unassailable logic, he could find nothing to say but "dork." Which isn't very insulting, considering the fact that in the future I will be driving this:

I am C.J.'s future sexy car by right of DIBS.

How did we get from french fries to a sexy new Audi? How did my hubby relinquish his right to choose the next new vehicle? Fasten your seat belts, kids. You're about to get schooled in C.J. Logic.

1. My hubby thinks In N Out Burger is sanctified food fit for the angels themselves.

2. He loves In N Out so much, while on our trip to China, we spent our brief layover in Los Angeles LEAVING the airport to go dine at the closest In N Out. AND we had to film the experience.

3. I think In N Out is fine. The shakes are good enough. The burgers are edible. But the fries? Holy cow, the fries are the equivalent of listening to Kenny G, the elevator years, when in the room next door you could be listening to Miles Davis. Live.

4. My hubby thinks the fact that I find In N Out's fries tasteless is a sign of some sort of brain damage. He also calls it blasphemy. And has spent countless minutes trying to talk me out of this opinion.

5. Because explaining to someone WHY they should like a certain food they find disgusting usually does the trick.

6. I've remained steadfast in my resistance to this heathen gospel. A fry should be crisp. A little salty. An tidy little explosion of taste. Not a limp, chewy travesty I could use in a future origami project.

7. If I was any good at origami.

8. For nearly seventeen years of marriage, we've managed to accept these differences of opinion without crossing any lines.

9. But this past Sunday? A line was CROSSED.

10. We have two cars. For years, the mini van has been my vehicle and the Explorer has been my hubby's. But lately, the Explorer has been acting up, and since my hubby has the longer commute, he switched to driving the van.

11. I didn't consider that to be "dibs" and was more than willing to have him replace the Explorer with a car of his choice.

12. But now?

13. This:

14. Because when I drove the Explorer into the driveway on Sunday, I noticed something on the back of the van. Something I would NEVER have on my vehicle.

15. Something that proclaims love and loyalty.

16. This:

17. Bumper stickers. Plural. One for the driver's side. One for the passenger's side.

18. Not on HIS car. Noooo. On mine.

19. Really?

20. I marched inside and asked him what in the world he was doing putting In N Out bumper stickers on the van? Only to be informed that he'd also given permission to the teenager to put his guitar brand name bumper stickers on it as well.

21. REALLY??

22. So, I promptly congratulated him on claiming DIBS on the mini van.

23. He began arguing.

24. I remained steadfast. Slapping your favorite bumper stickers on a car is the equivalent of a dog peeing on every tree in his yard.

25. It's YOURS.

26. Which means, by default, I get the next new car.

27. When I would not be swayed by statements like "But it's just a few stickers." and "But you like their shakes.", my hubby resorted to calling me a dork and leaving the room.

28. Which is fine.

29. I may be a dork, but I'm about to be a dork with an Audi.

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Tin Foil Hat!

1. A list on Thursday? *cue gasp*

2. Yes. Because somehow, Monday-Wednesday slipped into a swirling vortex of DOOM, never to be heard from again.

3. But during my stint in the vortex of DOOM, I had an encounter which must be blogged.

4. It went like this:

Me: Welcome to your first day of training! I've had lunch served for us. If you could please be seated, we'll eat, and then get started.

New Employee: *sits* *looks at food* This looks good. I ate something earlier because I had to take medication for my __insert incomprehensible medical term here__. They say never to take medication on an empty stomach. The last time I did that, I was puking my toenails up for a week.

Me: *pushes own food away* How charming.

NE: I mean, you can't mess with an empty stomach, you know?

Me: I'm aware.

NE: *takes a huge bite and leans forward* So, do you think the world is going to end in 2010 like they say it is?

Me: I beg your pardon?

NE: The world? Do you think it's going to end in 2012? Because everyone says it will, you know.

Me: Ah, no. I don't. I don't think anyone can predict something like that.

NE: So you discount all the proof from all the scientists who say it will?

Me: What scientists?

NE: ALL the scientists.

Me: *thinks snarky thoughts about scientists who wear tin foil as headgear, but keeps polite smile plastered to her face* I think we don't need to worry about something we couldn't possibly control. Isn't it better to live your life to the best of your ability TODAY?

NE: Oh, sure. Yes. But you know, we're living on an active volcano.

Me: *checks new employee for signs of tin foil headgear*  Are we?

NE: The whole earth is just one giant volcano. One day it will erupt and then where will we be?

Me: Wishing we had marshmallows and chocolate?

NE: *blinks* I don't know what good that will do you when you're about to be consumed by flaming lava.

Me: Never mind.

NE: And under the volcano is nothing but water, so if one doesn't get us, the other will. The whole earth is just going to crack open and let it all through. The scientists say so.

Me: Well, wouldn't the water counter-act the lava?

NE: *stares at me* That's not what all the scientists say. Besides, didn't you see that movie?

Me: Which one?

NE: The one where the world ends in 2012 because of natural disasters.

Me: You mean the movie 2012???

NE: It's already begun. Look at the tornadoes. The floods last year. Japan.

Me: I don't think 2012 is supposed to be taken literally.

NE: They were right on track with what the scientists say.

Me: It's not a documentary. You know that, right?

NE: It's all going to end in a few months.

Me: I wonder what it would take to speed up that process.

NE: Oh, that's easy. Too much use of microwave ovens. You know those things rip holes in the fabric of our universe.

Me: Shoot me. Now.

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EPIC FAIL

I promised to share the story of how a seriously misguided decision of mine ended in an episode of EPIC fail, and here it is.

When we first got married, we lived in a small condo in southern California. Small, in this case, is not a euphemism for cute. Or charming. Or almost-regular-size. Small is a euphemism for living space so confined you couldn't open the refrigerator if the dishwasher was open.

Into these small quarters, we brought two cats and a dog. We kept our cats indoors which meant I had to find a suitable location for the litter box.

The bathrooms had no space for it unless I wanted to put it smack dab in the middle of the floor.

Ew, right?

The bedroom had just enough space for our bed, two dressers, and a small path for us to walk to the closet, which was tiny too.

Not that I really wanted a cat box in my bedroom.

We'd rented the second bedroom to a friend of ours from college, and he didn't seem excited to have a cat box in his room either.

I wasn't about to put a cat box in the living room, kitchen, or dining room, so that left the loft. The loft was a small (surprise!) strip of nearly unusable space hovering above the living room. I had my desk up there and just enough space left over for a cat box. So, that's where it went. Up against the far wall, between the railing and the back wall.

It seemed a good, workable solution at the time.

And it would have been, if I hadn't owned a demented beast of a cat who was the original definition of a Hot Mess. Tigger was a long-haired Maine Coon cat who was constantly doing things that defied logic. Like sitting on the coffee table, laying his beautiful long tail across a lit 3-wick candle, and then getting mad at me when he ended up on fire. Or like the many times he raced our Siberian Husky down the stairs, stopped suddenly in front of her, and got drop kicked the rest of the way down for his troubles.

Gorgeous cat. Sort of short on brains.

One night, I made pizza for dinner, and we chose to eat while sitting on the living room couch so we could watch a boxing match. The couch was located directly beneath the loft railing. This wouldn't have been a problem except that Tigger decided to prove once more that he deserved the title Dork of the Year.

We were several bites into our pizza when a commotion started above our heads. Did we pay attention? Heck, no. There was a boxing match on. It takes an act of God to rip our attention away from that.

Or a demented Maine Coon with a penchant for getting cat litter stuck between his hairy little toes.

Tigger was always getting stuff stuck between his toes and he HATED that. Hated it with the fire of a thousand flaming suns. He would stop everything and violently shake his paws until the offending object was gone.

In this case, he decided to violently shake his paws while STILL INSIDE THE LITTER BOX.

Litter and OTHER THINGS went flying. Out of the box. Into the air. Over the railing.

There we were, innocently eating our pizza while watching two grown men knock the sense out of each other, when suddenly the heavens opened and a deluge of cat litter and OTHER THINGS rained down upon our heads, covered our pizza, and settled onto the couch.

You think you're gagging now? You should try actually living through it.

I bought a covered cat box. And I moved it to the far corner of the loft, where even the most intrepid Dork of the Year paw shaking couldn't fling anything over the edge. And I didn't make pizza again for a really long time.

A really long time.

And every time we heard the tell-tale scrape of a kitty inside the cat box, we looked up at the loft in trepidation. Which, now that I think of it, was fairly stupid on our part. The only thing worse than enduring a deluge of kitty presents would be to look up and take it all full in the face.

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The Truth About Raising Boys

1. People will say things like "You live in a zoo." This is totally untrue. A zoo has paid staff to clean up the messes, people willing to give you popcorn and cotton candy, and, most importantly, cages that actually keep the dangerous animals where they belong. YOUR life is a safari. Think of it as a wild, dangerous adventure through mostly uncharted, crocodile-infested waters with breath-taking rapids, incredible scenery, and zero bug-repellent.

And poo jokes. Lots of poo jokes.

2. People will say raising boys is easier than raising girls. This is also untrue. It's not that boys are harder, it's that they are different. Comparing the two is like comparing downhill skiing with riding a sled coated in Crisco down the sheet of ice currently adorning your roof. Both are a wild thrill but only one has ALMOST CERTAIN DEATH as a viable side-effect. Boys' brains are flooded with testosterone before birth. This short-circuits every thought-pattern that doesn't end with them trying to achieve world domination through death. Theirs or someone else's. They aren't particularly picky.

3. People will say boys aren't nearly as emotional as girls. This is nonsense spouted by those who don't understand how to recognize emotion in boys. Girls get upset and scream, cry, pull out someone's hair, or go sulk in their room with their cell phone. Boys get upset and shoot their brother in the face with a Nerf shotgun, explode a can of leftover paint on the neighbor's driveway, and do their best to burn down everything in a seven-block radius. If you're pregnant with a boy, go ahead and add riot gear to your baby shower registry. And liability insurance. And a lifetime supply of chocolate.

4. People will say unenlightened things like "Why do you have a lock on the OUTSIDE of your son's bedroom door" or "Who hides their chef knives behind the bags of frozen peas in the freezer?" These people do not understand that you are doing what you must for the good of society. And so you don't exceed your daily ration of Prozac.

5. People will balk at the noise level in your house and ask you how you can possibly tune out something that sounds like a herd of moose challenged a rabid parrot and a hormonally-challenged pack of hyenas to the war of the century. They don't realize that your noise-tolerance has grown along with your children as an act of self-defense. You are now skilled in recognizing the "I'm bleeding and probably broke fifteen bones" scream from the "You opened the bathroom door while I was peeing and now you must die" scream. It's all in the nuances.

6. People will remark on your children's behavior while you are out in public. If your boys have been replaced by aliens and are acting like perfect gentlemen, people will think you are Mother of the Year. It's okay to accept these accolades under false pretenses. It won't be long before the aliens grow tired of risking life and limb and find another host. When your non-alien infested boys let loose in a grocery store, burping the alphabet while trying to pop a wheelie with a cart full of soup cans all while remarking at top volume that the man in front of you MUST be pregnant, you are left with three options. A) Run. B) Pray a hole opens up and swallows you and when it doesn't, run. C) Have in place a Family Emergency Plan For When Boys Are Boys In Public (FEPFWBABIP for short). This is easy to implement. You simply give the agreed-upon cue (a blast from an air-horn usually does the trick) and the boys scatter, meeting up at the car in five minutes. Those precious five minutes are enough for you to deny you've ever given birth to a boy to every onlooker on the premises. To really sell it, buy something pink. Anything pink.

7. People will think you're joking when you say you wear a hazmet suit to clean your boys' rooms. Of course you were joking. You don't wear a hazmet suit to clean your boys' rooms. You wear two. You know this is a necessity of life since while boys understand a myriad of fascinating, wonderful things like architecture, skateboarding, and the quantum physics needed to force their younger brother into the hamper, they don't understand clean. They use dirty socks as bookmarks. They hide half-eaten snacks under their mattress. They load the blades of their ceiling fan with legos and wait for you to turn it on for the day's entertainment. You take your life in your hands every time you cross through the doorway into their bedroom.

8. People who understand items 1-7 will mistakenly offer you their sympathy when they hear you have a household full of boys. This sympathy is misplaced. Yes, boys are loud. Yes, they get creative with glue sticks, popcorn, and the family dog. Yes, they once held a Pee For Distance contest in the middle of the cul de sac while every neighbor was out on their front porch. But you wouldn't trade one second of your adventure because boys are also enthusiastic, affectionate, smart, funny, talented, and endlessly entertaining.

Even when what they're doing will probably lead to someone's imminent demise.

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Redneck Tank Top

Take a close look. Note the extra seam where a seam shouldn't be unless you have family jewels to arrange.

There are so many things wrong with this, I hardly know where to start.

First, the obvious. What woman in her right mind substitutes men's tighty-whities (or not-so-whities) for a tank top? Or, for that matter, substitutes men's tighty-whities for any article of clothing? Especially in public.

Second, the underwear in question has been clearly altered. On purpose. As in Not By Accident. Someone looked at them, thought to themselves "Hey! Without that pesky crotch in the way, these make a pretty fine tank top!", grabbed their scissors and hacked away.

And I do mean hacked. The cut is uneven, the edges are jagged, there's been no attempt to make the neckline look like anything other than a sabotaged crotch. Perhaps it's too much to expect a woman who chooses to wear men's underwear upside down and crotch-less to take a modicum of pride in her tailoring but ... still.

Third, were there no flannel shirts available? No hoodies? No t-shirts to cover this faux sports bra? I have to seriously question the mental health of any woman who runs out of shirts for the day and raids her man's closet ... for his underwear.

Unless, of course, this is the ultimate example of redneck recycling. Does your man keep wearing out the crotch in his tighty-whities? Are you tired of relegating scraps of cotton to the landfill but you know you don't need more dust rags? Don't toss it, wear it! Introducing the new way to Go Green!

Finally, I have to wonder about the view from the front. The posterior of a man's underwear was not built to lift and separate. Where's the support? The anti-jiggle underwire? Most importantly, the Avoid A Wardrobe Malfunction extra lining? Perhaps we should be grateful we're only getting a view from the back.

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Friday Flashback: Interesting Injuries

You all know that recently I took a walk across my yard and ran straight into a tree. Weird injuries like that are not unusual for me. Here are a few of the more memorable ones for this Friday flashback.


1. A few months ago at work, I was told to "marry" the half-used bottles of Tabasco sauce together. The only way to do that is to pry off the tiny plastic top with a fork. Unfortunately, when I popped off the top, a drop of Tabasco flew into the air and straight into my left eye. I learned two things: 1. Given the right incentive, I can scream like a little girl. 2. You can develop a welt inside your eye. These were both unwelcome discoveries.

2. Two years ago, I was vacuuming underneath my dining room table - on my hands and knees with the extension hose - and I misjudged the edge of the table. I sat up too soon and knocked myself silly. By the time my husband got home, it was clear I needed medical attention. I went to the emergency room with a severe concussion, had to convince the nurse that yes I really had delivered the fatal blow myself (with the help of my new nemesis, the dining room table, and its nefarious accomplice, the vacuum cleaner) and my hubby had nothing to do with it. I learned two things: 1. It takes weeks to unscramble your brains after a blow like that. 2. A male doctor does not see the logic in writing a prescription for maid service even when presented with clear evidence that housework is dangerous to my health.

3. A few months after the dining room table fiasco, I was taking a shower, reached up to grab the shampoo out of the shower caddy (which hooks over the nozzle and as I'm a fairly short person, is therefore above my head) and knocked a full can of shaving cream loose. It flipped toward me and I swear I had a millisecond to think "Oh, crap" before it hit me square in the middle of my forehead leaving a bruise and a headache in its wake. I learned this: 1. The speed of my reactions is seriously flawed. 2. My hubby finds the things I do to myself entirely too funny.

4. This past summer, while completely hopped up on cold medicine and ibuprofen (I can't hold my alcohol or my meds!), I attempted to drive over to say goodbye to a friend who was moving. Turns out driving wasn't my main problem. Walking across the lawn to my car was the true challenge. I did a graceless stop drop and roll toward the street that might have won me $100,000 on AFV except none of my neighbors had the good sense to be outside filming my house for possible comedic material.

5. Recently I was chatting with my friend Paul online and he made me laugh. This is not unusual. I was eating lunch at the time. This is also not unusual. When I laugh, I do it with everything I've got. No polite little chuckles, no lady-like giggles - I just let loose. This kind of laughter requires air. To get air, one must suck it in through either the nose or the mouth. My mouth was full of chicken. I chose to suck air in through my nose. This, it turns out, was a very bad idea. The nose and the mouth are connected in such a way that when I sucked in a snoot full of air, I sucked in my bite of chicken as well. I don't care what anyone tells you, snorting chicken hurts.

6. When I was a sophomore in college, I was kicked in the head by a horse. Yes, yes, I realize this explains everything you've ever wondered about me. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I had the kind of whiplash usually reserved for victims of 13 car pile-ups or women who've just caught a glimpse of Orlando Bloom. No, I haven't been near a horse since. But on the bright side, I've got a great ice-breaker story for parties. I mean honestly - how many people do you know that can honestly say they've been kicked in the head by a horse? *grins*

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Things I've Found Funny Recently

1. The fact that alpacas can "spit" at will - using either end. (I've added this to my "Reasons Why I Never Want To Own An Alpaca" list.) My hubby and I decided that spitting from the anal region was a combination of spit and fart and therefore a spart.

2. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "This is Sparta!!"

3. A quote I saw recently on a friend's page in facebook said "Ninja turtles are the real deal. Chuck Norris swallowed some baby turtles and when they came out the other end, they were five feet tall and had learned karate."

4. Yes, I laugh at things like that.

5. I took a walk today and ran straight into a tree. For the whole story, go two posts down.

6. My hubby is working on an incredible Christmas cake sculpture and is experimenting with various techniques. Today, he had me hold a large balloon filled with air while he poured warm white chocolate over it, trying to create an eggshell-shaped mold. Either the chocolate was too heavy or too hot because the balloon suddenly burst and sprayed the two of us (and our dog, our kitchen, and our floor) with copious amounts of white chocolate.

7. The dog was very excited.

8. Last night the Radio City Rockettes performed at the Grand Ole Opry and my hubby had to open the show by dressing up in the whole nightgown and nightcap thing and reading "The Night Before Christmas". Apparently, the Opry wanted "local celebrities" to kick off their show every night this week. My hubby is the morning show D.J. for the top-rated station in Nashville. We don't think he's a celebrity.

9. They felt differently and offered him $100 for the gig.

10. He decided he could impersonate a celebrity just for the evening. =)

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Lesson Learned

So today I decided I'd recovered enough from my bout with pneumonia to take a brisk walk through my neighborhood. I pulled on my running shoes, plugged in the headphones for my ipod, and left the house.

These were all good ideas.

I turned my ipod on as I walked across the yard and Evanescence began playing.

This was also a good idea.

I decided I wanted to listen to a different album so I looked down at the ipod screen and scrolled through my musical choices while still walking across my yard.

This was a really bad idea.

We have trees in our yard.

We had a tree directly in my path.

I know this now because I walked straight into the tree and managed to body slam the poor defenseless plant with one toe, both knees, my chest, and the top of my head (looking down, remember?).

The tree didn't care. I can't say the same for my body.


So far, any potential neighborhood witnesses have failed to come forward.

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LOL

I'm adding this as one of my avatars on LJ. =)

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Up It Goes

When I was little, we had a German Shepherd/Alaskan Husky dog named Daniel who would eat, quite literally, anything.

Everything.

No exceptions.

When he was a puppy, he ate my big wheel. It was a beautiful pink big wheel with tassles streaming from the handle bars. When he was finished with his afternoon snack, all that remained was the thin metal rod used as the big wheels's foundation. His poop was full of pink chunky plastic for weeks.

We moved to a home that had a plum tree in the backyard and every year, as over-ripe plums fell to the ground, he would eat them. All of them. And over-abundance of over-ripe plums is not kind on the digestive system and he would leave piles of bright violet poop all over the yard. (But hey, at least you knew where not to step!)

Once my mother decided to grow onions along the back of our home. She planted seven onion plants and nurtured them along until one night she announced the onions would be ready for harvest the next morning. The next morning arrived, we trooped outside to pick onions and stared in awe. Not a shred of those onion plants was left. Not one shred. Daniel had eaten them root to tip. He stunk for a month.

It was our family's habit to finish a meal, clear the table, and then let Daniel in to clear the floor. No crumb escaped his detection. He would burst through the back door, scramble toward the dining room (sliding on the linoleum more often than not) and then frantically snuff and lick his way across the floor. My mom mopped often but even she was no match for Daniel.

One morning, my dad filled a bowl with Cheerios and accidentally knocked it to the floor before pouring milk on it. Cheerios as far as the eye could see. Naturally, this wasn't a problem because we had the most up-to-date version of Canine Hoover available so my mom swept the Cheerios into a nice, neat pile and called Daniel in.

At this point I should tell you that the linoleum in our dining room was a light yellow. Cheerios, as I'm sure you're aware, blend very nicely into light yellow.

Daniel raced toward the dining room, his nose already working overtime, and began to search for the source of food. He looked around but didn't see the pile. He raced under the table but still missed it. So he put his nose to the floor and began snorting in huge chunks of air searching for the Cheerios.

He found them.

Unfortunately for him, he was still snorting when he did. He stuck his face into that pile of Cheerios and snorted them right up his nose.

If a dog can look comically surprised, he did. Then he started sneezing. Violently. Every sneeze sprayed Cheerios around the room. It took a while to cleanse his sinuses of every vestige of breakfast cereal but he did it and seemed none the worse for wear.

I won't tell you how we cleaned those Cheerios up (besides, if you're at all familiar with how dogs operate, you probably already know).

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Quote of the Day

This morning Starshine showed me a comic book he wrote in which one character brandished a sword at another character and said,

"Keep it up and you will taste my rash!"


=D

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Dinner On Murphy

Some nights at work, everything seems to go horribly wrong.

There are the nights when a guest causes it by being incredibly rude or childish (like calling me "Sweetcakes" when my apron clearly says "C.J." or letting their spawn toss forks at other tables.).

There are nights when I cause it. (like when I jiggled a tea pitcher to get some ice into a woman's glass - as requested - and ALL the ice flew out and covered the table)

And then there are the nights only Murphy can deliver.

One night in particular comes to mind.

A party of five came in and chose to sit at a four-top with a chair in the aisle. This is a common practice and really isn't a problem except that this guy's chair happened to be right beside the doorway from one part of the dining room to the next. Very high traffic area. Waiters carrying beverages and plates of food and a chair sticking out in their path are a bad combination.

This man was a nice guy. He smiled at me when I greeted the table, placed his order politely, and generally seemed like someone I'd like to wait on.

I delivered their drinks and checked on them a few minutes later, puzzled to see a look of distress on the man's face. He quietly informed me that there was a gnat in his water.

Ewww.

It's rare to find a bug anywhere in my restaurant. We pass all our health inspections with flying colors. We have a "bug guy" who regularly services the entire store to ensure things like this don't happen.

But there it was. One little gnat carcass floating in his water. As his table was next to a window (and bugs that get trapped in a restaurant inevitably head toward a window), I figured that was the culprit. I apologized and replaced his drink. He was nice about the whole thing.

No big deal.

Or it wouldn't have been a big deal if one of my fellow waiters hadn't tripped over his chair on his way through the dining room to refill tea. Tea sloshed out of the pitcher and landed right in my guy's lap.

Since the Mt. Dew incident in Taco Bell with Paul, I have firsthand knowledge of how uncomfortable it is to get a lapful of icy beverage while wearing jeans. There are more uncomfortable things, of course, but most of them involve sand, salt water, or someone with a medical degree.

I apologized again to him and brought him a towel. He continued to be nice about everything. I really, really liked this guy.

I delivered the table's food minutes later and wouldn't you know it? This guy's steak was raw in the middle. As he'd ordered it well done, this was a problem. I apologized again, got his steak re-cooked, and we began to joke about his poor luck (we wondered aloud if perhaps he'd broken a mirror lately or offended a black cat).

Unfortunately for him, the worst was still to come.

And the worst came from me.

We deliver our food on large rectangular trays. These suckers are heavy when full of dishes and unwieldy even when they're empty.

I picked up a tray of food, headed through the dining room, past my guy's chair, delivered the food, turned to go, and heard the fateful words, "Oh, Miss?!" from the table whose food I'd just set down.

I was already walking away, entering the doorway between the two dining rooms. I whipped around to see what this table still wanted and the tray that I'd carefully tucked under one arm smacked my guy upside the head and knocked him to the floor.

There is no apology in the world that can make up for that. I offered him free chocolate instead. He accepted and, unbelievably, was still totally nice about the whole thing.

He even tipped me well.

Oddly enough, I haven't seen him enter our restaurant again.

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The Perfect Gift?

Those of you who've been regular blog readers for a while will appreciate this one: Wandereringray sent me a link to the perfect Christmas present for our friend Mal (Paul, aka bluedragoon25).

Those of you who are new to the scene can get caught up here.


Click here to see how you can make Paul's Christmas the best Christmas ever.


I personally love the warning not to use this to try to stop real bullets. Gee, thanks for the tip.

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Count This

We have a running joke that I cannot count large amounts of cash. By "we", I mean my husband and every teller in my bank. No one bats an eye anymore when I hand over a pile of cash (and as a waitress by night, I do mean a PILE) and am several dollars off one way or the other.

It's not that I am unable to count. Math was never my favorite subject but I did very well until I hit the black hole that is Algebra 3.

It's that I have a hectic, crazy life and my brain constantly runs at warp speed.

Here is what it looks like when I try to count 176 singles:


Me: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

Starshine: "Look at me! I'm Darth Mal!"

Me: *looks up* "Well, that explains the use of black and red markers on your face. Very nice. Now go wash."

Me: "Where was I? Did I already say 10?" *starts over*

My Brain: "You don't think it's possible he colored that marker on more than just his face, do you? Like, oh I don't know, perhaps the wall? The bedspread? The cat?"

Me: "Starshine! Where were you using the markers?" *counts to 20 and puts it aside so I will know I've hit 20.*

Starshine: "On my face!"

Me: 21, 22, 23, 24, 24 "Yes, but what room of the house were you in when you colored your face?"

Starshine: "The water's too hot!"

Cell phone starts to ring.

Dog spots a jogger and begins frantically howling to go outside.

Me: "Turn the faucet to the right. Towards the shower." 26, 27, 28, 29, 30. *answers phone while opening the back door for the dog. Has hectic conversation with hubby that lasts 4.7 seconds.*

Daredevil: "Can I have a snack?"

Me: "Yes, get some fruit or a granola bar. Starshine, you should be finished by now, why is the water still on?" *stares at stack of money and scrolls back. 30?*

Daredevil: "I don't want fruit or granola. I want cheese."

Me: 31, 32, 33 "I can't cut cheese for you right now. Get something else. Starshine! Turn off that water!" 36, 37, 38, 39

Daredevil: "Can I cut it?"

Me: 40, 41, 42, 43 "Sure." *catches a glimpse of Starshine heading through the dining room, completely covered in soap suds.*

Daredevil: "Cool! I get a knife!"

Me: 47, 48, 49 "Starshine! Why are you covered in soap?"

Starshine: "You told me to turn off the water."

Me: "Well, not until you've rinsed off the soap. Go rinse." *stares at pile of money and tries to remember how much is there. 50? Sounds right.*

My Brain: "Is today the day the bug guy shows up? Or is that tomorrow? Maybe I should pull some chicken out of the freezer for tonight."

Me: 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, *notices Daredevil is standing beside me with a hunk of cheese and a butcher knife.*

Me: "What do you think you're doing??? Put down that knife."

Daredevil: "But you said I could."

Me: "No I didn't. Or if I did, it was a mistake." *stares at cash. Where was I? Oh yes, 50.*

Daredevil: "Can you cut it for me then? Please?"

Me: 51, 52, 53, 54 "Give me a second to finish this and I'll do it for you." 55, 56, 57

Starshine: *screaming* "I have soap in my eyes! I'm blind! I'll never see again!"

Dog barks to come back in.

Cat begins the preliminary horking sound that leads inevitably to the act of vomiting up a furball.

Cat is on my couch.

Me: "Hang on Starshine! Daredevil, drop the knife and wait for me!" *yanks cat off couch and onto hardwood floor in the nick of time. Nearly lets dog in before good sense and the memory of what dogs WILL eat kicks in. Runs to Starshine's rescue in the bathroom.*

Scientist: "Mom, some guy is on the phone for you."

Me: *wipes out Starshine's eyes and sends him on his way, grabs papertowels to clean up after the cat and gives the Beady Eye to Daredevil who is hovering over the knife.* "Who is it?"

Scientist: *waits until I shove the papertowels into the trash before handing me the phone.* "Some guy who wants your opinion on something."

Me: *gives my opinion on stangers calling my house to ask me anything at all* "Scientist, let the dog in please." *faces cash. Where was I? Oh yes, 70.*

My Brain: "You still didn't pull out the chicken. Better do it before you forget."

Me: *grabs chicken out of the freezer and slices cheese for Daredevil just to get some peace and quiet* "Hm, 71, 72...no that can't be right. 61, 62?"

Cell phone rings again.

Starshine and Scientist get into an argument on the stairs.

Doorbell rings as some neighborhood kid wants to play inside this madhouse.

Me: *stares at cash and gives up knowing if I start over, another long line of distractions will just interrupt me again*

And that is why I can't count piles of money. Thank goodness for bank tellers with handy money counting machines.

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Keep 'Em Guessing

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