Today, Text, from The Man Who lives in My House: "Want to meet me for lunch somewhere?"
Me: "I would avoid being around me at all costs, if I were you."
A little later, my cell rings, it's my mother. I know she'll call again if I don't pick up, so I answer: "Hi mom, is it an emergency?"
My mother, "Well no, I just called to chat."
Me: "Mom, it is going to have to wait until Saturday. But call or text if it's an emergency."
My mom is laughing as I click off.
Why would I turn down a lunch date with a cute guy? Why wouldn't I enjoy a chat with my mother? Am I crazy? No. I am in charge. In charge of the school auction, in a year where we are facing a budget shortfall so severe that we may lose one of our 11 classroom teachers. Normally we raise money to keep Reading support, P.E., Music, technology upgrades, library upgrades--"frills" like that. Now our funding is so short that we may lose a classroom teacher, in addition to the "frills". So this auction gig. No pressure.
I am homesick for blogging, and normalcy. Right now I live in auction land. It is extremely fun, but very time consuming. I have been an auction wingman for several years now, but the parent who has run the show decided it was time to step down. I'm not sure whether I stepped up, or whether it was just kind of a default thing, but the power went straight to my head. I am El Jefe.
So I sort of changed it up--instead of a kid inclusive family event, I got the local public golf course to let us use their clubhouse (for free), and the local brewery to donate a keg, and a local vineyard gave us ten cases of wine--which are currently stacked all around my living room.
This could be a great idea, because who doesn't like a party? And we will raise extra $ selling beer and wine. Actually we cannot legally sell the beer and wine, but we can accept donations. There will be an enormous pickle jar with a big sign that says "DONATIONS." I think people will get it.
It also could be a total flop. People could be having so much fun socializing that they forget to bid. That happened a few years ago, when the school-located auction fell on a gorgeous spring evening. The kids all ran out on the playground, and the adults were having so much fun chatting and keeping an eye on our kids...we kind of forgot to bid as much as usual.
Still, I am El Jefe. And I like parties. I like going to them, and I like throwing them. If it's a flop, I will do penance by helping with the Jogathon next month. (We are having a school budget crisis, can you tell? Lots of fundraisers. Lots of pressure. That's a whole 'nother post.)
There will be pizza and music. I think every babysitter in neighborhood has been booked, but just in case, we have childcare available at the school. I have not even started to go on and on about the donations, but I'll say that an army of minions is running around doing my bidding. I call them the hunter-gatherers. We have bikes and beach weekends and museum memberships and gift cards coming out of our ears, organized by me (not my forte! Painful!) and also stacked (in orderly piles) around my living room. The minions all have done this for years. They remind me about what I should be doing. If we make some money, they get the credit.
This blog gets credit, too, because I've basically used my blog energy to send out updates to all the hunter-gatherers a couple of times every week since the beginning of February. I tell them what is done and what's still needed. I try to make it funny and I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining--I truly am having a ball. It's a great excuse not to exercise. Either somebody volunteers to do it or they tell me how to do it, and I add it to my list.
I have had to repress the urge to procrastinate: I have never been so tempted to paint my bathroom! Hopefully I can tap in to that urge when this is over (tomorrow!).
Anyway, I must return to my auctionizing, auctioneering? Auctionagonizing.....I'll be back next week.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Our Beast's Inner Beast
Otto, the dog-who-lives-mostly-under-our-table, is a pure bred Golden Malador (Lab, Golden, Malamute). He is marvelous with children--except for his tail. A quote from the Smaller Hooligan, aged two: "Otto, don't wag my face!"
He is an excellent burglar alarm--when someone comes to the door he sounds like Cerberus, the three headed hound of hell. No one with bad intentions would think it was worth the effort. We had to set up a mail box outside because he would bite the mail as it came through the slot. He kept wrecking the netflix DVDs.
Best of all, he knows his place: he lurks very quietly under the table. He is NOT next to it, begging. My first dog (a black lab from the pound) was just dreadful in the manners department which was entirely my fault. She was my pre-baby dog. I fed her from my spoon--alternately with feeding myself. She liked ice cream and meatballs. I used to buy her 99 cent Whoppers at the Burger King drive through. The Man Who Lives In My House claims to have seen me give her a whole slice of pizza. This may have been an accident. She leaned against people suggestively at mealtimes. She would slink up behind unwary children at the park and removed peanut butter sandwiches very delicately from their chubby little hands.
My in-laws found her horrifying. I'm sure they took my dog-ownership philosophy as a very bad portent for my future child raising. This would not have been unreasonable. I can only hope that they are pleasantly surprised with how the Hooligans are turning out--they do like to eat, but they don't beg. I believe I'm generally regarded by the local youth as a fairly strict mother, possibly even mean. I try to make up for it with good snacks.
Anyway, back to Otto. After Tilly--my sweet spoiled lab (Did I mention I let her sleep in my bed? And she had her own chair? I was reprehensible. I make no excuses.) I took a four year break from having a dog. I was in dog rehab. It was peaceful, clean, and cheap.
But something was missing. A good dog improves your quality of life, even as they bark at passersby when you're trying to nap, drop hair and dirt and occasionally barf all over the place, and need to have their teeth cleaned ($400!). One day I was perusing the "free" column in the classifieds, as is my habit, and there it was: "lab, golden, malamute mix, 10 months old, needs more time with a family than I can provide. Housetrained. Free to good home."
I thought, "I like all three of those breeds. And it's not a puppy!" (This was one of my major criteria: after potty training the hooligans, I have sworn never to deal with teaching anyone where to urinate and defecate again). So I called, loaded up the Hooligans (then 2 &5) and off we went to meet Otto.
Who bounded out of the house, right up to the Smaller Hooligan and....slammed on the brakes. I could tell that he wanted to jump on him and lick him, but he knew that would be a mistake. "We need him," I told the lady. "Look at those eyebrows. He is perfect."
I love this dog. I can't think about how old he is--which he isn't, very--because then I have to face the thought that someday he will be an old dog. He will not outlive me. It makes me sad in advance, which is silly.
But this is not really what I want to talk about. I digress. The point, today, and I do have one, is Otto and the chickens: when we first got the chickens Otto was excited to the point of losing his tiny mind. He sat next to their run, alert to the last millimeter of tail, eyebrows raised, nostrils flared, salivating ever so slightly. He would creep closer and closer to the fence, moving so stealthily that the chickens (whose minds are even tinier) would forget his existence and let down their guard, coming clucking and scratching towards him and he would....pounce! Fruitlessly, because the chickens were on the other side of the fence. But they would shriek and leap into the air and tear down to the other end of the run, which must have been satisfying: he would chase them from his side, settle down and start over again. All day long, if we let him.
However, we wanted eggs, and stressed out chickens do not lay eggs, so we dragged Otto inside. He parked himself at our bedroom window, where he could see the run. He kept vigil, taking occasional breaks to come pant at me excitedly, "Hey, did you know? There are CHICKENS out there! Chickens!" Then he'd go back to keeping watch. We called it the chicken channel.
Eventually I had to seek advice. Someone told me to spray him with bitter apple whenever he got near the chickens. This stuff is some horribly nasty smelling/tasting concoction that does not sting or hurt dogs, they just hate it. I only had to use it twice. After that I would just shake the bottle in his direction and he'd back off. Nowadays we can let the chickens out and he follows them around at a safe distance. (Eating their poop. Dogs are disgusting. Their appeal is a mystery.) The chickens have forgotten that Otto is a threat... until today.
Today the Larger Hooligan and his friend wanted to let the chickens out. They like to chase them around and catch them and set them up on tree branches. The chickens perch awkwardly, clucking, and then they flap down and rejoin the flock. This is entertaining. It is also fun to play chicken ball--akin to dwarf tossing, but less offensive. Really it seems like the Hooligans are a much greater threat than the dog but then.....
One of the Buff Orphingtons--the yellow chickens I call the blondies (they are especially dim, as per blond stereotype), walked right under Otto. It was just irresistable. What did we want from him, anyway? He is descended from wolves. And she's a nice plump chicken literally strolling under his chin. I looked out the window and saw that he had her pinned.
I threw open the back door and yelled, "Try to rescue the chicken!" to the Hooligan and his friend while I found my boots. By the time I got there, the boys were cradling the chicken, who was playing dead (I had no idea that chickens were smart enough to do this, or maybe this chicken is a diva.)
I dragged Otto inside. He was totally riled up--completely full of himself. He had fulfilled his genetic destiny! He had either retrieved--or maybe eviscerated--a chicken! Surely I would reward him!
After locking him in I grabbed a towel and a box and went back out. I was afraid I was going to have to put the chicken out of her misery. The boys were cradling her and her head was lolling. She was clucking weakly. We set her in a little nest of towels. After a few minutes, she stood up, puffed out all her feathers, and stalked off to join the flock.
The boys looked at each other. "I guess she's ok." "Yeah, let's go play computer games."
A safe choice.
He is an excellent burglar alarm--when someone comes to the door he sounds like Cerberus, the three headed hound of hell. No one with bad intentions would think it was worth the effort. We had to set up a mail box outside because he would bite the mail as it came through the slot. He kept wrecking the netflix DVDs.
Best of all, he knows his place: he lurks very quietly under the table. He is NOT next to it, begging. My first dog (a black lab from the pound) was just dreadful in the manners department which was entirely my fault. She was my pre-baby dog. I fed her from my spoon--alternately with feeding myself. She liked ice cream and meatballs. I used to buy her 99 cent Whoppers at the Burger King drive through. The Man Who Lives In My House claims to have seen me give her a whole slice of pizza. This may have been an accident. She leaned against people suggestively at mealtimes. She would slink up behind unwary children at the park and removed peanut butter sandwiches very delicately from their chubby little hands.
My in-laws found her horrifying. I'm sure they took my dog-ownership philosophy as a very bad portent for my future child raising. This would not have been unreasonable. I can only hope that they are pleasantly surprised with how the Hooligans are turning out--they do like to eat, but they don't beg. I believe I'm generally regarded by the local youth as a fairly strict mother, possibly even mean. I try to make up for it with good snacks.
Anyway, back to Otto. After Tilly--my sweet spoiled lab (Did I mention I let her sleep in my bed? And she had her own chair? I was reprehensible. I make no excuses.) I took a four year break from having a dog. I was in dog rehab. It was peaceful, clean, and cheap.
But something was missing. A good dog improves your quality of life, even as they bark at passersby when you're trying to nap, drop hair and dirt and occasionally barf all over the place, and need to have their teeth cleaned ($400!). One day I was perusing the "free" column in the classifieds, as is my habit, and there it was: "lab, golden, malamute mix, 10 months old, needs more time with a family than I can provide. Housetrained. Free to good home."
I thought, "I like all three of those breeds. And it's not a puppy!" (This was one of my major criteria: after potty training the hooligans, I have sworn never to deal with teaching anyone where to urinate and defecate again). So I called, loaded up the Hooligans (then 2 &5) and off we went to meet Otto.
Who bounded out of the house, right up to the Smaller Hooligan and....slammed on the brakes. I could tell that he wanted to jump on him and lick him, but he knew that would be a mistake. "We need him," I told the lady. "Look at those eyebrows. He is perfect."
I love this dog. I can't think about how old he is--which he isn't, very--because then I have to face the thought that someday he will be an old dog. He will not outlive me. It makes me sad in advance, which is silly.
But this is not really what I want to talk about. I digress. The point, today, and I do have one, is Otto and the chickens: when we first got the chickens Otto was excited to the point of losing his tiny mind. He sat next to their run, alert to the last millimeter of tail, eyebrows raised, nostrils flared, salivating ever so slightly. He would creep closer and closer to the fence, moving so stealthily that the chickens (whose minds are even tinier) would forget his existence and let down their guard, coming clucking and scratching towards him and he would....pounce! Fruitlessly, because the chickens were on the other side of the fence. But they would shriek and leap into the air and tear down to the other end of the run, which must have been satisfying: he would chase them from his side, settle down and start over again. All day long, if we let him.
However, we wanted eggs, and stressed out chickens do not lay eggs, so we dragged Otto inside. He parked himself at our bedroom window, where he could see the run. He kept vigil, taking occasional breaks to come pant at me excitedly, "Hey, did you know? There are CHICKENS out there! Chickens!" Then he'd go back to keeping watch. We called it the chicken channel.
Eventually I had to seek advice. Someone told me to spray him with bitter apple whenever he got near the chickens. This stuff is some horribly nasty smelling/tasting concoction that does not sting or hurt dogs, they just hate it. I only had to use it twice. After that I would just shake the bottle in his direction and he'd back off. Nowadays we can let the chickens out and he follows them around at a safe distance. (Eating their poop. Dogs are disgusting. Their appeal is a mystery.) The chickens have forgotten that Otto is a threat... until today.
Today the Larger Hooligan and his friend wanted to let the chickens out. They like to chase them around and catch them and set them up on tree branches. The chickens perch awkwardly, clucking, and then they flap down and rejoin the flock. This is entertaining. It is also fun to play chicken ball--akin to dwarf tossing, but less offensive. Really it seems like the Hooligans are a much greater threat than the dog but then.....
One of the Buff Orphingtons--the yellow chickens I call the blondies (they are especially dim, as per blond stereotype), walked right under Otto. It was just irresistable. What did we want from him, anyway? He is descended from wolves. And she's a nice plump chicken literally strolling under his chin. I looked out the window and saw that he had her pinned.
I threw open the back door and yelled, "Try to rescue the chicken!" to the Hooligan and his friend while I found my boots. By the time I got there, the boys were cradling the chicken, who was playing dead (I had no idea that chickens were smart enough to do this, or maybe this chicken is a diva.)
I dragged Otto inside. He was totally riled up--completely full of himself. He had fulfilled his genetic destiny! He had either retrieved--or maybe eviscerated--a chicken! Surely I would reward him!
After locking him in I grabbed a towel and a box and went back out. I was afraid I was going to have to put the chicken out of her misery. The boys were cradling her and her head was lolling. She was clucking weakly. We set her in a little nest of towels. After a few minutes, she stood up, puffed out all her feathers, and stalked off to join the flock.
The boys looked at each other. "I guess she's ok." "Yeah, let's go play computer games."
A safe choice.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Food, because I'm trying to break out of a food rut.
I haven't been feeling inventive with food lately. It seems like I go to the grocery store every other day. Much as I love my grocery ladies (Kay! Rachel! Jeannie! Joann! You make my routine enjoyable!) and the wine guy (Louis! Yay Louis!) and the coffee kids (The usual? Yes please. 12 oz coffee. Black), AND the cheese goddess (so many samples!), I get sick of buying food.
So to mix things up, and because it's next to Value Village (Half off Presidents' Day Sale, you think I'd miss that?), I stopped in at Benedetti's Butcher Shop. I like those old school places with the big chopping blocks and shiny knives. There is a particular smell of very fresh clean meat that's at once appealing and slightly repugnant. Benedetti's also makes cheese steak sandwiches, if you happen to be hungry.
Works for me. Anyway, there were chicken breasts stuffed with asparagus in the case. And I happened to remember that there was a bunch of asparagus withering away in my fridge. Also a rind of parmesan cheese and some proscuitto. HA! All I had to do was buy some chicken breasts and I could make dinner without another trip to the grocery store.
So here's how it came together:
Partially cut through a chicken breast to make space for stuffing.
Fill with: thin slices of parmesan
6 asparagus tips
proscuitto
a little minced garlic
lemon zest
black pepper
I used cooking twine and tied each one up like a mini roast. Then I browned them in a little butter and garlic, poured some liquid (white wine, lemon juice, cream (no idea why we have cream) and a little mustard into the pan, put the lid on, and simmered for about 35 minutes.
I made rice, but it was too much white. Next time I'll make baby red potatoes. I'll also go for more mustard (I only used about a teaspoon) and possibly some tarragon or saffron as well. I steamed the rest of the asparagus to the top of the chicken for the last 7 or 8 minutes. You could substitute milk for the cream, or stock. If you don't eat chicken, this would be delicious with fish, but I'm not sure what would be sturdy enough to stuff--maybe halibut? Somebody try it and get back to me.
It was sort of fancy, but maybe I just think that because asparagus was a delicacy reserved for company when I was growing up. I loathed it. I don't know when I figured out it's delicious. The hooligans like it, but you know they're weird that way. The Larger One called it twigs (More twigs! More!) when he was little. He probably was enjoying dinosaur (brontosaurus, since it involved vegetables) ideation.
So to mix things up, and because it's next to Value Village (Half off Presidents' Day Sale, you think I'd miss that?), I stopped in at Benedetti's Butcher Shop. I like those old school places with the big chopping blocks and shiny knives. There is a particular smell of very fresh clean meat that's at once appealing and slightly repugnant. Benedetti's also makes cheese steak sandwiches, if you happen to be hungry.
Works for me. Anyway, there were chicken breasts stuffed with asparagus in the case. And I happened to remember that there was a bunch of asparagus withering away in my fridge. Also a rind of parmesan cheese and some proscuitto. HA! All I had to do was buy some chicken breasts and I could make dinner without another trip to the grocery store.
So here's how it came together:
Partially cut through a chicken breast to make space for stuffing.
Fill with: thin slices of parmesan
6 asparagus tips
proscuitto
a little minced garlic
lemon zest
black pepper
I used cooking twine and tied each one up like a mini roast. Then I browned them in a little butter and garlic, poured some liquid (white wine, lemon juice, cream (no idea why we have cream) and a little mustard into the pan, put the lid on, and simmered for about 35 minutes.
I made rice, but it was too much white. Next time I'll make baby red potatoes. I'll also go for more mustard (I only used about a teaspoon) and possibly some tarragon or saffron as well. I steamed the rest of the asparagus to the top of the chicken for the last 7 or 8 minutes. You could substitute milk for the cream, or stock. If you don't eat chicken, this would be delicious with fish, but I'm not sure what would be sturdy enough to stuff--maybe halibut? Somebody try it and get back to me.
It was sort of fancy, but maybe I just think that because asparagus was a delicacy reserved for company when I was growing up. I loathed it. I don't know when I figured out it's delicious. The hooligans like it, but you know they're weird that way. The Larger One called it twigs (More twigs! More!) when he was little. He probably was enjoying dinosaur (brontosaurus, since it involved vegetables) ideation.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Snark Junior: That's my boy.
The following is the beginning of Chapter 2 of The Larger Hooligan's Autobiography. I did no editing, suggesting commentary, nothing. I was not home when he wrote it. He clearly enjoyed his afternoon of being a latchkey child. Now he is at soccer practice in the icy pouring rain.
Chapter 2
My Family
My family consists of 3 people not including me. The first is my Dad biker doctor kid raiser whatever. The next is my Mom chef knitter prison warden okay so that might be a little harsh lets say rule enforcer. Last is my brother weirdo, boy who names his chickens odd things such as Where Is My Burrito and Taco-My-Oco I don’t know.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Valentines Phooey
All the design blogs I like to peruse are annoying me this week with their Valentines blather. Adorable craft projects! Sweet gift suggestions!
Excuse me while I go throw up a little bit in my mouth.
THIS IS A HALLMARK HOLIDAY! ROOTLESS! INVENTED BY CAPITALISTS!
It is possible that i'm just sour because I've had a number of dreadful valentines experiences. The one that took the proverbial cake was during college. The very tall and cute, but flakey and annoying boy I had been trying to break up with decided to show up with a giant stuffed teddy bear.
I was, like, you really have no idea who you're with, do you?
I wasn't a stuffed animal person even as a child. It did make it easier to go through with the break up.
A fun Valentine's Day also occurred during college. At the time I was (blessedly) single. I spent the evening in the basement party room with the brothers and sisters of zeta-something or other, playing spin the bottle. Awesome. I had to kiss a short blond guy.
I do like to make stuff, so I usually buy a bunch of stickers and break out the glitter. The Hooligans dislike the store cards because they say actual sweet things. What if a girl were to take it seriously? The very thought freaks them out. So we make our own. They are highly decorated (there is nothing a hooligan likes more than going to town with the glitter), but with very basic messages--telegram-like:
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, SO & SO. (Note: no exclamation point--that would denote enthusiasm.) FROM HOOLIGAN
The Man Who Lives In My House looks at me fretfully in the week or so before Valentine's Day. "Do I need to get you something?" he asks.
I have to tell you, that is IT, for me. This is ROMANCE! Because if I said, "Yes, I must have a diamond tennis bracelet right away, " I believe he would march out and get one. (note: I have never tested this theory.)
Which makes it completely true when I say, "No, I don't want anything. In fact, I'll be really irritated if you get suckered into the advertising bullshit. Let's just eat the kids' chocolate after they go to bed." Which is what we do.
Excuse me while I go throw up a little bit in my mouth.
THIS IS A HALLMARK HOLIDAY! ROOTLESS! INVENTED BY CAPITALISTS!
It is possible that i'm just sour because I've had a number of dreadful valentines experiences. The one that took the proverbial cake was during college. The very tall and cute, but flakey and annoying boy I had been trying to break up with decided to show up with a giant stuffed teddy bear.
I was, like, you really have no idea who you're with, do you?
I wasn't a stuffed animal person even as a child. It did make it easier to go through with the break up.
A fun Valentine's Day also occurred during college. At the time I was (blessedly) single. I spent the evening in the basement party room with the brothers and sisters of zeta-something or other, playing spin the bottle. Awesome. I had to kiss a short blond guy.
I do like to make stuff, so I usually buy a bunch of stickers and break out the glitter. The Hooligans dislike the store cards because they say actual sweet things. What if a girl were to take it seriously? The very thought freaks them out. So we make our own. They are highly decorated (there is nothing a hooligan likes more than going to town with the glitter), but with very basic messages--telegram-like:
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, SO & SO. (Note: no exclamation point--that would denote enthusiasm.) FROM HOOLIGAN
The Man Who Lives In My House looks at me fretfully in the week or so before Valentine's Day. "Do I need to get you something?" he asks.
I have to tell you, that is IT, for me. This is ROMANCE! Because if I said, "Yes, I must have a diamond tennis bracelet right away, " I believe he would march out and get one. (note: I have never tested this theory.)
Which makes it completely true when I say, "No, I don't want anything. In fact, I'll be really irritated if you get suckered into the advertising bullshit. Let's just eat the kids' chocolate after they go to bed." Which is what we do.
 |
| This picture was not taken on Valentines' Day. On Valentines, we wear sweatpants. |
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Friends of friends of friends
Our friends lost their son in a tragic accident last weekend. The mom was one of the first people I met when we moved here. Her boys are 3 years apart--like mine, but ten years further along. She has been a sounding board for me on everything to do with living with and raising sons. Her experiences have given me so many valuable insights.
We are all the things you would expect: shocked, sad, heartsick. We have spoken to our friend on the phone and brought fresh squeezed orange juice to the house--right now they are mobbed with extended family, neighbors, friends. Their front porch looks like a shrine. Someone has placed little pots of miniature daffodils along their walkway. The family is being taken care of--insofar as that is possible--which of course it's not. Not really.
Meanwhile, other friends of ours have called us: How is the boy's family doing? How are we doing? They don't know the family personally, but they know we do. They express their sympathy. They have fed us dinner and held our hands. Distracted our kids so we can sit together and talk.
I imagine this is happening all over our little town--the very closest friends and family are with the bereaved. The next circle out is bringing flowers and food, writing notes. Beyond that, friends are taking extra care of one another, hugging their kids more, walking them all the way to school instead of just to the corner. We are so lucky to be here, to be together.
We are all the things you would expect: shocked, sad, heartsick. We have spoken to our friend on the phone and brought fresh squeezed orange juice to the house--right now they are mobbed with extended family, neighbors, friends. Their front porch looks like a shrine. Someone has placed little pots of miniature daffodils along their walkway. The family is being taken care of--insofar as that is possible--which of course it's not. Not really.
Meanwhile, other friends of ours have called us: How is the boy's family doing? How are we doing? They don't know the family personally, but they know we do. They express their sympathy. They have fed us dinner and held our hands. Distracted our kids so we can sit together and talk.
I imagine this is happening all over our little town--the very closest friends and family are with the bereaved. The next circle out is bringing flowers and food, writing notes. Beyond that, friends are taking extra care of one another, hugging their kids more, walking them all the way to school instead of just to the corner. We are so lucky to be here, to be together.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Texting: toddler ennui, cookies, fleas
My sister to me: I just asked Senor Cupcake to stop moaning and he said, "No, I still need to moan right now."
My reply: Why is my nephew moaning? Or does he just want to be featured on Auntie's blog? Consider it done. Give that child a cookie. Chop chop!
My sister: Unspecified dissatisfaction.
No Cookies!
Me: You are the meanest mom in the whole world! I've been usurped! I'm going to tell the Hooligans!
My sister: You told me to start early.
Me: Yes, with chores and vegetables, I never said no cookies. I am pro-cookie.
My sister: Your nephew says "OOOOHHHHH."Very dramatic. And he gets plenty of cookies. Ever since xmas it's all dessert, all the time.
Me: Oh thank god. I was tired of getting in trouble for sneaking him cookies. I just made cookies this afternoon. Tell him Auntie Cake says MMMMMMMM.
My sister: What kind?
Me: Chocolate chip with ground almonds and coconut and currents and walnuts. They are almost healthy.
My sister: YYHTTTYPUPUPUFTFXUG
Me: That's what I think.
My sister: That's what Senor Cupcake thinks of healthy cookies.
Me: These are good! They have sugar and everything! I am at the vet right now, because I love to give the vet all of our money. Tell Senor Cupcake to become a vet: It's perfect because it will satisfy any rebellious urges he may have as the product of a pet free home, plus he will be terribly rich.*
My sister: Nice. He can provide us with companion animals for our old age.
Me: I am already old. The hooligans are my companion animals. I can't really picture you guys with a poodle.
My sister: What about a nice mid-sized mutt? Aren't we cute?
*I don't really think vets are terribly rich, it just seems that way to me when I have to keep bringing my high maintenance mutt, turtles, etc. in to see ours. She has skills that are invaluable! She deals with stool samples. I am so glad I can outsource that! It is worth every penny. She is going to save me money by removing Otto's nasty skin tags when she puts him under to clean his nasty teeth. Why do I love dogs? It is a sickness, clearly.
My sister had just sent me this picture when our vet came back into the exam room with the verdict: Otto's blood work is good; he can handle anesthesia; he does not have heartworm; the reason he is scratching and chewing on himself all the time is not yeast or fungus or doggie psoriasis or anything so exotic. He has fleas.
Fleas! That is so retro. Nobody has fleas anymore. We all dose up our mammalian pets with that magical Frontline tincture and the fleas go away. Except they don't--they evolve. Now we will give Otto a new kind of tincture, which will eliminate the Fleas for a few more generations. All in all, an educational and amusing afternoon.
My reply: Why is my nephew moaning? Or does he just want to be featured on Auntie's blog? Consider it done. Give that child a cookie. Chop chop!
My sister: Unspecified dissatisfaction.
No Cookies!
Me: You are the meanest mom in the whole world! I've been usurped! I'm going to tell the Hooligans!
My sister: You told me to start early.
Me: Yes, with chores and vegetables, I never said no cookies. I am pro-cookie.
My sister: Your nephew says "OOOOHHHHH."Very dramatic. And he gets plenty of cookies. Ever since xmas it's all dessert, all the time.
Me: Oh thank god. I was tired of getting in trouble for sneaking him cookies. I just made cookies this afternoon. Tell him Auntie Cake says MMMMMMMM.
My sister: What kind?
Me: Chocolate chip with ground almonds and coconut and currents and walnuts. They are almost healthy.
My sister: YYHTTTYPUPUPUFTFXUG
Me: That's what I think.
My sister: That's what Senor Cupcake thinks of healthy cookies.
Me: These are good! They have sugar and everything! I am at the vet right now, because I love to give the vet all of our money. Tell Senor Cupcake to become a vet: It's perfect because it will satisfy any rebellious urges he may have as the product of a pet free home, plus he will be terribly rich.*
My sister: Nice. He can provide us with companion animals for our old age.
Me: I am already old. The hooligans are my companion animals. I can't really picture you guys with a poodle.
My sister: What about a nice mid-sized mutt? Aren't we cute?
*I don't really think vets are terribly rich, it just seems that way to me when I have to keep bringing my high maintenance mutt, turtles, etc. in to see ours. She has skills that are invaluable! She deals with stool samples. I am so glad I can outsource that! It is worth every penny. She is going to save me money by removing Otto's nasty skin tags when she puts him under to clean his nasty teeth. Why do I love dogs? It is a sickness, clearly.
My sister had just sent me this picture when our vet came back into the exam room with the verdict: Otto's blood work is good; he can handle anesthesia; he does not have heartworm; the reason he is scratching and chewing on himself all the time is not yeast or fungus or doggie psoriasis or anything so exotic. He has fleas.
Fleas! That is so retro. Nobody has fleas anymore. We all dose up our mammalian pets with that magical Frontline tincture and the fleas go away. Except they don't--they evolve. Now we will give Otto a new kind of tincture, which will eliminate the Fleas for a few more generations. All in all, an educational and amusing afternoon.
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