Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Git Off My Lawn

As I waited in the security line yesterday, three young women were chatting behind me. It's a staff-only door, which means the line moves pretty quickly, but also means those crazy kids were gainfully employed and not interns.

One had a date that night - with Dylan! - and everyone was very excited.

How did I get this old? Just the thought of dating made me feel ancient and very tired. And how did boys named Dylan get old enough to ask girls out? Jeez.

**

When did I turn elderly? Do you remember when someone would ask "You know what I don't get?" and you would automatically mutter "Laid very often?" and it was HILARIOUS?

Yeah. Now I cannot even think of an instance in which - or an acquaintance with whom - that would be even a little bit funny. It would either be an indictment of your marriage, or an insulting reminder that you're unhappily single, and it would be just plain mean instead of a good-natured ribbing.

**

At least I still think farts are funny.

I think that makes me immature and old.

Friday, May 03, 2013

This Is Why I'm Not Allowed To Do the Shopping

Bump sent me to Target for Nathan Jr's prescription and birdseed.

I bought two pairs of pants, a skirt, a double pack of tweezers, some apples, soda for my office fridge, and I picked up the script. I also impulse-purchased some checkout-aisle ponytail holders.

Forgot the birdseed.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Salad for Lunch

I know I'm not supposed to blog about my lunch, because nobody cares, so let's agree that I'm blogging about "something lunch-related that could change your life."

It could.

It may, at the very least, change your world view.

So.

Here goes: It's rude to refer to a reuben as a "sandwich."

It's got salad dressing on it. Therefore, it clearly identifies as a salad.

It may be <airquote> sandwiched <airquote> between two slices of rye bread. But you need to look beyond that. Because, hello? Sauerkraut. I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure sauerkraut starts out as cabbage. So it still counts as a vegetable.

Unless you order it without the Thousand/Russian dressing -- but who would ever do such a thing? -- THE REUBEN IS A SALAD.

So show some respect. Stop calling it a sandwich.

But order a reuben salad for lunch tomorrow.

And put some bacon on it.

Friday, March 01, 2013

Max and Ruby

Ruby, and her "little brother" Max.

There, does that help?

I've heard a lot of complaining about this show. Where are the parents? Are they locked in the basement? Why doesn't Grandma take custody of those poor neglected things?

Dudes, Ruby is not Max's sister. She's his mother.

This is not a show about a three-year-old boy testing his seven-year-old sister's patience. It's a cautionary tale about single parenting. Ruby has to put up with all of Max's annoying behaviors because TODDLERS ARE ANNOYING. And if you don't like it, you should have used protection.

First, kudos to Ruby for making attempts to keep her "pre-Max" lifestyle. Bunny Scouts, playdates, and dolly tea parties are great diversions from the day-to-day toils of an overworked bunny mom.

And good for Grandma, who shows up for important holidays and the occasional babysitting event, but for the most part leaves Ruby to deal with the situation she's created. You got yourself into this mess, Girlie, you've gotta handle that shit now.

I mean, I don't want to appear bunny-ist, but what else can one expect from rabbits? A species doesn't earn a reputation for flagrant reproduction if all the females wait for an advanced degree, a stable relationship, and an established career before starting a family. And it's not as though Ruby is alone in her choice to become a young parent. (Like I'm so sure Morris is Louise's "cousin." Riiiiiight.)

But I do wonder about Max's dad - personally, I suspect that seriously shady Roger, who is clearly a playboy (har) - and I wish he would take more of an interest in Max's life. I'm waiting for the episode where Max repeatedly chirps "Daddy?" and wonders why he can't have a strong male parent in his life like Baby Huffington.

And don't even get him started on the jealous rage Max feels at Little Nutbrown Hare.

Thursday, February 07, 2013

I'm Sure He Just Meant My Very Important Position (Which Would Be More Likely If I Was Important)

I was encouraged to join an Asian American Congressional staff organization, by a young staffer who emphasized the importance of more senior staffers in the group to serve as mentors. I followed up with him, paid my dues, and became a member.

But then I was like, "Wait, did that little brat just call me OLD?"

Monday, February 04, 2013

I Don't Think He Was Referencing Seniorage

I bought Lumpyhead (and Lula) coin collecting folders from the US Mint for Christmas. State Quarters and Presidential Dollars, because, numismatics!

Lumpyhead unwrapped the gift, I explained what it was, and he immediately declared it "a total waste of money."

He didn't mean that the gift was stupid - although, it was totally stupid - but he thought the actual collecting of coins was a waste of money. Because if you put them in the little cardboard thing, then you couldn't spend them. Wasteful.

You know what else was wasteful? $9.95 for a cardboard quarters album, and $14.95 for a cardboard dollar coin album. Plus shipping. Times two.

That could have been a kickass lego set instead, you Dumbshit.

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

Bumper Stickers

I'm afraid I am irredeemably out of touch with the mainstream nutjob movement. The other night when I saw an "I Choose Liberty" bumper sticker, all I could think was "What was the other option?"

Because, you know. When I think "Liberty or . . ." the first word that leaps to mind is Death. And if those are my options, then yes, I would choose Liberty too. But what if I could have had a bacon cheeseburger or liberty? Then I'm not so sure.

Saturday, January 05, 2013

It's Not Even Leather

This is the reason I subjected you to that old post: we cleaned Number One Cow.

To recap:
Number One Cow - The Favorite, Lumpyhead's lovey;
Cow II, The Phantom- ordered from an online merchant, never arrived;
Cow III, The Flaccid - a semi-look-alike cow that was actually nothing like Cow; and
Cow IV, The Failed Replacement - an identical item that was never accepted.

Like a scorned biblical sister, Cow IV is allowed in Lumpyhead's room - in his bed, even - but has never accompanied us on trips or been considered Lumpyhead's "real" cuddle buddy.

Even when Number One Cow's music box completely broke - making her Cow IV's exact twin, capability-wise - Lumpyhead never considered Cow IV to be an alternate. And by this time, Number One Cow was a filthy mess, thanks to the mechanical music box that rendered Cow un-washable. (Ha. "Rendered." I wonder if cows are sensitive about that word.) Poser Cow IV was never a serious challenger to unseat Number One Cow.
Poser Cow IV (right, pristine) and Number One Cow (loved, but disgusting)

Cool Mom Picks told me about NYC Lovey Repair -  which, holy moly, what an amazing thing - and I was inspired to try to clean Cow. If a Brooklyn woman and her seven-year-old could repair seriously damaged antiques, surely I could make one Cow a bit less toxic.

As insurance, I searched ebay for another replacement, just in case this all went horribly awry. You know, because Cow IV is SUCH a raging success and FOUR COWS LATER I HAVE NOT LEARNED ANYTHING. New Cows were available for $35-$50.

Let this be a lesson to thee. Do not allow your children to become attached to loveys that are not machine-washable. (Bump and I followed this important parenting tenet for Lula and Nathan Jr.)

I made up some dry foam, and Lumpyhead helped me scrub Cow.

It became immediately apparent that this simply WOULD. NOT. DO.

So I pulled out Cow's ass butt rump-seam, her stuffing, her damned non-working music box, and gave her a proper dousing.
Ew.

Then I did it again.

And again and again and again.

I assured Lumpyhead that Cow would be on the DL for the shortest possible amount of time. So for one glorious evening - during a sleepover in Gramma's room, even - Poser Cow IV made it to The Show. [bittersweet music plays]

Number One Cow air-dried overnight,

and was re-stuffed. After checking with Lumpyhead, I closed up the hole for the music box windup and didn't replace the broken music box. I sewed the rump-seam back up.

"Buddy!" Lumpyhead yelled when I presented the newly cleaned Cow. Lumpyhead is happy to have Cow back, and I'm happy that she's not as completely disgusting as she was a few days ago. (I'm less happy that I have completely lost the argument that the Cow is NOT A "HE." I'm trying to let it go.)

But she is. . .
still not as clean as Poser Cow IV.

But Number One Cow is back - and clean - thanks to the inspiration of NYC Lovey Repair. Those guys are helpful even when they don't do the work themselves.

Lumpyhead has even announced that he's glad Cow's music box is gone. Because now, when he accidentally drops Cow on his face, it doesn't hurt. Bonus.

Friday, January 04, 2013

From the Unpublished Drafts Folder - April 20, 2009

[As I was madly searching for this post, I realized I never published it. Can't figure out why, what with it being SO RIVETING and all. Sorry. Try not to fall asleep before you get to the part where NATHAN JR IS A WEE TINY BABY. Bay. Bee. Kills me, dead.]

Hey, remember Lumpyhead's Cow? More importantly, do you remember my attempts to procure a spare Cow, which is how we ended up with Floppy Cow?

Cow still accompanies Lumpyhead to bed. Cow II (who is actually Cow IV, because real Cow II never showed up and Cow III turned out to be Floppy Cow - but whatever - the Emergency Replacement Cow) is also still hanging around, although her music box died almost immediately and she was quickly spurned for the poser she is. She sits in a corner of Lumpyhead's bed, looking brand new. Cow (aka "Number One Cow," as Lumpyhead calls her - although Lumpyhead and his father refer to the animal in the masculine - which drives me fricken nuts - it's a COW, not a BULL, it's a GIRL) has lost her beloved bell and her music box still makes noise but doesn't really operate as the manufacturer intended. Number One Cow comes out to the living room with Lumpyhead and spends her day there, until it's time to go back to bed.

Here's Number One Cow with imitation Floppy Cow - who was recently [not that recently, actually] perched atop Nathan Jr's head.
I set them up like this when Lumpyhead announced he wanted to take a picture, too.

Nathan Jr is just glad the damn thing isn't on his head anymore.

Lumpyhead's picture is pretty good:
Right before Lumpyhead took his photo, he chirped "Say cheese, Guys!" at the cows, which is apparently what someone else always barks at him and his sister.

Bump thought he should have said "Make cheese, Guys."

Bump did not make fun of me for our child parroting my words. Even though I always laugh at him when Lula demands "Did you hear what I just said, Lumpyhead?" as she's ordering her brother around.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012