What Happens When I Start Living (Part Time) at McDonald's

I've been spending several hours a week at a McDonald's--hold on, it gets better, a McDonald's attached to a gas station. My oldest has a tutor that's helping him with some school work and the WiFi to use while I'm waiting those hours is at the McDonald's down the street. I order a drink and find a seat to get in a little bit of work. The drink is usually caffeine because I have to drive home eventually and everyone gets upset these days when you fall asleep at the wheel. I remember the old days when you could take a twenty minute nap behind the wheel of your Crown Vic and everyone minded their own freaking business. America is going to nanny state hell, I tell you.

Sometimes I get annoyed at the people in this McDonald's, like when they hold the door open to have a conversation and it's 5 degrees outside. That isn't an exaggeration, it really is 5 degrees outside. I'm trying to enjoy a dining experience in this McCafe, because any time you are putting things in your pie hole and you don't also have to make sure small people put things in their pie hole, it's an experience. There are many other times I get annoyed at the people in the McDonald's, but then we have to remember, I am also a person in McDonald's, so pass the sweet and sour.

I should be used to the cold, experience or no experience, because my house is only partially insulated (thanks, 1979.) The geniuses who built our house didn't insulate exterior-facing walls in places like closets. Every time you open the door to the coat closet a blast of Saskatchewan's finest air hits you in the face like the broad side of the moose. The worst is the garage, which means that the uninsulated floor of the bonus room, which houses the laundry and the playroom, is over an unheated space.

It's so cold I've set up a side business in cryogenics. The kids get a kick out of moving the disembodied heads over to play Legos, and I haven't had to buy any giant plastic Lego man heads for storage. It's a win-win (that's a fancy business term from the 1990s that I'm applying to parenting, keep up.) I like folding laundry in that room because it's chic and sophisticated not to feel my fingers--like I took one of those designer drugs everyone talked about in the 1990s. I dream sometimes about having insulation blown into the garage ceiling/bonus room floor, or the closets, or everywhere. It's just too bad that I'm blowing all that insulation cash on medium Diet Cokes at McDonald's.

School Started! School Started!

It seems to me that there are two kinds of back-to-school reactions: The Crier and the Cheerer (you can vote on which one you are here.)

I am mostly a cheerer. I love my kids, but we all do better with the rigorous school schedule. My kids are the same way. Three years ago, E.G. was so angry with me for not taking him to Kindergarten that I had to drive him to the empty school to prove to him I wasn't deliberately keeping him from his education. This year, Proximo starts Kindergarten and he is similarly excited to bust outta this joint. I will cheer, cry, and sleep when they're both in school starting next week. Oh, and work. It will be just me and the baby, refusing to answer the door when random people show up, writing during naptime, and enjoying a house that stays clean longer than 5 minutes.

Today is officially the third day of school, but the first where I "served" cold cereal for breakfast. Proud of myself for making it three whole days. Also proud of myself for forgetting to take pictures of my departing child in absolutely no new clothes. Let's not get too weepy, I'm pretty sure I'll remember to take a picture of him at some point this year. Maybe.

It's Joe's back-to-school time, too. He marooned me with these three people to teach the Future of America. He's been prepping for the school year all summer, and recently started meeting with parents and new students in anticipation of his harder classes. Which is where this conversation happened:

"Well, Mrs. So-and-So, I know I just met you, and after talking with the other teachers this seems crazy, but on this paper is my email and number, so if you need to, call me, maybe."

The mom thanked him without a clue and the daughter did an eye-roll facepalm. Your tax dollars at work, people.

Lulu has been cutting teeth for the past two weeks, turning me into a zombie with her midnight, 3am, and 5am blood-curdling wakings. It's been a good time. Only four more years until she's in school, too.

Perhaps I should see if someone is selling some sentimentality and pick some up? Also, extra emotional tears? Because I'm not sad about school starting, not one little bit.

My Week Off

For the first time in more than a year I decided to take a few days off of work. I did take two weeks off (almost three!) when I had Lulu, but I don't think that was exactly a vacation as much as it was putting the pieces of myself and my life back together after a baby shattered it. Babies! So cute! Such jerks!

Why didn't I plan ahead and secure a Forever Lazy for my days off is beyond me. This is such a personal failure, I am so disappointed by what could have been. Clearly, to maximize my week off, a Forever Lazy would need to be part of the picture. Not an actual picture, mind you, because under no circumstances would I be photographed in one of those things.

The laptop safely stowed on top of the entertainment center, I took my days off. I wore my horrible brown velour pants (they have witnessed everything from my JLo phase to three pregnancies and two labors,) and made a serious commitment to doing nothing.

Only it's hard for me to do nothing. So this is what I did instead:

• Finished a painting. 
• Cleaned the kitchen at least twice.
• Thought about some really awesome and funny blog posts. 
• Forgot those funny ideas.
• Watched a twenty-year-old episode of Law & Order in the middle of the day. 
• Rewound a razor commercial
• Thought about how weird it is that Donald Sutherland is playing President Snow in The Hunger Games movie when I always pictured President Snow as Ron Paul (not a political statement.)
• Watched all the Downton Abbey episodes I'd been saving (this is a political statement.)
• Issued a memo to all household babies: stop growing.*
• Went to lunch with some out-of-town friends at a location that is beyond my radius.
• Got mad at Toddlers and Tiaras because no, your 15-month-old does not "love to shop," nor does she have "great fashion sense." 
• Decided that my 7-month-old "hearts getting 170 on her LSATs" and "has a real affinity for international monetary policy."
• Wrote a letter (in my head) "Dear Children's Clothing Designers, Stop making Peter Pan collars for babies. They never stay down. My baby always looks like a vampire."
• Drank a Diet Coke at 11pm and stayed awake until 4am. For no reason.
• Crawled under the covers during broad day light and napped two days in a row.
• Lived the dream.

It was hard work doing nothing for four days in a row. I almost needed a vacation from my vacation of sitting around my house. I don't know how you ladies of leisure do it.




*The entire memo:

E.G. is Sentenced to the Gulag, I Mean Goes to The Dentist

The last time we took EG to the dentist it did not go well. (And by “we” I mean “me,” as in I take the kids to the dentist, and the doctor, and to everywhere because for some reason I’ve turned into The One Who Does the Driving. Fine.) He needed two teeth pulled: one for being stubborn and one for being bad.

A note about EG: he’s a thinker like his dad and horribilizer like his mother. This means that he psyches himself into dramatic apoplexies based on his imagination. Although he was shot up to high heaven with numbing agent, his screams and cries echoed through the dental office. I, personally, watched the dentist shot him up multiple times, there was NO WAY he was still feeling anything, but the suggestion of work and pain was enough to send him into a freak-out spiral. I held his hand while the dentist tried to convince him that he was OK and that this would take No Time At All. The teeth came out quickly but the fit continued. “BLOOD?” mumble-screamed EG, “There’s BLOOD?” Because in his world, there is nothing worse than something bleeding. Oh, my dear child, there are far worse things than bleeding, trust me, as one who has both given birth and seen the ravages of disease.

We had to go back to fix the cavities a week later.

(Side note: I’m still angry we don’t have fluoride in our water. I hate all you nut bags.)

I informed EG we were going to the dentist when he was already captive in the car. He started screaming and crying, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
“Do you know what used to happen to children who had teeth problems? Who had an abscess like you did last year? Who couldn’t get their teeth fixed?”
“What?”
“THEY DIED. Now, because we love you, and don’t want you to die, we’re fixing your teeth.”

When we arrived he refused to get out of the car. I got him out of the car. He refused to leave the car’s side. He refused to get into the office. I got him in the door. He ran to the corner, kicked off his shoes, curled up in a chair, laced his arms through the chair arms, and declared his intention to fight the dying of the light. The other man in the waiting room was amused.
“Next time,” I said to the receptionist, “I want a prescription for Valium--for both of us.”
“Do you want us to give him nitrous oxide?”
“How much extra is it?”
“It’s $42.”
“WHAT? That’s IT? YES, DO IT.”

I gave EG the requisite threats and he walked back with the dental assistant, crying and screaming the whole way. After about 15 minutes they brought him back out.
“There’s nothing we can do, he’s not cooperating, here’s a referral to a pediatric endodontist.”

I took him outside where he continued to his Reactor 5 Meltdown. “ANOTHER DOCTOR?” He screamed.
“Yes.”
“BUT HOW LONG WILL THAT TAKE? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SOMEONE ELSE I DON’T WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE...”
“I don’t know what to tell you, “ I said as we drove away, “You have to get this done and if it’s not at this dentist, it will be at another.”
“I want to go back.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know if they can even take you anymore.”
“I want to try again.”
“Fine, but you can’t give them any grief. You have to listen to them and do what they say.”
“OK, but I want you to hold my hand when I get the shots.”

We drove back to the office and the dentist agreed to try again. EG was a little upset when I couldn’t hold his hand--I guess preggos aren’t allowed in the same room as the laughing gas--but the assistant held his hands the whole time. EG finally listened and breathed through his nose to catch all the magic effects of the nitrous; it made him chatty and a little mixed up.

Whatever, he got all his work done and left happy.

Now, I need some nitrous so I can get some “work” done.

How Eggs Became My Enemy

source

It started about six months ago, but maybe even before that.

I cook almost every day and bake often, so I crack a lot of eggs. Months ago I noticed that my eyes would swell up and itch after I cooked, just like the allergic reaction I have to animals. After trying to figure out the common denominator, I zeroed in on the whites of eggs. If I had even a trace of egg white on my fingers and touched my eyes, they’d itch, water, go red, and start to swell closed. The yolk had no effect on me.

One day I separated some eggs and forgot I had a cut on my finger. My left index finger swelled like a sausage in a too-small casing. Could I really be allergic to eggs? I could eat eggs in things and I had no problems, so it wasn’t a true egg allergy. If I took Benedryl, the symptoms would go away (clearly a histamine issue.) I happened to mention that eating fried eggs gives me heartburn to a friend--I mentioned it like it was a normal thing to happen. Only I guess that’s not normal.

It’s not normal for an egg to cause your body pain when you eat it. It’s not normal for your mouth to go tingly and your tongue to go a little numb.

Which is ridiculous, because eggs are delicious. Is there anything as wonderful as a perfectly cooked egg? Soft-boiled, once over easy, the runny yolk and whites with crispy edges, soft and buttery scrambled, a rolled omelet with delicate herbs? No! Nothing is as delightful as the perfect egg!

I tried to live in denial but the rent was too steep.

A couple weeks ago I was making a flan, like you do; it’s just custard: eggs, egg yolks, cream/milk, sugar. I had some leftover custard that wouldn’t fit in the pan so I poured it in a cup. I added some fresh grated nutmeg and a drop of rum flavor--egg nog! I drank that sucker; it was so perfectly yummy. Even as I finished that small ¾ of a cup, I remembered that it had egg white. Oh no. Oh no. OH NO. Kids, the pain that followed: the cramping, the nerves firing, the feeling that I would lose it, and I did. That nog went through me like a train through Kansas. I think the only comparison is lactose intolerance. Oh, my lactose intolerant friends, I am so sorry! I have felt your pain! I am now empathetic!

I even tried fresh eggs from friends’ hens, to find they’re just as painful as the Omega-3 Oakdells I buy from Costco.

After a little more research I figured out that I have an egg white intolerance. It’s not an egg allergy because I most likely will not go into anaphylactic shock if I eat some egg. I can eat eggs that are well cooked, like in cakes. But I can’t eat an egg. This is terrible. And weird. What if I have to go vegan now?

(I am not going vegan.)

The AAP Wishes You a Healthy Halloween!

HEALTHY HALLOWEEN:

• A good meal prior to parties and trick-or-treating will discourage youngsters from filling up on Halloween treats.

• Consider purchasing non-food treats for those who visit your home, such as coloring books or pens and pencils.

• Wait until children are home to sort and check treats. Though tampering is rare, a responsible adult should closely examine all treats and throw away any spoiled, unwrapped or suspicious items.

• Try to ration treats for the days following Halloween.

--American Academy of Pediatrics News Release

Who is giving out spoiled candy? Is there such a thing as spoiled candy? I’ve never seen mold growing on a Jolly Rancher, have you? I’d suspect that “spoiled” looking candy was merely a ploy to remove the candy from our hungry gazes. As for unwrapped candy, I bet you’re talking about my neighbor’s caramel popcorn, in which case, mind your own business.

I'm glad you brought up suspicious items, uh, because I think I’m guilty. Several years ago when we were childless, carefree, and squandered our time doing Jupiter knows what, we forgot to pick up Halloween candy. When our doorbell rang at 5:45pm I had a moment of sheer panic as I realized the consequence I’d set up for myself: I’d chosen trick! Who chooses trick? It’s a national compromise: WE CHOOSE TREAT. I opened the door, admired the small ones, and excused myself to run around the corner to our pantry. I scanned the shelves and found them full of beans, which although magical, lack a certain je ne sais quoi in the Halloween department. The only alternative? The bag of mixed nuts in their shells I’d purchased with the best of snack intentions the previous January. So I hauled out the nuts, brought them to the door, and dropped a couple walnuts, brazil nuts, and a few almonds into their open bags. They looked at me in disappointment; their father laughed so hard he cried.

Nuts? Suspicious.

The next year I was ready, by gum, with Mounds and Almond Joys. The same small fry were our first trick-or-treaters. This time their mother laughed and thanked us for handing out candy kids don’t like but moms do. Fail.

Consider handing out pencils and pens? Do you know how many eyes you can poke out with a pen? I hope those pencils are sharpened for maximum abdominal penetration! Say what you will, but a mini-Snickers never killed anyone (although I have yet to see the new Saw movie, so I guess it’s theoretically possible.)

And AAP? I know you mean well, but telling me to feed my kids a healthy meal before trick-or-treating? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Duh, AAP. Maybe you should stop partnering with The Obesity Generators before you start telling me to feed my kids healthy foods. Up yours.


Now, if you'll pardon me, I need to hit the store and buy coconut-free candy.

Do You Know Me?

This very afternoon a spammer on Twitter sent me a tweet along these lines: “I just got a free Walmart gift card, click here to get yours before they’re all gone!”

Wow. A gift card to Walmart? It’s like they don’t know me at all.

Honestly, Walmart? The place that makes me feel like I’m in the ninth circle of the Inferno the moment I step through the doors? Where I’m confronted with the choice of going left or right at the first pile of cardboard boxes only to be confronted, in a dreary, sisyphean twist, with more boxes? Why sure, $100 sounds like a good idea! I like to be surrounded by various minor demons and whatever wailing small child is out after midnight!

It all got me thinking.

Do you think you know me? Really know me?

I dare you.

Leave a comment telling me what you think you know about me and I’ll add it to this post. I’m not talking about compliments; we all know my skin is lovely. I’m talking about the one thing you really think you know about me.

I’ll even allow anonymous comments again so you can say the mean things you know about me (and some of you know a great deal of mean things.)

Why? One of my friends says she finds it hilarious how many people think they know me, without the benefit of years and with the lack of deep confidences. Call it an exercise in curiosity, an experiment in debate.

About Carina (by You):

1. Fiercely loyal to friends

True, or at least that's what my friends tell me. Those fools.

2. Has a vast knowledge of cheese

I guess I do. I mostly read and remember what I read, cheese included.

3. Strong advocate for breastfeeding and nursing anywhere

Word.

4. Likes words, and may be wordy smart

They're just so cool! They make it easy to say stuff!

5. Clever

I have nothing to say to that.

6. Can bake and am a great cook

I can! It is possible!

7. Don't mind clutter

Well, I mind it, I just don't do anything about it (or the periods where I do something about it are widely spaced intervals.) Am training my children to do it for me. Valid parenting choice.

8. I DO think it's funny you're eating my waffles with Great Value brand syrup

9. Friends with Wendy Chao (rendering me automatically awesome and cool)

Does this mean I automatically have her advanced degree from Harvard, too? Because I would die (in the Rachel Zoe sense.) You know, if I didn't pay so much attention to things and people like Ms. Zoe, I might have my own advanced degree.

10. Retain details about and are friends with everyone with whom I come in contact

Yes.

11. No Nestle

Because the people behind Nestle are money-grubbing fascists? Yes.

12. Excellent traveling companion

I'll let you see me in my underwear.

13. Lipstick, curls, and heels

That happens a lot.

14. Fantastic taste in books and music (dangerously close to Brinestone's)

Everyone always thinks they have fantastic taste in books and music, and in my case, it happens to be true.

15. Perfect snarky ton that never crosses the line into fake, whiny, or mean.

(See #14?)

16. Recently lost a friend to cancer

Cancer can suck it.

17. Miscarried at the Top of the World

That's where I found out I was knocked up (which turned out to be a transitory state.)

18. Travels more than Brinestone does

I have no way of quantifying this statement on the evidence presented, so I'll have to...agree?

19. Knows Miss Nemesis

I do! And she is lovely! You know, she IS the Voice of Reason.

20. Seems to be wicked smart

Appearances are marvelous things, aren't they?

21. Appreciates: the finest things in life, people with palates, intelligent debate

Which is why we get along so well, you do, too!

22. Has a knowledge of just about everything (art, history, music, science, literature)

Source: the curse of remembering almost everything.

23. Student of the world, having lived in various states and in Europe

Student of the world implies I learned something in each of those various states and in Europe. I may have.

24. One of the funniest people Lindsey knows, and is maybe hilarious.

Again, this is difficult to quantify as I don't have a readily available sample, but I'm going to go with: probably.

25. A Mormon with a strong testimony but if you aren't, likes you anyway

Look at that! I am! And I do like you!

26. Democrat

Yes, but, I'd consider myself more of a progressive who happens votes Democrat. I'll vote for a Republican if I think they're the better person for the job. In summary: I VOTE AND YOU SHOULD, TOO.

27. Will probably take out the bullies

I leave that to my husband (foreshadowing?!)

28. Has a turquoise wallet

I DO! This is one of the most personal details you've been able to ascertain yet. Ha!

29. Husband is my opposite

You have no idea. It's like I'm South and he's North.

30. Sisters and I are similar but different

This is so true and also not true!

31. Often came late to work and now that Chelsea has kids, too, she wonders how in the world I even got there when I did

I have a loose sense of when I should have to appear at work, my babes don't help.

32. When going to Etta's in Seattle I like to order a cheese platter

I like the clams even better.

33. Likes to shop.

No comment.

34. Used to be a manager at Barnes and Noble, or was it Borders?

It was Borders, but I've worked both places.

35. Coming up with a group-themed Halloween costume is my forte

This has happened.

36. Shares a hairstylist with Chelsea

His name is Patrick. He's a genius, maybe you should book an appointment (and he's single, ladies! Yes, ladies.)

37. Has an appreciation for and also a knowledge of mid-century modern architecture and design

One of my passions. I even have a blog dedicated to mid-century design and architecture--a blog which I am notoriously terrible at updating!

38. Appreciates a well-placed curse word

I certainly do (although it has landed me into trouble recently.)

39. Very opinionated, but in a responsible and respectful way, and probably downright sassy

I'm responsible? That's so nice to hear from you, dear reader! Now, please tell my mother.

40. Thinks sleep is overrated

There are so many other things I could be doing, why waste them sleeping?

41. A smarty pants, but a nice smarty pants

I have you hoodwinked.

42. Knows what it feels like to have a sense of duality in who society thinks I should be and who I actually am

Who's the smarty pants now? You, Megling. "Sense of duality"...you read too much!

43. Has Google-bombed someone

Yup. I did that. They were making my life difficult and causing Sheriffs to show up at my house at all hours looking for them, so I Google-bombed them to make them take responsibility. I have no idea if it worked, it did make me feel better. Until I felt bad and took down the bomb a day later.

44. Is a foodie extraordinaire who knows where to get a good Raclette in Park City, Utah

Although the term "foodie" kind of bugs me, I fit the description. And you should go to Adolf's (where the food is not cheap but is very, very delicious.)

45. One of my ancestors is Brigham Young and I defend him on the interwebs

He is my great-great-great-great-grandfather. I downright like the fellow, he was a lion.

46. Will drop a chunk of change on a pair of heels

Hmm. I'm actually famously cheap. I own some expensive heels, but I never pay full price and I usually score them for dirt cheap.

47. Is generous

I aspire to generosity. I could be doing so much more than I actually am. I should be more better.

48. Nursed babies for more than two years

That's right. 2.5 years each, when they weaned themselves. It was awesome. Highly recommend.

49. Hates flip-flops

THEY ARE FOR THE BEACH.

50. Has a real, honest to throwback, retro house with a pictorial backdrop wall.

It's going to be even more retro-y once I finish it. And yes, a full-wall landscape photo complete with a pull-down silver screen. You know, for ribald slideshows.

51. Comes across brash and fearless but is one of the most sensitive and caring people La Yen knows

I'd cry if I weren't so pissed off at you for outing me and my soft underbelly.

52. Freaked the heck out of the vendors at the City Market in La Ciudad, Juarez by haggling in the Espanish

I sure did. I am not going to pay that much, and I WILL walk away. Because you are nada especial, amigo!

53. Loves when it is practically fall

Yes, I do. When the leaves are still on the trees and it's so hot that almost everybody still thinks it's summer, it's practically fall.

54. Doesn't know you, like you don't know her

Highly probable.

Guest Post: Is This Really My Life?

Emily asked me to fill out a Mad Libs Monday for her, and then

(SPOILER)

I DID.

Go check it out!

Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

The Finisher

Years ago I was cutting squares for a quilt. I exclaimed happily how it would look so great when I finished and then I caught my sister laughing. "What's so funny?"
"You're not going to finish it."
"Yes, I am!"
"No, you're not. You never finish anything."
"I am this time!"
"I'll believe it when it happens," she snorted.

I got so angry about it that I didn't ever pick up those cut squares again. Really, I showed her!

I'm still afflicted by the same un-finishing I ever have been. Just when I think I have a project in hand I OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY OVER THERE.

It drives my loved ones crazy. It would drive me crazy too if I remembered I was supposed to finish something or other.

I made a promise to Other Half: every day this week I am going to tackle one project, one abandoned area, one neglected space and fix it. I think it will help if I share with you exactly what I'm fixing and organizing (public humiliation at a task unfinished helps, right?) I'm going to try really hard to LOOK IT'S SHINY finish something I started. I can do this.

Day One:

The vintage sewing table!

Featuring:

1. The vintage sewing table that I was going to turn into a bathroom sit-down vanity way back when I got it thrifting in the first week of December.
2. The orange table has been in my family room for so long, poised to make it up the stairs after what would surely be a quick makeover, that I think I've started decorating around it. Maybe I don't want to move it! Maybe it should stay! Maybe I should stick with the original plan.
3. Gift bag that we used to carry presents home from La Professora's house on Christmas Day. Still contains presents.
4. Wrapping paper, yes, from Christmas Eve.
5. The camera box from my new camera that I can't use because I don't have a memory card for it yet.
6. The instructions for the camera that Other Half unfolded when I called in a panic from Costco to make sure I was buying the right memory card. Still have no idea if we have the right kind.
7. Someone's PJs are on the floor.
8. Someone's sweater and jeans on the floor.
9. Baby wipes.
10. Outgrown baby church shoes.
11. Oh, and there's still a sewing machine inside the table that needs to be removed and the surroundings cleaned off.

This is going to be fun.

2009 Madcap Recap

Today's Mama asked me to give them a Recap of 2009. (SPOILER ALERT: I did.)

That's the most recap you're going to get out of me, gang.

Well, maybe a little more:

1. Posts: 116.
2. Babies: 0 new (phew.)
3. Pounds gained/lost: It's probably a wash.
4. Cell phone: 1, the whole year, the same one, even though it spent a night in a snow bank two weeks ago.
5. People Offended: I've lost count.
6. People Loved: I've lost count.
7. Houses: 1 new.
8. Cars: 0 new.
9. Tweets: A quadrillion.
10. Facebook: Joined. Thanks to you people.
11. Social Media Anxiety: NONE
12. Haircuts: 2 (We haven't talked about how I tried to grow my hair out this year, have we? Well that was an exercise in both futility and horror.)
13. Love matches made: 0 (I suck.)
14. Skullcandy headphones: 4.
15. Baby and wedding showers: Sometimes I wish I drank.
16. Glasses of water: 2920
17. Toddlers weaned: 1.
18. School-age children: 1.
19. Burgers eaten: Wow, more than every other year added together thanks to The Project and the boys I work with everyday (who must eat meat or faint like delicate lilies.)
20. Voice mails answered: None, as of 12/5/09, and no more going forward.
21. Rock Band: Conquered.

The Radius

I have a thing.

I know, I know, I have a lot of things, but this one thing perplexes people. What can I say? I'm intentionally difficult (but you eat Hershey's, so we're even.)

I have a ten minute radius.

I don't like to drive outside of my ten minute radius. My home is the central point, and everything that I want to reach, be it groceries, movies, shopping, schools, or friends, needs to be within that ten minute radius. Why? Because I lack the patience for a larger radius. I have friends who live 30 minutes away. Ask them how many times I've been to their houses. My best friend moved 45 minutes away for all of 2008. I think I visited her twice, and only because it could be piggy-backed on other errands. My relatives suggested I move to Eagle Mountain, and I could barely hear them make the suggestion without collapsing into a pit of excruciating pain from just thinking about how long I'd have to drive every day just to get to a store.

A friend who lives in Spanish Fork, 25 minutes away, asked me to parties at her house on consecutive nights. I sighed the sigh of both the tween and the put-upon. "You want me to drive all the way down there? Two nights in a row?"
"Is it because it's South valley?" she immediately bristled.
"No, no, I don't care that you live in Spenish, it's just the drive."

I really have to feel it to drive more than 10 minutes to get to anywhere. I really feel my work, so the 20 minutes I drive to get to my job is mostly worth it. Mostly, because I still hate the drive, and will complain to just about anyone (and now the whole Internet) about my commute. My mother-in-law, veteran of Bay Area traffic, laughs in my face. I know, California, I know that 20 minutes is the golden commute time, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

If I could, I'd go back to living in a city where I could use public transport and walk to everywhere I needed to go. The thing is, I have this husband who doesn't want to, and even I don't think that a 10 minute radius is worth contemplating divorce (usually.)

Do you have a radius or are the miles wide open? Am I the only one?

A Wakeup Call From My Blog

"Hey Blog, how's it going?"
"Oh, HAI Carina, isn't that what you're calling yourself these days?"
"Carina is my name, it's what most people call me."
"But your handle has been Azúcar for so long, people don't know you by Carina and now it looks affected that you're using your real name."
"First of all, props for the proper use of 'affected' and second, I'm not going to have a conversation with you, Blog, about whether I can or can't use my real name. Drop it."
"Fine, whatever, I'm just saying."
"I'm busy, Blog, with important things, more important things with you. Why did you call?"
"I heard a rumor about you."
"I'm sure you hear a lot of rumors about me."
"I heard that some of your friends, like Vanessa, said they "want to be like Carina when they grow up."
"That was nice of them to say, wow, I'm blushing."
"Right, you don't blush. Anyway, they don't know that you're a nerd."
"I'm not a nerd!"
"Yes, you are, you are a total nerd."
"How can I be a nerd? I own and wear these shoes!"

"You are a nerdy-nerdy-nerd, no matter what shoes, what pants, what shirt you're wearing."
"I have just figured out how to dress myself, that's all."
"Yeah, after years of trial, error, and some really questionable fashion choices that involved the color peach."
"How was I supposed to know I can't wear peach, or really any pastel colors?"
"Well you know now, don't you? I mean really, peach moiré taffeta, could you have picked a worse color for your prom dress?"
"I just thought the watermark on the taffeta was so elegant."
"Snort. And how funny was it that not only did you pick peach moiré taffeta, but that your mom made your dress, and when you got to prom you were in a group with another girl whose mother made her dress and you had both used the same pattern--you were wearing the same homemade dress!"
"Yeah, and hers was far more elegant, being made of black and white, and not peach taffeta."
"Nah-heard."
"I've grown out of that, I am not a nerd."
"Let me ask you a question, did you buy a book this week?"
"Yes."
"And is this book The Gathering Storm, the twelfth book in the Wheel of Time fantasy series by Robert Jordan? A series that you've been reading since 1993?"

"Yes. They're really good though, promise."
"Oh, I'm sure they are. Aren't you planning on taking a day off this week just so you can read your nerd-gastic fantasy novel?"
"I have to take time off, you know that, or I'll lose my paid days at the end of the year."
"And didn't you freak out when Robert Jordan died and were unable to even talk about how this series that you'd spent fifteen years reading might not ever end? And you resented Harry Potter fans for getting predictable and compact release cycles?"
"It was a difficult time."
"NERD."
"But I'm all pop culture aware and listen to cool music!"
"Poser. You're a poser nerd. That's even worse than a regular nerd. You watch all these hip TV shows, like Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries, but deep down, you are still crying over the end of Battlestar Galactica. Sometimes you even watch shows, like Castle, or Smallville just because they have the same actors as Battlestar, or Firefly, or whatever nerd show you love."
"Remember how Helo and Colonel Tigh are on Dollhouse right now? That's so awesome."
"NERDY nerd! Only nerds call actors by their old character names on their new show. Mostly because you can't let go of the past. Battlestar, sheesh, I can't believe you watched that show."
"Hey, you're hurting my feelings!"
"Whatever, this is just a pattern. Do you recall your first crush? While all your friends were pledging their hearts to Kirk Cameron, Johnny Depp, or Corey Haim, your heart belonged to Wil Wheaton."
"Sigh. I know. I had such a crush on him. He was in this TV movie starring as the young Harry Houdini? And then he was on Star Trek: The Next Generation, which I never missed, as Ensign Wesley Crusher.I thought I would die from his cute. Seriously, my heart hurt every time I saw him."
"And then years later you ran into Wil Wheaton's blog and found out that he was a Dungeons and Dragons playing computer nerd. Is it any wonder that you married a computer nerd who was a former D&D player?"
"I guess it's not exactly a shock, is it?"
"It's about as shocking as snow in January. It's all just a pattern of nerdery that you've gotten really good at hiding with MAC makeup, learned ease in social situations, and remembering that no one wants to hear about cold war theories."
"You know, there's nothing wrong with being a nerd! We've changed the world! Steve Jobs is a nerd! Everything you see, from your computer, your phone, the Internet, LoLcats, it all came from nerds!"
"Just what a nerd would say."
"I glad I'm a nerd! I'm glad I love science, genetics, history, and know about the Crystalline Entity. I listen to music obsessively and read sci-fi/fantasy. I know what an RPG is and wish I could be more like Starbuck! I watch Joss Wheadon shows and sing Dr. Horrible songs all the time. All your base are belong to us! There's nothing wrong with that!"
"Just don't tell anyone, OK? We have a reputation to maintain. We're The Jet Set."
"My lips are sealed."

Handle THIS

A few weeks ago my friends Allison and Marie suggested that we all go up to the book signing that Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, would be having in Salt Lake. If you read Ree, you know that this was the easiest decision ever, worth the hour drive and a full-price book purchase.

We all agreed to meet at 6:30 at the King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake. I got stuck in traffic and then trying to find a place to park, so I didn't get to the shop until 6:45. Allison and Marie had gotten me a ticket, though, so I wasn't worried. I should have been worried.

When I walked the extra distance to the gallery where Ree would be speaking, the line was out the door, 4 people wide, and around the corner. Whoa. I asked the handler if we should get our books before getting into the gallery. Affirmative. I ran into the bookshop where I picked up the copy I'd bought over the phone. I walked back to the gallery and I brought my ticket to the front, were I was told that they weren't letting people in. I was confused. "But I have a ticket," I said, clutching the copy of the Pioneer Woman's book.
"WE ARE AT CAPACITY," the handler told us.
"But if I have a ticket..."
"NO MORE. CAPACITY."
"I'm confused, if we have a ticket then why..."
"CAPACITY. I will NOT be letting ANY ONE ELSE in."

It was fun being outside the gallery while my friends were inside. In the mean time, Janet and a few of my other friends showed up. We were all outside, staring at our friends who were inside the shimmering gallery windows, listening to Ree do a reading, and probably dining on ambrosia, baby lamb, and liquid gold chasers. The laughs coming from inside sounded impossibly happy, like Ree had invited them all to spend a holiday at the lodge surrounded by sets of perfect Le Creuset, vintage-colored Kitchen-Aids, and her famous southern hospitality. I clutched my ticket in goldenrod yellow with my rapidly freezing fingers. Thank goodness I can read lips so I could see what Allison and Marie were saying to us through the glass (which I will not repeat here, because GROSS.)

One rep from the bookstore told the handler that there was plenty more room for people in the back, and she could let about 20 people inside the sparkly glass windowed paradise. The handler counted 21 people in, turned to our group and said, "None of you are getting in. I saw how late you came." The handler would let one person in per person that left, however, definitely none of us.

Janet was fuming. Turns out that she had called the bookshop earlier and asked about their preparations. The person she spoke with admitted that they didn't know who Ree Drummond was and that they didn't anticipate a large crowd. I'm sorry, what? Now, if you're reading this blog and you don't know who Ree Drummond is, that's fine (inexplicable, but fine) because it's not your job to know. It's a bookstore's JOB to know who they are hosting and how to accommodate a crowd (because when a blogger like Pioneer Woman, who has literally millions of readers, comes to town, you OUGHT TO KNOW, so sayeth a former bookseller.) Janet told King's that they needed more space than they would be providing and they basically shut her down. Honestly, if Janet is offering you advice, you might want to take it, she's kind of savvy.

The reading ended and Ree walked from the gallery to the bookshop, stopping for a second to say "Hi!" to Allison (they've met. See here.) (Also, Ree is thin, tall, lovely, and may have left a trail of soft, perfumed, imaginary ruffles in her wake.) The crowd followed her over. It was announced that the tickets we were holding had a letter from A-Z on them that determined in which group we were included. Marie, Allison, and I were letter O. As in O GRAVY that's a long time to wait in line. So we sat outside the empty gallery, wondering if the scary handler lady would be back to eat our babies.

And that's when Dooce showed up: all long legs, rockin' hair, and flanked by glam assistant Katey. Dooce walked into the gallery, which gave we castoffs all the incentive we needed to finally crash the now empty shop. We cornered her. I apologized for cornering her, although it wasn't really a corner, we'd just backed her into a window and she couldn't move. Heather was kind, self-effacing, awesome, and trying to keep a low profile, even though she was conversing with us. Someone brought up boobs. It was probably me.

Katey said that she had tried to convince Heather that having boobs is rough, and Dooce, like many a svelte-chested woman, did not believe her. "It's true," I said, letting the levity of the situation completely run away with my tongue, "All kinds of things get stuck in cleavage. At night you take off your bra and shake it out and say, 'Huh, I don't remember eating sesame seeds.'" WHICH IS TRUE, and made Dooce laugh. Did I just make all of you male readers uncomfortable? SORRY, but it's STILL TRUE. Dooce just makes those kinds of inappropriate things come out of your mouth, like when I asked when the cocaine would be arriving a mere ten minutes later. (Help me.)

Dooce led us around to the back of the shop where we waited to see if they'd let us in. Short answer: No. Scary handler lady was inside the bookshop and was not about to let any of us interloping upstarts inside. They eventually let in Dooce, which, believe me, is always the right decision.

I was a little drunk on the crazy we'd been experiencing during the whole event. I may have also demonstrated to the cool and stylishly dressed Moosh in Indy, along with her friend Barbara, that I am not to be trusted in social situations, or in fact trusted in public, period.

Allison was chatting at the back door with Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, who is quite pretty and very gracious. When Missy asked handler lady if Allison and her children could come inside and get her book signed, handler lady looked at straight at Allison and said, "That woman will NOT be getting her book signed tonight." Yes. Refused, even though Allison paid full price for her book at King's English (which sold out of their 300 copies--not enough for the 500-600 people who showed up.) Janet and a few other friends got in with a gift basket they'd put together for Ree, but eventually we all left. I met everyone at The Pie Pizzeria where I happily ate half a Combo Pie, watched the last two innings of the World Series, and witnessed the noble Phillies lose to the evil Yankees.

Moral of the story?

Careful when you go to meet The Pioneer Woman because you'll end up talking with Dooce about boobs.

THE END.








p.s. If you want to read about a successful PW encounter, go read my friend Fig. Love her.



p.p.s. Hi, fellow Pioneer Woman readers! Have you made her brie-stuffed mushrooms yet? You should. Unless you are like my husband and don't like brie, or mushrooms, or anything good or delicious on earth including sour cream (if we ever get divorced, his dislike of sour cream will be the first thing listed under "Irreconcilable Differences.")

Before you start reading the comments on this post, just be warned that some of them are a little...strident. I'm not usually that controversial (unless I'm talking about how I don't like Gerber, or how house stars are confusing, or that time I brought up breastfeeding and formula--who knew that was controversial?)

So thanks for stopping by. Want to come over for the mushrooms? We can play Rock Band and gossip about the Gosselins. Or not. We can discuss Darfur or the delay in the Radovan Karadizic trial, if you'd rather. Drinks on me?

I Own One Pair, For Going to the Pool

I know that the tide has really sailed on flip-flops. I know that I am on the other side of a deluge. I’m sure that I could spend the next hour coming up with more water metaphors to use, know why? Because flip-flops are for going to the beach.

Yes, you love flip-flops. You love the thwak-thwak- thwak sound as they pad down the road. You love the cheap price, how easy flip-flops are to put on, and their disposable nature. You love to pretend, against all evidence to the contrary, that you live in Hawaii.

It’s just that I feel like we’re losing the best formal elements to our society. Not the part where we all wear pantyhose in July, but the part where once upon a time the idea of going into public with pajamas and flip-flops would have elicited gasps of horror and the deepest shame. I don't despise flip-flop wearers, or wish they would experience a lightening strike, or am incredibly offended to the point of nausea. I simply muse, are we selling ourselves short?

Look, flip-flops aren’t beautiful, they don’t make you look beautiful, they’re not supportive, or protective, they make your legs look stumpy, and your feet are always filthy afterwards. I guess I don’t see the attraction. I know that you’re going to come back with that they’re comfortable. Really? A Snuggie is probably comfortable, too, but sane people don’t wear them in public. I guess I wonder about sacrificing the chance to look lovely and put together for perceived comfort.

Perhaps it’s part of a general over-casualization that I’m uncomfortable with experiencing. I kind of miss the days when you’d call someone Mister or Misses So-and-so until they graciously leaned over and said, “Please, call me Wanda Sue.” Or the part where people didn’t swear in public, women didn’t vote, and we had to hide pregnancies by confining ourselves into dark rooms for months. OK, so I don’t miss everything. I also suck at writing thank you notes, so I can’t be THAT broken up over the over-casualization of society.

But we all have our lines that we will not cross. So let’s just add wanton flip-flop use to my ever elongating list of silly principled stands that I’ve made. For what it’s worth.

($3.99)

Phoning It In

“Hey blog, how’s it going?”

“Oh, hey there.” muffled sounds in background

“What’s happening?”

“What? Oh, that, uh, nothing.”

“Did I just hear the Humpty Dance hook?”

“Just hanging out here with my peeps.”

“Blogs don’t have peeps; you’re just digital piles of data on a server somewhere.”

“Oh yeah? Then why do you keep personifying me?”

“Lazy story telling?”

“You said it. So why are you phoning it in to me today?”

“I just feel like I don’t really have anything really meaningful to say.”

“And this is different from normal how?”

“You know, you can be really mean.”

“I think this says more about you and your subconscious than it does my participation in this personification. I find your existential whining to be extremely uninteresting. ”

“Gah, that kind of arm-chair philosophy is why people find us pretentious. I went to Park City the other night for Tiffany’s birthday.”

“Heard of her. How is her existential crisis?”

“Must you have a comment for everything? Anyway, it was a magical night: French food, sparkling company, purple sky, bad DJ, white-knuckle drive home watching for deer, blah, blah, blah.”

“So you went to Park City even though they closed all the schools there because of the swine flu pandemic?”

“Yes. And I didn’t wear a mask and I made a firm promise to lick all the schoolchildren I ran across just to prove my contempt for H1N1.”

“Nice.”

“That was a joke. About the school children.”

“A little over the line.”

“Whatever. Have you noticed that Chyler Leigh is pregnant on Grey’s Anatomy and they’re trying really hard to cover it up by placing her in front of things, or behind people, or blocking the camera in pretty funny ways?”

“No. I don’t watch Grey’s, so pedestrian. I use that time to catch up on my DVR’d episodes of Charlie Rose. Sometimes the Fareed Zakaria show.”

“You do not. Wait. Did you hear that?”

“Sounds like your husband.”

“Oh crap! Yeah, he just said in a very loud voice to Proximo that I’m not at home. That’s my cue to run to the foyer and kind of hide in the front closet.”

“Wait, what?”

“Look, Proximo is still attached to me, like, very attached. And sometimes he won’t go to bed and we have to pretend like I’m not at home so he’ll go to sleep. So daddy will walk him around the house looking in different rooms and exclaiming, ‘Look! No Mama!’ until Proximo is sufficiently satisfied that I’m not at his disposal, and then he’ll go to sleep.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that kind of mean? He’s only two.”

“I know, I have mixed feelings about it. Other Half says that one day Proximo’s going to realize that I’m actually in the house and he’ll never trust us again.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Clearly, I agree.”

“So. This is a little awkward, a few of the others just showed up…”

“The others?”

“Yeah, some of the other blogs. El Paso Represents brought queso dip. Listen, I really have to go. It’s been nice, but maybe next time that you’re having blogger’s block you could try something else rather than resorting to phoning it in?”

“Duly noted.”

The Only Thing Worse Than a Smug Married Couple...

What is your husband’s name?

I am contractually obligated by a non-disclosure agreement to never reveal this information.

How long did you date? Long enough to make everyone we know nervous.

How old is he? Older than me—HA!

Who eats sweets? What, seriously?

Who said I love you first? I have no idea. I don’t remember trivial things like that. Now, if you want me to compete in a Seinfeld quiz, you got it!

Who is taller? Do you honestly believe I’d marry ANYONE with whom I could not wear heels?

Who can sing better? He sings bass and I sing alto. I refuse to turn that into a question of value.

Who is smarter? I like to say that we’re smarter at different things. For example, I can dress myself in the morning and not look like a complete dork. He is planning world domination, so, toss up.

Who does the laundry? He complains that the feel of the fabrics are too irritating to his delicate constitution (that is not a joke.)

Who pays the bills? Is this some sort of post-modern judgment on the equality of our genders? Because I won't hear it and I won't respond to it.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Look, I could sleep anywhere, but Princess Pea over there gets disoriented if he’s not on the left.

Who mows the lawn? What, are you insane? We live in a loft so that neither of us has to deign to ‘mow the lawn.’ The very idea…

Who cooks dinner? This quiz is tiresome.

Who drives? We both drive, this ain’t Riyadh, Omar.

Who is the first to admit they are wrong? Neither of us is ever wrong.

Who kissed who first? I don’t remember; it was dark.

Who asked who out first? He asked me out, because he, unlike most men with whom I was then surrounded, understood intuitively that if you don’t ask a girl out, it’s harder to get what you want out of them.

Who wears the pants? Is this metaphorical or literal?

Friends who should do this: I wouldn’t dare to presume.

Go On, Break Another Little Piece of My Heart

As usual, my series cynicism has prevented me from reading the Stephanie Meyer books. Oh, I'm sure they're fantastic. Maybe.

The thing is that just like I did with Harry Potter, I refused to read a series that was not finished. Why? Because I know better. Let me tell you about Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. It started with Eye of the World, published in 1991 and read by me in 1993. Eleven books later it's 2008 and I'm waiting for the twelfth book to consume the wee hours of the morning and leave me, finally, satisfied.

Only something happened, something terrible, something that scourged my easily-attached reading heart, Robert Jordan died last year. Yup. He got an incurable disease and he DIED. It's taken almost a year for me to even talk about this without freaking the Hell out.

For a comparison, it's as if 24 just stopped at hour 21; Lost stopped after episode one of the third season; and in the perhaps worst twist imaginable, US Weekly stopped publishing any pictures in the "Celebrities: They're Just Like us!" section. All utter catastrophes. That's why I'm warning you: anytime you undertake the reading of a series, make sure it's done, or at the very least, request a bill of health from the author's primary care doctor.

So I'm putting up a poll (those of you reading through Reader will have to click through,) is it time to read those Meyer books? And, just in case you think I'm kidding, I will absolutely abide by the winning poll option.

A Very Special Episode

A little while ago, I had a project for work that I had to finish and not a lot of time to complete it. I knew that I'd be up late writing some documentation and that I would need help staying awake. I dropped by the store to pick up some bread and decided that I didn't want a soda to keep me awake. I did, however, want some ice cream. And that's how I walked out of Smith's with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch. Two birds, people.

Even though there isn't much caffeine in that ice cream, there's enough. Boy howdy am I caffeine sensitive. I'm mostly a social drinker of cola but I have to be careful not to drink past a certain point in the evening (like 6:30pm) otherwise I can't get to sleep at a reasonable hour. On this evening, that was precisely the point, no sleep for me at a reasonable hour, even if desired.

I enjoyed a couple spoonfuls and put it back in the freezer, then chatted with Sue, looked up the meaning of some words, wondered if the shirt I wanted went on sale, that reminded me of that one pair of shoes....PROJECT. What is wrong with me? Focus! I knew I'd pay the price the next morning if I didn't buckle down. It's bad enough to artificially keep yourself awake without actually doing what you're supposed to be doing. I finished in the wee hours and crashed.

The next morning I was greeted by El Guille jumping on my bed. Blerg, I felt like I was swimming through water. Jump! Jump! Jump! He was bouncing all over me. "Get up mama! Get up! I want some breakfast and toast and to watch a show on TV and I want two shows and can I? Can I? CAN I? WAKE UP!"

I made myself get out of bed and staggered into the kitchen.

El Guille started to run around in circles, through the kitchen, into the living room, hallway, around and around. "AND I want some TOAST and some COCOA," he shrieked."I am never doing this again," I thought. Then I had to stop thinking actual thoughts and just concentrate on moving my hand to stir the kid's cocoa.

El Guille said something to me and I tried to process his words, "And then can I? Can I? Can I PLEASE?" I mumbled something unintelligible about needing my glasses so I could do something (Butter toast? Find remote? Remember my own name?)

I cursed my past self for being so mean to future self; a double whammy--up too late and too much fake stimuli. El Guille was tearing around the room, leaping from chair, to sofa, to table, to piano, all while talking a million miles an hour. I can't even formulate a sentence and he won't shut his mouth. That was when I noticed it...

The empty carton of ice cream on the kitchen table.

The empty carton of CAFFEINE ice cream on the table.

All of a sudden, it made sense to me. I'm not moving too slow, El Guille is moving at the speed of light. He had gotten up, opened the freezer, and decided that ice cream could be breakfast, caffeine ice cream. He's become a photon. A photon that talks faster than Janet.

OK, universe! I get it.

Caffeine ice cream is bad. The bad caffeine ice cream drugged my child. I drugged my child. He didn't even make it to public school before I hopped him up on something or other.

Is that egg?

No, just object lesson all over my face.

Mini Salon

I sound like Selma and Patty from the Simpsons. My husband laughs at me. I’m prone to dry hacking fits and bloody noses. If you’re thinking I’m a hot mess, you’d be right.

"It hurts to talk," I squawk in a vain impersonation of Mariah Carey's octave range, "I can't talk anymore."
"I've been waiting ten years to hear you say that," Other Half counters.

All this not being able to talk is really throwing a wrench into Other Half’s and I’s scintillating late night conversations. On deck tonight: square roots and their squares, types of proofs, and psychedelic root canals.

We really do have discussions and debates about the most interesting stuff.

Sometimes we sink a little and snicker at pop culture. Baby Proximo was the judge for who could do the best Seinfeld impression while holding a toy bee from B Movie. The baby swiveled his little round head between us as we giggled. I don’t think Proximo has the best frame of reference for judging impressions, but for the record, I won (I’m the ringer.)

Last night we howled at a guy on Charlie Rose who informed us that Barack Obama was “literally formed from pieces of John F. Kennedy and Bobby Kennedy.” “GROSS!” I croaked. “He’s undead?” said Other Half, which really raised Obama in his esteem. Then we spent the next five minutes doing Frankenstein monster impressions.

We don’t like it when people say “literally” and mean “figuratively.”

Sadly, I’ve lost my sense of taste. Other Half is overjoyed, “Finally! You can’t taste food and I don’t care!” I made risotto and I have no idea how it really tasted. I couldn’t test the salt levels, or the cheese levels, or the anything. “You can make food like I like it,” He insists. “What? Like mashed potatoes and a hunk of meat?” I say snidely.

We poke fun at each other’s palates.

(But I do want my sense of taste back; I have a box of Belgian chocolates waiting for me that will just taste like shortening if I try to eat them now.)

We do Valentine’s best when I tell him what I want and he gets it for me.

What did I get him? Only the most romantic present on earth…

a second guitar for Guitar Hero so we can play together.