Blueberry Pancakes Were the Sled

This morning I made whole wheat blueberry pancakes from scratch and the world imploded into a vortex of fire and noise.

I wasn't aware that I'd committed an unforgivable offense against my son by making something so delicious and nutritious. Why don't I just let him eat Cheetos again? I may have reminded him about children that have no homes, no beds, and no food. He took in all my suggestions and still refused to eat.

When we picked El Guille up from school, he pressed me on where we were going. I refused to answer until he was in the car. "The doctor."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
"They're just going to weigh, measure, and make sure you're healthy."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"
"I can, and I will, and there will be no shots."
"I'M SCARED."

He gave the nurse a hard time about taking his blood pressure, his pulse-ox, and refused to have his temperature taken with the ear monitor.

The doctor was greeted with a scowl. I brought up the pancakes. I've been bringing up the pancakes to everyone. Who freaks over homemade blueberry pancakes? I think people should know. Strangers should know how awesome I am and how ungrateful my child is for all his mothering. I should have a shirt made.

Then the doctor suggested a round of flu shots for all. I agreed. Two birds.
"YOU SAID NO SHOTS."
"Right, I know. I'm sorry, but, there is a bug going around that makes you very sick, like, you have to stay in bed for two weeks with no friends, school, TV, or games."
"There is?"
The nurse piped in, "I was in bed for a month."
"See? A month! Now, do you want it in the leg or the arm?"
"NO SHOT!" he screamed as he crawled under the counter and into the corner underneath the computer cords.
"Don't make me come under there and get you."
"NO SHOT!!"
I caught him when he tried to go lateral and put him onto the table. "Arm or leg?"
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
"You can choose. Leg hurts less, arm hurts more."
"NO ARM! NO LEG!"
He got them in the leg and shrieked as if he'd gotten them caught in a combine. His little brother cried for two minutes and needed a hug, that was it. We walked out of the office, El Guille visibly dragging his leg, you know, with the sudden onset of polio and all. "We're meeting Cousin M and you're going to say some stuff in a microphone for her."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
"It's just like in Rock Band when you sing into the microphone. It's for her movie. You just have to say a few things into a microphone."
"I'm SCARED!"
"No, you're not, " I declared as we parked on the BYU campus.
He dragged his leg and whimpered down the HFAC hallways until we got to the sound booth. I explained that he would sit inside and say things into a microphone. This was how his favorite movies were made! Wall-E, Cars, all of them, people sat in a booth, said some words, and then they would draw the pictures. He visibly brightened. He almost didn't need the four Starburst M slipped him.
Almost.
He perched on his chair, put the headphones on his head, and repeated the dialogue that M fed him through the microphone. He started smiling for the first time all day.

And then we had to walk back to the car with the wounded leg dragging behind us. It's a good thing we were in the HFAC, because this kid was putting on a performance like you wouldn't believe. I felt like all the acting students could see the pathos he exuded, and envied his commitment. I, personally, was done. His craft is exhausting me. I'm calling James Lipton in the morning. I can't wait to see the career retrospective.

They Know Their Time is Coming and They Are Attacking

The exterminator arrives in the morning and not a moment too soon, because I thought I’d seen all the kinds of bugs possible in this hood, but I was wrong.

Not five minutes ago I was sitting here, reading Go Fug Yourself The Financial Times when something long, black, and completely unidentifiable landed, legs buzzing with aggression, on my arm. I screamed like a girl, terrified my husband, and then smashed the offending bug with my bright blue Steve Madden round-toe heels. I guess that means I killed it like a girl.

Speaking of “like a girl,” there’s a guy at work who during the last month’s golf tournament suggested that I golfed like a girl. True, my clubs are shorter than yours. Also, I’m a girl. It simply stands to reason that should I play a round of golf, I would, with the highest degree of probability, golf like a girl.

He continued this train of thought mentioning that I dressed “like a girl” every time he saw me at work. I don’t know how to respond to that. I am female, affirmative. I often dress in clothing that is exclusively meant for women. Many times those clothes are relatively clean, and betimes, matched. I lack a trucker hat in any capacity: ironic or sincere. I have a deficit of sports logo related togs. I haven't worn swim trunks in years.

So, yes, point? Color me flummoxed. That leaves me to respond to every “like a girl” statement with, “Yes. You are correct.”

And then I feel a little like Ed McMahon.

But with no Johnny.

And because I never watched The Tonight Show as a child, those last two sentences have absolutely no resonance with me and I merely used them to elicit an emotional response from you.

(Like a girl.)

Reverse Secret

The universe is quite lovely about so many things. Star-gazer lilies that bloom for days, Chanel perfume, or toddlers, to name just a few examples. The rest of the time I think the universe is trying to teach me a lesson. It's like a reverse Secret: instead me reaching out to the universe for what I want or need, the universe prefers to tell me what I want or need, and that if I know what's good for me, I'll like it.

Like when I posted a couple weeks ago about how I dislike The Olive Garden. I don't understand. Why would you purposefully eat at The Olive Garden when there are amazing local Italian restaurants that actually cook their pasta so it tastes like pasta INSTEAD OF GLUE? Sure, it's a reliable choice, you always know what you're going to get, but when did that become the standard of dining measurement instead of something TASTING GOOD? "Bread sticks" my butt.

Not 24 hours after I came out to the world as a reluctant O.G. diner, in a move that I can only assume is the universe laughing with glee, my mother-in-law gifted me for Christmas not only my very own bottle of mediocre Olive Garden salad dressing, but several O.G. gift cards as well. Thank you, galactic overlords.

Speaking of presents, I've received such sweet ones from so many of you over the past weeks. I have so far failed at adequate reciprocation, I mean (bar descending rapidly) I'll write you a note when I get around to it, GEEZ.

My mother, who I constantly flummox with my taste for modern design and a persistent desire to dress myself, had no idea what to get me for Christmas. My honest plea with her to not bother this year did not work, and I was gifted slippers.

Slippers.

I hate slippers. They are useless. I don't get cold feet and I always want to wear heels, ergo, according to the universe, I must need slippers. Yes, you can have my slippers.

My favorite so far? When I opened up a package from the great state of Wisconsin to find this...


A STAR.

Dear April/Universe,

Very funny.






Also, the movie Bride Wars looks bad. Very bad. The kind of bad where you wonder if there's a screening of Ishtar down the hallway that you can sneak into instead. This is where the universe tells Susie to call me and insist we catch a 9:00 show.

Boots Made for Shopping

The other night I ran to the grocery store to pick up a few trifles (milk, bread, and bacon.) As I was getting out of my car a woman walked quickly past me on her way into the shop. Her hair said conservative, but style-conscious mom in her 40s. Since it was dark, I couldn't quit see, but it looked like she was wearing really, really, tall boots. Her purple sweater dress came to the tops of her thighs and the black vinyl boots kept going.

I tried to work it out in my head, "But she's 40, has honey color hair, drives a Cadillac, but she's wearing...legging boots? Maybe it's just me. I mean, she has the body for it...if you're going to wear plastic black legging boots. But..."

She grabbed her shopping cart and I noticed another couple in my peripheral vision. The guy nudged the girl and they stared at the boots. In fact, everyone in the store was trying to figure it out; it was all so incongruous.

And then I saw this:AHA! Those are the boots! The ones I saw at a deserted suburban Albertson's on a weekday night. So props, anonymous 40ish mom, on pulling off the same leg-wear as Posh Spice, a hearty golf clap.

Then again, maybe Anon Mom had the boots first and Posh is the copy-boots?
Yesterday I was reluctantly watching Privileged and looked up in delight to see a necklace that I own being worn by one of the spoiled rich sisters. Fun! Tonight, while watching Lipstick Jungle and reading Ryan Lizza's amazing New Yorker article on the Western Strategy, I noticed a lead character wearing yet another one of my necklaces.

Can all of this be a coincidence, or is someone truly looking to middle-American moms for fashion inspiration? Clearly, it must be the latter.

Clearly.