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Thursday, May 28, 2015

A Salad's Just Not A Salad Without Croutons

I'm a dog person.  There.  I finally said it.  I feel better now.  And I'm not just an any dog kind of person...I'm a MY dog kind of person.  I was bit as a child and therefore I am friendly with, but somewhat distrustful of most dogs I encounter, especially little dogs.  But my own dog...that is a completely different story.  See - my dog and I; we got a thing.  Mainly, that is because my dog is 100% pure awesomeness and, well; I am hilarious.

Ever see the movie Frozen?  Yeah, I know...me too.  In any case, SoCo and I are are very much like Kristoff and Sven.  We have wonderful conversations.  All the time.  Out loud.  In public.  We've even been known to text people, you know: to share our magnificence...

SoCo has a beautiful and rich alto voice [even though she's female - she's a lower range alto - but that's just her speaking voice, although I'm sure she'd sound lovely if she sang], which makes perfect sense, as she IS a coon hound, and well - her bark or bay are forces to be reckoned with.  She speaks slowly and simply, not because she is dumb, you knobs...but because English IS her second language.  And similarly to how many different groups throw festivals throughout the summer to show their pride, she starts off all of her conversations with: I am dog.  She's super proud of that, and wants to make sure you understand that fact and don't forget it.

Our conversation this morning started no differently...

SoCo:  I am dog.  Croutons!  I love croutons!

Me:  Yeah, me too, [talking into my closet] best part of the salad if you ask me.  No croutons...not worth eating.

SoCo: Oh, would you then like me to share my croutons?

Me: Wait...croutons?  How the hell did YOU get croutons?

SoCo: You [or someone else, but I am assuming you, since I love you most] placed some artfully on the floor for me as a treat because I am dog.  

Me:  You can't have croutons.  They are bad for you.  ...Wait!  Did you say croutons are on the floor?

SoCo:   [mumbling because she is talking with her mouth full] Uh huh.

Me:  My God!  WTF are you eating?  We're upstairs.  There are no croutons up here, and definitely NO croutons on the floor...  [I drop my clothes and run over to her]

SoCo:  I just told you...Croutons.  You love croutons - and I love these like you love croutons...so they are croutons.

Me:  THOSE AREN'T CROUTONS!  STOP EATING THE CAT LITTER, YOU JERK!

SoCo:  The cat left me these croutons?  I knew she loved me...

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Hello, Ladies...

It's that time of year again...  The bees are flying.  The pollen is covering my car.  Flowers are blooming.  ...and my neighborhood smells like dirty crotch.  Yeah, I said it.  A Pescadaria.  It's terrible. And it's powerful enough to make you gag as you stroll through the lovely tree lined streets.

Bradford. Pears.  We had one in our yard.  Lovely tree, really.  It bloomed these beautiful white blossoms, was the last to lose its leaves.  And totally fouled up the place.  Funny how it took us near six years in our home to notice the stench.  But notice we did!

One day, walking out of work, the breeze blew and I smelled it.  OMG!  A little part of me died inside.  "That poor woman," I thought to myself, and got into my car with my husband.  We drove to our sitter's and picked up the kidlets.  We drove home.  I got out of the car...a breeze blew...and you guessed it, I smelled it again!

Good Christ, could that be me?!?  I put my bag onto the ground and knelt down to "fix" my shoe.  I thought I was being stealth.  Apparently not, as my husband came up beside me and said, "Don't worry, there is NO WAY that smell is you, or else we all would have died in the car!"  I felt relieved, yet mortified.  He smelled it too!  Well, if it wasn't me...  WTF was it? ?  We surveyed the yard and couldn't imagine what it was.  Hmph.

That evening, our family went for a walk.  We turned down a street and my first thought was of how gorgeous it was; lined with these beautiful white trees.  My next, and immediate, rumination was, "Jesus Christ kids: RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!  YOU'RE GOING TO SUFFOCATE!"  As my husband looked at me and delivered the punchline from his favorite stupid joke, we realized it was the trees!  I couldn't believe it.  No tree could smell that bad...and yet -

He looked at me as if in challenge.  I accepted.  Unspoken, I walked up to the closest tree, pulled a branch down and took a whiff.  I doubled over, gagging.  He started laughing.  Immediately, our children asked what was wrong with me and why their father was laughing at my dilemma.

"Nothing kids...Mommy just doesn't like the smell of the tree."  It was hot.  And humid.  And we realized that if we didn't make double-time, we were going to die as there was zero breeze to move this stagnant and repulsive air.  Quickly we turned around and made back for home.

A small while later while I was inside, I heard the hubs laughing hysterically while playing with the kids in the driveway.  The back door opened, then slammed.  In comes my oldest with the most infectious smile on her face.

"What is it, Baby?  What is so funny?"

"Well, I picked this flower for you, and Daddy said you would love it!"

Confused I stepped forward to look at the flower crushed in her palm.

"And he said I should tell you where I picked it from."

Bewildered I asked, "Okay?  Wherever did you pick it?"

"Oh, I picked it off the 'Fishstick Tree'. [insert the sound of me choking on my own spit].  It's that white one in our front yard [pointing with her chubby finger]  I named it the 'Fishstick Tree' because that's what it smells like: like cold fishsticks..."

I've never looked at those trees the same again.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Queue the Psycho Music...

Packing lunches is a battle in my home.  I'm raising self-sufficient children, whom are all capable of shoving what they'd like to eat into this reusable bag.  It accomplishes so much more than that...it also decreases how many times I'll ever have to hear the words, "I just didn't feel like eating THAT for lunch!"  Oh, really?!?!  ...then why did you pack it.

And yet; it's still a chore; for my youngest of Things.  She *hates* packing her lunch.  There's the daily scream that there is nothing to eat in the house (of course, untrue) and that it's unfair she has to pack her lunch (again, untrue because everyone, including their father, packs their own lunch daily).  I digress...

Today was no exception.  No exception in that she hemmed and hawed over packing her lunch.  No exception in that she had a somewhat apocalyptic meltdown over there being [read this in the tone of a belligerent and exasperated six-year-old] 'absolutely nothing I ever want to pack to eat in my life!' in the fridge.  And yet; today was different.  Vastly different.

It suddenly became terribly quiet.  ...and then humming started.  My youngest beats her own drum, and frankly, we've joked that the aliens she loves to converse with have put that beat in her head - but that's the tune I heard hummed out.  I thought to myself that she must have taken a deep breath and found some strength to muster up her inner packaging Goddess.  Sweet.  I left it all alone and sat nursing my afternoon caffeine.

Mistake.  Wrong.  Fail.  Boo.

Precisely 15 minutes later, the humming dwindled and this child sidled up to me on the couch.

"MOMMY!  I packed my own...well, you'll never guess!!!"

I looked up.  The Horror!

"OHMAHGAWD!"

[she giggled]

"Mommy!  I packed a peanut butter roll-up...... [she paused for DRAMATIC effect, yet what happened, is that the music from Psycho started playing in my head] with: FLUFF!"

It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.  "No shit!"

Ooops.  Can't shove that back in.  My bad.

She looked defeated.  "You knew I used fluff?  How?"

"Well, baby [the music is getting to a dull roar in my head now], it's all over your hands.  And on your shirt.  And smeared on your face...and SWEET BABY JESUS - IT'S IN YOUR FREAKING HAIR!"  At this point, I get up.  [music begins its absolute crescendo]  I walk into the kitchen.  I brace myself for the inevitable...

And what I find is a perfectly clean kitchen.  A roll-up on a plate.  A packed lunch.  And a girl's purple Nerf gun on the counter - also covered in fluff.  I've decided I don't want to know...