Friday, March 26, 2010

TO: Coalition For Glorious Motherhood Myth Perpetuation

RE: Containment of Rogue Mommy

I spoke to my friend Kari this morning, and I have some intel:

She's on to us! The jig is up! The moose has flown to Guadalajara, and he's taken a left turn at San Juan!

Her baby is almost three months old, and she already knows about the baby cover-up. How they are no fun and actually very, very boring and sometimes mean and how there is no way that a normal, intelligent person can actually endure the torture of the first few months without completely losing her shit at least once a day. She is even onto the trick where the babies disrupt brain frequencies with their cries in order to infiltrate our minds and then suck the scrambled goo out through our ears while we "sleep."

Any minute now, she's going to figure out the thing about the diaper genie.

Worse, she knows about The Lie.

This can't go any further. She can't be allowed to tell others about how we lure unsuspecting women with maternal cravings into believing all of that hoo-ha about babies being creatures made entirely of cute and life-affirming and awesome. She can't be allowed to spread the word about this. I mean, they are awesome, but some people just won't understand about the brain-sucking, and how it makes us all better and more perfect mommies...they will just be creeped out. They may even demand that the babies desist. WE CANNOT HAVE THIS!

This is a wily one. We hooked her, and now we have to keep her, ladies...but we have to watch her closely.

She likely to start talking to other moms, which could be bad. They could begin to network with other intelligent women, and support each other through this horrible phase-even treat her to an occasional restorative glass of wine-and then we're screwed! SCREWED!

We can't let them mobilize!

We have to keep this contained, and let the baby-unit complete the brain sucking! If we can keep her quarantined until phase one is complete, she will be one of us. Whatever you do, don't let her know that she's right about the dirty looks the baby gives her! Tell her that it's gas! They always believe that one!

Pretty soon, none of that will matter. Phase two: Smooshy and Cooing will begin soon, and she'll be talking about wanting another one!


Thursday, March 25, 2010

It might be someone you know....

Okay, so I've debated with myself about blogging this for a week, because it is of a political nature, and I just don't want to open that can of worms here. This situation just really wigged me out.

This is only a part of the conversation:

Person A: I guess they're voting on health care this weekend.
Person B: Yeah, here comes Obamacare. And the complete and total end of America as we know it.
Person A: Yeah, I guess we're all going to be Communists now. Our Chinese communist overlords will be arriving any moment!
Person B: Ha ha-yeah, and, like, Obama's going to welcome them with open arms! Goodbye, freedom!
Person A: Yeah, and I bet this will all somehow undermine all of our marriages at the same time. What I don't get is how Social Security and Medicaid are okay, but anything else makes us comunists-
Person B: But they are not okay. I mean, do you realize that when Social Security was enacted, the age of retirement was five years older than the average life expectancy? It's not supposed to be a retirement plan. Work till you die, people!
Person A: Yeah....

**simultaneous narrowing of eyes**

Person B's inside voice: Holy shit, you think I'm kidding.
Person A's inside voice: Holy shit, you aren't kidding.

I'm mostly sure that we shared this moment of realization, at the end. We changed the subject immediately, and I hope we will never speak of it again, because I am a total chickenshit in the face of this kind of situation. People are so entirely polarized that they speak in rhetoric and absolutes, resulting in anger and name-calling instead of rational debate. I don't even know how to talk about this without venom, so out of respect for other people's right to have opinions, I generally don't talk about it at all, unless Carl and I are spouting off in a self-soothing round of pontification inside our own home.

I'm sure you can figure out which person I am. (Hint:I'm the hedonistic homo-loving commie liberal nutjob who is undermining the fabric of our country because I think that we can probably have socialized health coverage and continue to exist as a capitalist, democratic society, like many other countries around the world.) I won't tell you who the other person is. Suffice it to say, I normally respect this person's point of view all things that are not this, and I still do. This person is a well-informed individual. She believes in evolution and that NCLB was a bad idea for education. I can only assume that she has been brainwashed.

By aliens. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (yes there is)

If this person reads this, I apologize for using a private conversation to illustrate my position. I know that you also now believe that I have been brainwashed by aliens. I hope that we can exist happily in this mutual-disregard-of-political-leanings society, and remain friends. I really do.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Moving On, Twelve Years at a Time

We have too much stuff in my house.

This is not hoarder-level stuff, just too much stuff for my liking. You will never, ever see me on that show, with the mountains of trash hemming in the lives of. I can account for all of my cats, thank you.

I can blame our stuff excess on Carl-he is part Scot, and has a penchant for taking random used stuff off of other people's hands, whether we need it or not. I have to be honest, though. I do get attached to my stuff, and I have a hard time getting rid of the things. For example, here are all of the bags that I have used over the past decade:
That strap with no purse on it? From a olive green messenger bag that I carried from 2001-2004. I saved the strap because I used to attach buttons and beach tags and other little mementos to it, and wear them around like merit badges. (SEE, EVERYONE? I'm 2o and I go places and have favorite bugs and I wish you to Remember 9/11! SEE?) At some point, I picked most of the stuff off of that strap, and never got back to it.
I don't even plan to use most of these ever again. I don't usually go back to an old purse when I have decided to move the nest to a new location. I just have a hard time letting the old ones go. This applies to my favorite t-shirts, coats, shoes, mugs, etc.

Another case: I have carried this wallet since I was sixteen years old.

I bought it for $.25, off of a table at a church sidewalk sale. I carried it through the rest of high school, having declared that I was "not a stupid tiny purse person." All of my jeans had a little worn spot in the right back pocket where the button rubbed through. I didn't have a license in high school, or much money. Instead, this wallet held my student ID, a Hot Topic frequent-buyer card, my Blockbuster card, sometimes homework, occasionally a condom, and a lot of other random bits. More recently, it has contained medical insurance IDs for two children, maxed out credit cards, and a bunch of coupons for cleaning products.

After twelve years, it is time to move on from this baby.

My mom gave this to me as an "early Mother's Day present." (She likes to justify gifts by choosing the closest significant calender event and assigning her random purchases to that day. I have received many "late birthday," "early Christmas," and "um...Summer is just around the corner" presents in my life.)

I love this. The only reason that I can think about leaving my old brown leather one behind is that I really like the new one. I mean, my Hot Topic frequent-buyer card really has room to breathe.

What to do with the old one? I don't know. Carl suggests keeping it, because he's a thrifty Scottish bugger who also wants to also keep four outdated computer monitors in his office closet for all of eternity. Maybe I'll try to sell it at a yard sale for a quarter. (along with some computer parts)
Speaking of countries in the UK that aren't England, Happy St. Patrick's Day! In addition to being a rockin wallet shopper, my mom is also much more hardcore than I am. She has already been partying in the name of being Irish this week, whereas I plan to pinch Wendy, because she refuses to wear green, have a shot with Carl when he comes home, and call it a night.
Seriously. Anyone want an ugly purse or a computer monitor from 1998?

Thursday, March 11, 2010

On Carpet Cheese

I recently picked the carpet fuzz and dog hairs off of the last piece of American (NOT SWISS) cheese, and handed it back to Wendy for consumption. You see, it was the last. piece. of. cheese.

She has become this selectively picky eater. By "selective," I mean that she selects random times to become picky, but other times, she will pretty much snatch anything food-related out of the air with her tiny snapping jaws, before it even hits the plate. Even on the picky days (most days that begin with T or S, plus every other Monday), she is only picky certain times of the day.

I am not generally this kind of mom, hovering and wringing my hands and twitching in abject terror that my perfectly normal child will not eat her meat or carrot, or whatever. I get that it's a kid thing to reject food sometimes. The thing about Wendy is that she is like me. If she goes too long without food, she turns into this cranky doom monster of doom.

Think: Cthulu who shrieks forth from the underverse and tears faces off with her tentacles of doom. Emphasis on the shrieking. And doom.

This last piece of cheese? It was the only thing she actually agreed to eat that day. There was no way I was going to just throw it away because of some schmutz.


As I picked at carpet fuzz, I wondered if my friend Bethany (a proper homeowner, with proper homeowning accoutrement) would let me borrow her carpet steamer thingy. We are not yet proper homeowners, we do not own such items. Every time we eye up the Rug Doctor rentals at the grocery store, we turn away after a moment: "Eh, we don't even really own our rug."

I mean, we might move in a few months. We have lived here all this time. We let our infant crawl around on this rug. Why clean it now? Or, as Bethany put it, "Should I do these dishes, or just pack them? Meh." Maybe it is only the difference between a generously lent (and free ) borrow and a rental that costs 40-60 bucks a day? Yeah, probably.

Also, there is MuShu, that fuzzball kitty that we adopted last summer. Yes, we started calling him MuShu as a bad joke, and it stuck. We are bad people. He has recently discovered an interesting use for his boy parts, and is punishing us for giving him a semi-offensive joke name. As we are too broke to get him fixed at the moment, we have to suffer kitty spray and try to teach him not to do that. In the meantime....Horrors.

Before/after shots of my cheese-fuzz carpet to follow, soonish? Or can you live without that visual?

I hear the rending of time/space, and the wailing of tortured souls....I'd better go coerce Cthulu to have a snack.

Monday, March 01, 2010

Le Souffle!

Carl has had souffle on his mind.

Ever since I looked at the giant bag of broccoli STEMS that somehow wound up in my freezer, and remarked, in an off-hand, non-committal way, "Well...maybe I can make broccoli souffle...?"

That was about two weeks ago. Finally, last night, the ingredients were amassed, and I souffle'd. While waiting for the magic to happen, something spoke to me.

Shiraz: You know...I'm not just great with red sauces and red meat. I am also delightful paired with sharp cheese.
Me: You don't say.
Shiraz: Yeah. Hey, I see that there's sharp cheese in this souffle you are making...
Me: So there is. Huh.

And that's how it came to be that I had giant portions of broccoli souffle and three glasses of wine for dinner last night. A sublime experience, punctuated by a call from my mom, imploring that I "take Wendy outside to look at the MOOON! THE MOON! You need to take her outside and howl at the moon!"

As it was obvious that something had spoken to my mom last night, too.

I let her know that I would surely howl at the moon, as soon as I finished my meal of souffle and wine. "MY MOTHER'S SOUFFLE??"
"Yes. That one."
"God. That sounds good. So. Good."

I have a notion that this souffle is as much "my grandmother's souffle" as the green bean casserole (you know, the one with French's onions?) is "our Nami's" (great-grandmother's) beans. But it's good. I took it to a Thanksgiving party a few years ago, and some girl with a sexy haircut and a cute bubble dress with pockets, she called it "simple."

"Mmm...this is good. Simple."

Do you like the way that people with sharp haircuts and sophisticated wine tastes take digs at you out the side of their mouths? Even when they continue to stuff their mouths with something that you made? But, it is simple, in the way that homey family holiday food usually is.

Broccoli Souffle:
1 small red onion-chop fine!
4 eggs-beat!
1 cup mayo
1 can cream of mushroom soup
2 cups cheese
a giant bag of frozen broccoli pieces

Cook broccoli (stove or microwave) just enough to defrost. Combine other ingredients, and then stir in broccoli. Bake in a casserole or souffle dish 45 minutes-1 hour 15minutes, depending on depth of dish, until firm, at 350 degrees.

This makes a big batch-I should have halved it for single-family consumption. Or not. Now I have broccoli stuff all week. Makes a good breakfast. Wine optional.