I took the boy for his flu vaccine Monday night. Of course, this was just for the 'regular old flu', not the dreaded and overblown (my apologizes if I have offended any nasal passages with that play on words) H1N1 virus. When I first informed him that he would be getting the vaccine, there was the requisite whining about having to get a shot. No, silly, it's not a shot. It's a squirt of whatever-it-is up your nose. Ah, the miracle of science. Ok, then, TER couldn't complain about that; not bad, for a boy who can pretty much complain and be contrary about everything.
Once we arrived at the office of the pediatrician, he immediately sat down and proceeded to cover his mouth and nose with his t-shirt. He informed me that he was protecting himself because that place is "full of sick people!". ooooooookkkkkkkkkkk Good to know that his old ratty t-shirt is the perfect buffer against all germs and viruses. He has many of such t-shirts, so if you would like one for your own protection, do let me know and I'd be happy to provide you with one.
So there he sat, looking as if he had lost his actual surgical mask, but was preparing to perform some radical new procedure (one-handed) on the nearest child. I couldn't help giggling at him, which he did not appreciate. Oddly, once we were called back into the exam room, the necessity to cover his mouthal openings had subsided and he felt he could safely sit there - were no sick children had apparently been all day. Whatever. In comes the nurse, squirted the magic spray up his nose and sent him on his way, with specific instruction not to blow his nose "for a while". Thanks for clearing that up. By the time we got back to the car, he blew his nose. I envisioned the $35 I had just paid projecting right out of his nostrils onto the ground. But, I'll choose to believe that the vaccine had sufficiently made its way to wherever it goes once it goes up the nose. On the other hand, TER was convinced that he would now get the flu the next day, and that he had, once again, ruined everything.
By the time we got home, the nasal episode was forgotten and the boy proceeded to begin making chocolate chip cookies - from scratch. I'm still not sure why allowed this on a school night. Maybe I wanted a cookie? Thankfully, this was his personal project, so I was free to go downstairs to watch the season premiere of House in peace. (mmmmm Hugh Laurie) Surprisingly, I was interrupted by only a few irrelevant baking questions, which included "how many tablespoons are in a cup?" and "do eggshells go in the garbage disposal or in the trash?". All was going well until I smelled the cookies. A lot. A batch was burning. I'm not sure how he missed this fact, considering the house smelled like, well, burnt cookies! A lot. After waiting for a commercial (bad Mommy), I went upstairs to remind him to remove cookies from the oven when the timer goes off. "oh yeah" Well, he WAS caught up on SportsCenter, so it's understood how distracted he was. In his head, anyway.
Burnt cookies = more determination that he had "ruined everything". However, he made me try one, insisting that maybe they weren't that bad. How is that possible that they were ruined not that badly?? To keep the peace, I took a bite, swallowed hard, and smiled, indicating that they will suffice. In my head I felt they would only suffice if you were a starving pygmy, or needed to pelt a burglar with a hard object.
Happily, there was only one batch that went awry. The other cookies looked and were perfectly yummy. I swear I've only had two, as he is using them as his treats when he packs his school lunches. Aaawww - how cute. The burned cookies have mysteriously disappeared (into the trash can, underneath other pieces of trash so to hide evidence of my betrayal that I have eaten them with delight).
Cookies baked, TER went to bed. I finished House and made my way back into the kitchen. At least I think it was a kitchen. It looked more like a Keebler factory had moved in, then exploded. Utensils, ingredients and dough everywhere. And everywhere is where I left it. Hell, it would be there in the morning. And it was, at which time the boy got upset at the fact that there were no clean spoons for his cereal. Drama continues...........eyes keep rolling.
September 22, 2009
September 21, 2009
Sugar Baby!
Good news for me! I am off the hook. My household responsibilities are no more. The water, cable and VEPCO** bills will be paid for me. My salary will now be my fun money, to be spent as I choose, be it on liquor, first-class travel and/or trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo. I need to get on the phone and find myself full-time personal shoppers, maids, chefs, trainers and hairdressers. I feel like Eva Gabor before Eddie Albert moved her out to the Green Acres farm.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
September 9, 2009
Bite Me!
A friend told me this evening that “if we were gay cowboys……..I’d quit you…….because you don’t blog.” Damn, girl, glad I’m not a gay cowboy – not that there’s anything wrong with that. They make for some box office gold!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
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