Sunday, August 28, 2011

So Let's Talk About Buffets (repost)

Yeah, this is a repost. Lately with so much on my plate, a few repeats may be in order. Besides, I recieved a request from a friend that I repost this particular piece, as well as a few others, and quite frankly that makes my life just that much easier right now. But do not fear, I'm working on a little something about Disney Channel live action television programming and Grease. Oh yeah, baby.

As I'm sure it is for many families, dinner is often a source of contention in our household. It would seem that not one of the members of our foursome likes any of the same foods, with various food allergies making the process of choosing something for dinner all the more difficult. Lately my husband and I often find ourselves staring blankly at each other whenever the inevitable topic of "what should we have for dinner" presents itself. I do cook regularly for my children as does my husband, but lately the kids only like two things, and I'm gonna freak the hell out if I have to prepare tacos or plain noodles with meatballs one more f***ing time.

That said, last week Carl had a stroke of genius - we live in Vegas, why not take advantage of something that Vegas is known for the world round? Their fabulous buffets! At a buffet, each of us can choose whatever we want for dinner.(Plus we had a coupon that made dinner practically free, and considering the fact that we're flat broke, that was a nice bonus). Naturally I was resistant at first, I mean buffets are disgusting. How white trash are buffets (very)? But eventually I conceded because I sure as hell didn't want to have to start the painstaking process of reconsidering our dinner options all over again.

After we picked my son up from school, we headed directly to the buffet because we were all starving and it makes sense to try and beat the dinner rush (add that to the list of reasons I'm geriatric: I prefer to beat the dinner rush when I frequent the buffet at 3:30 in the afternoon). You may be wondering at this point "aren't you the same annoying pain in the ass person that is supposedly into "organic, hormone free this and that?" Yes, I am. But I'm also into not wanting to gouge my eyeballs out with a blunt instrument every time the question of dinner comes up. So that brings us back to our most recent visit to the buffet...

Let me just preface this by stating a disclaimer: children sometimes say things (unintentionally) that are not politically correct. I am not advocating or encouraging these statements; my children are 4 and 6 - they don't know what the hell they're saying. If you're offended please remove the stick from your ass and go away.

So after we made one of many rounds at the buffet (come on - you know it's a pig fest! It's a buffet!) Maggie and I took our seats and proceeded to chow down while Carl and Bear rampaged the taco bar. While I ate mashed potatoes, Maggie began feasting on one of her personal favorites: watermelon. And boy she was gettin' into it. With her eyes practically rolling back in her head, "Mmmmm, I love me some watermelon. Watermelon is gooood." Naturally these comments were said in the not-so-subtle tones of a four year old (meaning she's practically shouting), which aside from the bad manners wouldn't have caused such embarrassment if we weren't sitting next to a table of African Americans. Again, I don't think this would matter all that much if I weren't getting looks, and by looks I mean they were turning around to stare at the person that was loudly saying "Oh yeah, I do LOOOVE me some watermelon!" I mean Maggie did seem to be putting on quite the show and I kind of wondered if they thought she was doing it on purpose or if I had put her up to it or what. (Yes by writing this I am acknowledging the existence of a stereotype about African Americans liking watermelon. What can I say, I was mortified). I was very embarrassed and at that point attempted to get Maggie to keep her ecstasy over the watermelon to a minimum. And I will admit after that I did forbid her to get fried chicken.

Then there was the point at which my son loudly called my husband fat and offended an old lady, all in one fell swoop.. Whoo hoo! We were on a roll! After dinner Carl was standing up because he was so full (our family really believes in getting our money's worth at the buffet). Bear was all (in the loud kid voice of course), "Dad your belly is FAT! I've never seen a belly that big!" and then proceeded to hit the belly and we all know that doesn't feel so good after a binge like we just had. Carl told Bear to stop that and jokingly said that he might explode if he doesn't stop to which Bear replied, "Yeah! Explode! That'd be cool!" Carl responded, "I don't think so. I'd die." Which at this point I'm thinking "Dumb-ass. Don't say 'die' - I so don't wanna go down that road right now. But Maggie didn't miss a beat with that one.
Maggie: (Loud kid voice) "Mommy where do we go when we die?" (We talk about this A LOT).
Me: (Resigned) "Heaven."
Bear: (As usual) I'm not going to Heaven. That's boooring.
Maggie: "But not for a long time right?"
Me: (Looking around and noticing the elderly woman sitting at the next table, only three feet away. Shit. She's looking at US now). Um, yup. More desserts anyone? (Mind you, we were all about to throw up at this point).
Bear: (Again, in the loud kid voice) You mean we'll go to Heaven when we're all old and wrinkly, right?
At this point Carl and I pretty much decided to high tail it out of there (yes with the kids in tow, although at that point we did consider leaving them). Hopefully we're not eighty-sixed from the buffet, because we just got another one of those coupons in the mail. Besides, my son likes the buffet because you don't have to wait for the server to bring you food because waiting (like Heaven) is soooooo boooorrring.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Happiness Project

Kid dance classes.

There's just something about watching a bunch of pre-school age little girls arabesque to songs like "Bust a Move" and "Word Up." Yes, Maggs loves her dance classes and so do I. Last week, parents were encouraged to join in on the fun and cut a rug a la John Travolta to the Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive," preferably while making silly faces. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a little song and dance. But I'm even more of a sucker for Maggs in a ballet suit making good use of disco fingers. How can something like that not put a smile on your face?

Now it's your turn. Go ahead and grab Leigh's button and post a photo of something that makes you happy. I mean, what the hell's wrong with you? Do you have something against happiness?


Monday, March 1, 2010

Um, pardon me father but that cow is no longer mooing...

Sorry I've been slacking in the commenting department lately - I assure you that it's not for lack of interest. Sometime last week I determined that I'd finally had enough of the general disorder and filth around here and decided that it was time once and for all to get my act together and get some housework done. I really busted ass all weekend and the house has actually been restored to some semblance of order again. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves, there's still much more to be done, but at least we all have clean underwear in our dressers biatches (oh yeah, we be fancy now). What's more, this morning I didn't have to perform an emergency scramble for socks, which usually requires that I blindly rummage through 10 loads of unfolded laundry piled up precariously in my laundry room, all the while praying to god that I don't cause some sort of laundry avalanche. On more than one occasion the children have had to settle for socks that don't match. Well, their socks match today, baby! Booyah!

I'm about to continue my 1950's housewife shtick and go vacuum something - oh trust me, I'm sure this little phase will run it's course and my household will once again begin to look more like a re-run of Roseanne than Leave it to Beaver. For the time being, however, I will leave you with this...

Last night we were enjoying a typical EW dinner. Okay, maybe not so typical: the hubs was having a steak and I was having a martini (okay you got me again, I was actually eating a meal too - I'm not a complete lush. But I did mention that I'm pretending to live in the 1950's. Aren't steaks and martinis pretty much prerequisites for any 1950's fantasy?) Anyway, Maggs inquired as to what her father was eating...

Dad: Steak

Maggs: What's steak?

Dad: Beef, which is from cows.

Maggs: (Incredulous, even though we've told her this before) Cows?!

Dad: Yeah, cows.

Maggs: You mean the kind that go "moo?"

Dad: Yeah.

Maggs: (Suspiciously, as if she's onto us) Um, then why isn't it mooing anymore?

The conversation continued until Maggs wanted to know specific details about how cows are killed and then made into steak. I kind of shushed the hubs because Maggs still weeps inconsolably about (what she considers) the untimely death of Goldie the goldfish over 2 years ago. I'm pretty sure she'd require therapy if the hubs were to detail the slaying and butchering of her favorite barnyard friend.

By the way, my son, over-tired from a busy weekend, had already been dismissed from the dinner table at this point for unacceptable behavior - AKA whining, complaining, and generally being unpleasant. I guess the Beav didn't get the memo requesting that he behave like a Stepford child until further notice. Let's hope that while he's at school today a space pod replaces my son's current incarnation with a more 1950's sitcom-friendly version...

Monday, February 22, 2010

If my man wants a sausage party, by golly I give it to him!

This week C celebrates his 33rd birthday (yeah, that's right. I'm 2 years older than him. I'm one of them cougars. Meow! Okay, so I'm not a cougar, but C assures me that I am a MILF - to which I say, aww thanks, babe! Now why ya be goin' and gettin' all romantic-like?)

Anyway, C has to work all week, so the kids and I threw him a little pre-birthday soiree here at home. Bear and Maggs gave him some clothes (okay, really it was I who gave him the clothes because the children don't have any money and can't drive or anything - they're kinda lazy like that) - you know his usual "Cholo on Easter" attire (I totally stole that from Knocked Up, but this description just suits the hubs and his "look" ever so well). I also made him two of my famous "mixed tapes." I put a lot of effort into these musical endeavours because, while I like to think that my knowledge of most genres of music is above average, my familiarity with rap and country is admittedly fairly limited, and rap is C's music of choice. It's actually pretty funny to be trying to select the best songs for these compilations and to hit the thirty second "preview" on itunes, only to hear "Move bitch!/ Get out the way!" or "You's a fine mother fucker/ won't you back that ass up?" - at which point the kids come running from the next room to inquire if I'm listening to "Daddy's music." You know what they say - it's all fun and games until someone calls social services...

Nevertheless, my CD's are usually a big hit with the hubs because, as my son is fond of saying, "I'm too good." In order to add flavor to the festivities C style, I suggested that we grill some sausages to go along with dinner, as this is one of the hubs' personal favorites. I myself opted for a few pomegranate martinis (damn, I'm hooked on those suckers!).

When it's all said and done, I think that the hubs' birthday party was a success. Just before bed, I paused to give C a tender peck on the cheek and to whisper ever so lovingly, "Happy Birthday, Honey. I really hope that you enjoyed your sausage party." Because I'm considerate like that. If my husband wants a sausage party for his birthday, by golly I let my man have a sausage party! I am such an awesome wife like that.

I hope everyone is getting into the swing of things on this fine Monday morning. If I can ever figure out a way to balance housework and mom duties with my blog addiction, maybe I'll get around to finishing one of the 50 unfinished drafts I have going right now (keeping my fingers crossed). But for now, I'm going to go fold laundry and scrub some toilets. Jealous much?

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Blast from the past.

The following is a repost from when I first started writing this blog. I seem to be fighting something off yet again, and I just can't deal (with anything) this week. Don't fret, I have more great stories in the works - just you wait!

Until then, please enjoy the following tale of dorky teen angst, waiter-stalking, and crappy teenage cruise-mobiles. And I'd like to give a shout-out to Girl in the Room for giving me the idea to repost this.


From December '08

Blast From the Past

This has been a busy week and I'm glad that's it's finally coming to an end - although now it's looking like the weekend might be just as busy. Bear is the "Star Student" in his class next week, and I have to make him a poster, a journal complete with pictures of him hanging out with the class bear "Ted," and snacks to share with his classmates - it's amazing how much work I have now that he's in school. And of course he has a winter play next week, a student-teacher conference, and then there's the holidays to consider...anyway, we're busy.

C is going out of town until Tuesday, and the kids and I will be left to fend for ourselves for the next few days. Bear and Maggs really love their weekends with their dad, so I've come up with lots of fun things for us to do in order to distract them from his absence. Today I took the kiddos for a ride on the carousel that's by our neighborhood Whole Foods, and then we had dinner at Chili's.

I haven't eaten at a Chili's in years, but it seemed like a good idea since it's kid-friendly (my main objective in selecting this particular restaurant), and there's one a couple of blocks from Bear's taekwondo class. For a brief period during my teen years, I frequented Chili's with two close friends on a pretty regular basis. In addition to driving our crappy cars aimlessly around the suburbs (more on my crappy car in a minute), we took great pleasure in eating out as often as our jobs permitted - and I'm not talking about Taco Bell or Burger King (perish the thought!), I'm talking about real restaurants, pretty much every day after school (and no, we did not weigh 300 pounds).

For a while Chili's was the destination of choice, and for a short time we decided that we were in love with one of the waiters that worked at Chili's because we thought he looked like Neil Finn from Crowded House (perhaps not most teen-aged girl's idea of a heart-throb in the early 90's, but to each her own). I'm not sure that he even served us food more than once or twice, but we sure thought he was the cat's pajamas.

Neil Finn. You know you want him.

On the subject of my crappy car: it was a 1984 dark red Ford Thunderbird with paint chipping off of most of the passenger-side door (I always suspected that it had been spray-painted by the previous owner). It had no AC, which wouldn't have been such a big deal if we didn't live in a place that can sometimes reach 120 degrees in the summer; that car felt like an oven in July. This car also made strange noises when it accelerated, which deterred several friends from wanting to ride with me (although if I'm being completely honest, my less than stellar driving skills were more likely the real reason people politely declined a ride in my "cruise-mobile").

Tonight when, coincidentally, I heard "Something So Strong" playing on Chili's piped in musak, it really took me back to those days. I laugh at the absurdity of our crush on the Chili's waiter (sort of a la William H. Macy's crush on the braces-wearing bartender in Magnolia, but in a funny way and, I'd like to think, less pathetic. We thankfully possessed enough self-awareness to recognize how ridiculous we were, and derived great pleasure from making fun of ourselves. I guess some things never change).

I also laugh at our version of teen angst: driving around the 'burbs in crappy cars, cranking "How Soon is Now?," and debating about which restaurant to eat at after school. (As I recently pointed out to A, we probably could have afforded better cars if we didn't spend so much money on restaurants. But as usual, our love of food prevailed). I suppose we could have been using illicit drugs and having unprotected sex (I saved that for my mid twenties. Good times.), but that just wasn't a part of our journey. We may have been dorks (okay, we were defintely dorks), but now that I have my own little girl I hope, no I pray, that someday she'll be a dork too.

Monday, February 15, 2010

I love the smell of piss in the morning.

*Disclaimer: I'm cranky. Real cranky. Read at your own risk!

So I've been sick all weekend. Just a little head cold, nothing to get your underwear in a bunch over. But of course due to my refusal inability to follow everyone around, wiping their asses cleaning up after them and generally waiting on them hand and foot, the house is a shit hole in a general state of disarray. The last time I dared to venture into the main living space of my home, there were dirty kid underwear on the kitchen floor, random half eaten waffles left lying on the carpet, and a sink full of dishes overflowing onto the surrounding counter space. And don't even get me started about what my son did to the toilet last night. Let me just say that the hubs almost had to make an emergency trip to Walmart for Drano, after my plunging prowess failed to rectify the situation (the hubs saved the day with his own mad plunging skilz. It's true though, I'm hella good at plunging. Sorry boys, I'm taken. XOXO).

What's more, this morning I was awakened at the butt crack of dawn by the ever-delightful sound of children bickering (ahhh, music to my ears), at which point I discovered that Maggs, who always occasionally sleeps with me, had also wet the bed. Good times. You know me - I love the smell of piss in the morning.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

A post about the most romantic gift that I've ever received. And nipple cream is part of it.

In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought that I would share with you, Dear Readers, the most romantic gift that I have ever received. Perhaps you're wondering what an Existential Waitress considers to be a romantic gift? Flowers? Godiva chocolates? They're both fine and dandy, but no. Diamond earrings? Eh. Been there done that. A pearl necklace (not that kind, you pervs - and HELL no, by the way) and a surprise trip to Cancun? I'm really just not that much of a jewelry person. A Video iPod (back when they were all the rage) with an engraved message on the back? Close. You're getting warmer...

The most romantic gift that I've ever received is

a breast pump. For reals. I'm not kidding.

When my son was born, I was kinda flying by the seat of my pants (my standard M.O. I've reluctantly come to realize, as I fancy myself a planner), and pretty much had no clue about breastfeeding. Basically, I was a mess. We'd acquired all the basic baby gear by the time my son was born, but it had never even occurred to me that I might need a breast pump - that is, until the hubs came home with one and surprised me with it. Mind you, my husband is the kind of guy that plugs his ears and says "I can't hear you!" when I tell him that I have my PERIOD or that I'm MENSTRUATING, and is not the sort of chap that volunteers to buy tampons when he goes to the supermarket. So the gift of a breast pump really meant something to me.

To this day, I still feel all warm and fuzzy inside just imagining him perusing the breastfeeding section of Babies R Us, trying to find the perfect pump to surprise me with. He even purchased accessories like storage bags and nipple cream. It was just too cute and thoughtful. Jewelry and gadgets aside, this really IS in all seriousness what I consider to be my favorite gift of all time - call me crazy (because I know you want to). It's memories like this that remind that there is something redeeming about C when he's on my shit list for being an inconsiderate jack-ass. Later this week I'll post about the delicious dinner the hubs cooked for me on Super Bowl Sunday. I'm liking him more and more by the minute. (C may be many things, but he's definitely not dumb; he knows I'm less likely to kick him to the curb if he plies me with tasty fixin's).

Before I get ahead of myself though, perhaps I should give mention to the 24 Hour Rule (which is kinda like knocking on wood for good luck). Because that shit will come back to bite you in the ass. Every. Single. Time.