Not Even Gone, And Already It Has Begun

The kiddos and I are headed for the ATL for a few weeks. We are leaving Hubbie to deal with the rental house woes. I told him he damn well better have a game plan because I am not coming back here the end of June to find everything still the same.

My dad flew in last night to help us get ready and give us a hand flying down.

He has been here a scant 24 hours, and I already want to tear my hair out.

Growing up, my dad cooked all the meals. He loved to cook, and made everything from scratch. Spaghetti and meatballs meant he made the sauce and he made the meatballs. Pizza meant he made the pizza, dough included.

My friends loved to eat at my house because the food was homemade, hearty, and good.

So tonight when I made pizza for the kids, I thought my dad would be proud of me. Granted, my toddler pizza is not totally homemade but the sauce is. I am very proud of the fact that I found a quick and cheap way to make pizza sauce for the kids. It only makes a little and does not go to waste.

When I told me dad about my sauce, I don't know what I was expecting. We talk about cooking a lot, chatting about recipes and ingredients. I supposed I thought he would be impressed.

His reaction? Why don't you just buy a jar of Ragu?

There are a gazillion reasons why I wouldn't buy a jar of Ragu, but that wasn't the point. I tried to explain to him, and he just got mad at me and kept raising his voice (in front of my kids) saying he didn't know why I was upset.

Like a dumbass, I went and cried in the shower for about twenty minutes. I just felt so frustrated. When the hell am I going to learn that my parent are my parents? They will never change. Getting praise from them is ridiculously expensive.

The rub salt in the wound moment came after my shower. My dad had one of his favorite TV programs on. 30 Minute Meals with the fabulous Rachel Ray. He asked if I ever watched it, again. I told him no, again. He went into how great of a program it was, how her recipes were so wonderful.

Um, Rachel Ray makes everything from fucking scratch. The whole point of her show is to use what you have in the kitchen to make fabulous and healthy food. She doesn't start by saying "Pop open that can of Ragu."

I'm about to take a ride on the crazy train, people. Somebody save me from my family.

You are MY Friend

There are many ways to get divorced nowadays, and proper etiquette is sometimes a mystery.

A conversation with a friend about the subject led her to comment on the fact they they "got" the husband in the divorce. The separation was nasty and difficult. Apparently, friends of the couple were forced to choose sides. They chose the husband, much to the woman's surprise.

It seems to me that usually the person who demands that their friend choose side ends up without the friends.

As long as Hubbie and I have been together, we are only now going through the growing pains of divorcing friends. What say you, oh readers? Have you ended up having to choose? Or have you been able to remain friends with both parties?

WW: Earning Their Keep

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Flip-Flops and Mass Transit

Summer is nearly here and footwear is in transition. From all-weather spring shoes to the barely-there flip-flops everyone seems to love, our little piggies are seeing the sun.

At their own peril.

We took the train in to Arlington to give the kids a little adventure. They were so excited to take the train. We could have just gone into the city and back out again, and they would have been thrilled.

Besides Stroller-Pusher, Hand-Holder, and Snack-Packer, one of the MomJobs at this stage of my kids' lives is to be Tissue-Producer. This is particularly important as LittleBird is not one to hide her boogers. Not to my knowledge, anyway. She comes up to me during any manner of odd times to give me a booger. Hell, she wakes me to up hand them over.

So, as we are about to exit the train I hear, "Here Mommy!"

Spotlight one giant booger on the end of her little preschooler finger.

Not missing a beat, I thank her, grab her hand and step off the train.

But what to do?

What else do you do with a booger on your finger?

You flick it, of course.

So, I did.

Right onto the top of someone's bare foot in a flip-flop.

Not intentionally, of course. But the damned thing had a mind of its own and flew straight for the foot like a baseball to a glass window.

In the span of a breath that lasted eternity, the booger hit. Stuck. Then fell off.

Mass Transit Passenger boarded the train. We continued past. No one knew but me. And the booger.

What Qualifies As Internet Porn?

I had a great sex dream this morning. A frolicking romp around the bed, legs and arms akimbo.

Chick on chick action, no less.

With Love Bites.

What. The. Fuck.

I mean, I think her avatar is groovy. And sexy in a Do you mind if I take a nibble and an ounce of blood vampire movie kind of way.

But, seriously? What the fuck was that about?

I cannot even begin to delve into the possible reasons why she and I had a little Sunday mornin' luvin'.

But she was good. She knew her shit.

Thanks, baby. I think I need a smoke.

The Man In the Van

I wrote this quite some time ago. Somehow, it got buried in draft mode, but I still find it to be an important question I ask of myself.

Just needed a place to get this out.

I believe there is a man living in our garage. In his van. Or someone's van. I believe he used to be my next-door neighbor with a bunch of other ski bums (I use that term lovingly--bc that is really their lifestyle. Work odd jobs all summer, ski and snowboard all winter) who basically got kicked out a few months ago. The van is still in our community garage, and my husband and I have over the past few months noticed evidence that there must be someone living in it.

I saw him again today when I came home from a play date. Though I rarely see him, he was as nice as always, we said hello to each other and quipped about how cold it has been lately. I could see inside the van (it is one of the white 1970's Dodge hippie vans) that he had a side table with a coffee mug on it and bedding on the floor.

One part of me feels like I should report him to the condo association. What if he is an unsafe person? But the stronger part of me says who am I to get him booted from the only shelter he obviously has? What is the difference if he used to live next door to us in the apartment, and now he is living next to my car? There are very few people who even live in our condoplex. Most of them are empty save a few weekends a year.

I just feel bad for the guy. Sometimes I feel like I should bang on the door and offer him a cup of coffee, but being the mom of two little ones all by myself during the day--I don't really want to get involved. I don't mean that to sound harsh or that I don't care about his situation, but I have been burned trying to help others in the past, and right now my safety and that of my children is paramount. I guess for now I will just be complicit in his new digs and hope that my trust in him and his situation and my faith in god and humanity is correct.

It makes me sad that being a parent has made me think twice about helping people. I want to teach my children to help others. To not be selfish. But where does one draw the line between helping others and protecting oneself from a situation that could turn out badly?

The film Silence of the Lambs always comes to mind. How that man tricked the girl into the van by taking advantage of her kindness. I remember how horrified I was to see that scene. It had never occurred to me that someone would take advantage of generosity to do such evil.

I was not worried that this poor kid in the van was a serial killer, but being a woman with two little ones makes me very vulnerable getting in and out of cars. Or in and out of my house.

I never did tell on the guy. It just didn't seem right. We continued to say hello and banter back and forth. Eventually, the landlord rented to another family and the van was towed.

Wherever he is now, I hope he is warm. I hope he is safe and well fed. He is somebody's son, you know? I wish him well.

WW: Now That's What I Call A Spigot

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