Entries from February 2006 ↓

I love to read. It’s my escape from humdrum reality. Sometimes I encourage myself to read the classics and I’ve recently developed an appreciation for Jane Austen. However, I do not ever see my downright loathing of James Joyce changing.

I have a tendency to find an author and devour their books. Sometimes, if they are a true favorite I savour them and hide their books until I’m desperate for something I know I’ll love. Recently, I seemed to have developed the worst literary luck. I was at the used book store and since I enjoy horror and fantasy the owner suggsted Elizabeth Hand’s Glimmering. It was an apopolyptic novel of garbage. It’s truly rare that I don’t finish a book, it’s even more rare that I throw one away.

Discouraged by Glimmering, I turned to an author I have recently enjoyed Philippa Gregory. I picked up Wideacre. As an aside, if anyone knows whether it is pronoucned wide-acre or widicker, I would really appreciate this information. For some reason the depravity of the main character bothered me, terribly. I felt dirty reading it and was torn. Should I put the book away or finish it as quickly as possible? I finally decided I would skim the remainder of the book so there were no unanswered questions to fester in my brain.

Well, the two year old is awake, back to mommy duty.

Tell me, is there anyone out there who actually likes canned peas? Seriously, I am not talking about those who can tolerate the little mushy pellets. I am wondering if there is anyone who actually plans dinner thinking, “Oh boy! We’re having canned peas tonight!”

I think every can that has snuck itself in to my house (I think they disguise themselves as green beans)has ended up on the shelves of some food pantry. Yes, I feel guilty about passing along the nasty things, but it’s that or throw them out. In my defense, I mostly have canned vegetables on hand because I live in hurricane country. Typically we use fresh or frozen, but we need some in our storm stockpile, so we don’t come down with rickets and scurvy in the week we might be without power. (Yes, that was sarcasm, folks.)

Fresh, frozen, or dried peas are all staples, here. Bright green, slightly sweet, what isn’t there to love about frozen peas? A chilly winter’s day is made for dried peas, soaking up all kinds of hammy goodness to become split pea soup. I just can’t wrap my mind around the concept of the canned ones. Why would someone even do that to a defenseless pea? I honestly think my mother only used them to make her Tuna Noodle Casserole even less palatable. Perhaps the manufacturers ought to skip the stores and send them on to the starving kids in Ethiopia I was lectured about. Then, my local grocery store would finally have the real estate to carry the Better Than Boullion I’ve been begging for. (I really, really hate having to go to Goose Creek for one stinking item, Mr. Store Manager.)

Yesterday a friend and I took the boys to www.scaquarium.org. We had a great time and were headed home. I missed my usual exit thanks to some guy who insisted on playing the speed up slow down game when I attempted to merge. Yes, I fully realize I knew my exit was coming and I could have gotten into the proper lane four miles previous to this weirdo.

As I was taking the alternate route home, we noticed the new Dunkin’ Donuts was open. As the kids were all zonked in the back, we decided to give them a try. While waiting for the drive through guy we entertained ourselves by watching an employee in the parking lot. This lanky, scruffy kid was eating, smoking, and wiping his face with his apron. We thought he was off, but we were highly amused by him. We were going to try to tactfully mention his unhygenic behavior to the manager if we got the chance. That’s when the giggles started.

We pulled through to window and “gross boy” was there. I think both of our jaws dropped and we lost it. He certainly had not had time to wash his hands. He asked us what we had ordered, since apparently they flubbed it. I composed myself and restated our order. He turns to ring it up and my friend starts whispering, “Please don’t touch our donuts.” That’s when I lost all semblence of self-control. I haven’t laughed liked that in years. I was laughing so hard I had tears. “Gross boy” turns around and asks if we wanted whipped cream on our coffee and for some reason it just got worse. He shakes his head and turns to his co-workers, “I don’t know what they are laughing at.” He became flustered, I certainly couldn’t assure him that it “wasn’t him,” because it was.

I think it was a release. Aidan has finally begun to act like himself, no more mystery fevers and the bloodwork came back fine.

Aidan has all of a sudden seemed to have tuned us out. “Selective Hearing” would be a trait requiring more maturity, right? (For those that don’t know, he’s almost 2 1/2 and has been battling a bad ear infection. We tried no antibiotics, a course of amoxicillin, and a shot of rocephin (sp?). I don’t think he’s recovered.)

All morning I’ve been offering his favorite things, but without getting his attention first. Not once has he responded to “ice cream, candy, or popcorn.” Hell, he knows how to spell popcorn and will normally go into a frenzy at the mere mention. This morning, we haven’t even had a twitch.

If Tim asks him what Mama just said he answers, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed.”

I’m just sick to my stomach right now. :-\

If we get his attention and have him look right at us, he will respond to a normal speaking tone, but if something is said near him he doesn’t react at all. This is unlike our little myna bird.

I hope I’m just being paranoid, but it seems I’ve had to raise my voice a lot more, lately. Now, it’s dawning on me that maybe he didn’t hear me the first time. :-
Thoughts?

You are still in your twenties and get invited to a Red Hat Society meeting.  o.O

Actually, I was in the locker room when the water aerobics class finished.  (I usually hide in the sauna, when they enter, en masse.)   This one lady called them to order and I went about my business of applying make-up without my two year old insisting on trying my mascara.  I tried to stay invisible and scoot out the door without disrupting their discussion, but the ringleader cornered me.  She asked if I had ever heard of the group.  I told her I had waited on them, in my restaurant days. 

She invited me to their “meeting” (I can’t remember the term).  It’s tomorrow night.  I was told to wear a pink hat.  I’m sure it would clash smashingly with my red hair.

I can’t believe I’m considering it.  Everyday life will probably interfere, but they seem like nice women, even when I have to jockey for sink space.