In which your humble narrator learns his place.
Child #1 succesfully completed his first year of preschool yesterday. After a celebratory lunch at Costco (he picked it) we did some grocery shopping. Having recently returned from a brief trip to Ohio and Iowa there was no food to speak of in the house.
At the last stop (a liquor store, but you know, a nice one next to the grocery, not one filled with bums or anything), Child #1 so enchanted the cashier that she gave him a sucker. He was enraptured.
After loading the groceries into the van I scooped up Child #1 over my shoulder to put him in his seat. He giggled and said "I love you, Daddy."
"Aww," I replied, "I love you too."
"And I love my sucker," he continued. Not being one to realize when to leave well enough alone, I asked, "Who do you love more, Daddy or your sucker?"
"My sucker." Without missing a beat.
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Minivantastic
In which your humble narrator purchases a Mom-mobile.
Bit the bullet. Bought the minivan. I don't love it, but it's a hell of a lot easier to insert my squirming progeny into the sliding doors and high seats than in my beloved wagon of yore. No one explained the crippling back pain associated with child-rearing to me before I went and impregnated Wife-a-roo.
Word to the wise, if you're going to be the Mommy and stay home with your children, it behooves you to be a smallish woman (around 5'4" tall) with hips. If you're lanky and over six feet, the problem you run into is that small children are small (hence the name) and spend most of their time all the way down on the floor. If you're tall, the floor is very far away. Also the children are fickle and like to be picked up from the floor and then returned to the floor approximately 457 times per hour. This is a recipe for lambasted lumbar.
And I can't overstate the importance of hips. If you don't have them, there is no convenient place to place one child while simultaneously using your free hand to prevent the other child from eating dirt.
Bit the bullet. Bought the minivan. I don't love it, but it's a hell of a lot easier to insert my squirming progeny into the sliding doors and high seats than in my beloved wagon of yore. No one explained the crippling back pain associated with child-rearing to me before I went and impregnated Wife-a-roo.
Word to the wise, if you're going to be the Mommy and stay home with your children, it behooves you to be a smallish woman (around 5'4" tall) with hips. If you're lanky and over six feet, the problem you run into is that small children are small (hence the name) and spend most of their time all the way down on the floor. If you're tall, the floor is very far away. Also the children are fickle and like to be picked up from the floor and then returned to the floor approximately 457 times per hour. This is a recipe for lambasted lumbar.
And I can't overstate the importance of hips. If you don't have them, there is no convenient place to place one child while simultaneously using your free hand to prevent the other child from eating dirt.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Help, help, I'm being oppressed!
In which your humble narrator cogitates on the cruel vicissitudes of life.
I had to help my Mom move at the beginning of the month. My back is ruined. Our house was pummeled by quarter-sized hail and 50 mile per hour winds necessitating a massive insurance claim. We're getting another new roof, new siding and a new garage roof, all before the snow flies (fingers crossed). Child #2 was exposed to Whooping Cough at daycare, probably from some little un-vaccinated kid with jack-ass, hippie parents.
Also this month, I expect to buy a minivan. Life as I have known in is over.
I had to help my Mom move at the beginning of the month. My back is ruined. Our house was pummeled by quarter-sized hail and 50 mile per hour winds necessitating a massive insurance claim. We're getting another new roof, new siding and a new garage roof, all before the snow flies (fingers crossed). Child #2 was exposed to Whooping Cough at daycare, probably from some little un-vaccinated kid with jack-ass, hippie parents.
Also this month, I expect to buy a minivan. Life as I have known in is over.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Great Escape
In which your humble narrator throws off the shackles of viral-based confinement and high-tails it out of the house.
Having been infected with yet another virus this week, Child #1 spent 5 entire days home-bound. Being confined to the house makes Child #1 transform from a pleasant, agreeable Dr. Jekyll-type character into the 2.4 year-old version of Edward Hyde. Despite the hellish nature of his first 6 months on earth (colic), which were then followed by "The Great Unpleasantness" (6-12 months) he's been a rather amiable little chap ever since then. That is, unless you make him stay home for more than 2 days in a row. Then the evil begins.
It starts innocuously enough with fussing, whining and an overuse of the word "no." It then progresses to throwing things, slamming doors and tantrums. This continues to build until he reaches the stage of "Purposive Badness" wherein he starts doing weird stuff that he knows is completely forbidden, i.e., getting into the refrigerator by himself, pulling books off of shelves, and making a mess with whatever (usually liquid) substance that his fatigued, ill and stupid parents have left within his reach. Once he starts drawing pentagrams on the floor and trying to summon the demon Lord of Hell he gets put into a time-out.
Today, all of us having mostly recovered, I asked Child #1 if he wanted to go to Costco. Despite being in the midst of one of his weird little projects, he looked up and seemed to have a spasm of joy while he shrieked "YES!"
So Child #1, Child #2 and I embarked to Costco to buy toilet paper, baby formula and cheese. There was a space next to the cart corral when we got there, so I plunked both children into the cart (Costco has double seated carts) and we went inside where we walked virtually every aisle, just looking at stuff. After purchasing our items we had a delightful snack at the snack bar and spent 5 minutes looking at the demo Nissan Altima parked by the exit.
On the freeway on the way home, a small voice from the back seat inquired, "Can we go to another store?"
So we did. And after a stop at the Co-op, our arms full of Hippie Groceries, we returned home again, safe for at least five more days from the infernal one.
Having been infected with yet another virus this week, Child #1 spent 5 entire days home-bound. Being confined to the house makes Child #1 transform from a pleasant, agreeable Dr. Jekyll-type character into the 2.4 year-old version of Edward Hyde. Despite the hellish nature of his first 6 months on earth (colic), which were then followed by "The Great Unpleasantness" (6-12 months) he's been a rather amiable little chap ever since then. That is, unless you make him stay home for more than 2 days in a row. Then the evil begins.
It starts innocuously enough with fussing, whining and an overuse of the word "no." It then progresses to throwing things, slamming doors and tantrums. This continues to build until he reaches the stage of "Purposive Badness" wherein he starts doing weird stuff that he knows is completely forbidden, i.e., getting into the refrigerator by himself, pulling books off of shelves, and making a mess with whatever (usually liquid) substance that his fatigued, ill and stupid parents have left within his reach. Once he starts drawing pentagrams on the floor and trying to summon the demon Lord of Hell he gets put into a time-out.
Today, all of us having mostly recovered, I asked Child #1 if he wanted to go to Costco. Despite being in the midst of one of his weird little projects, he looked up and seemed to have a spasm of joy while he shrieked "YES!"
So Child #1, Child #2 and I embarked to Costco to buy toilet paper, baby formula and cheese. There was a space next to the cart corral when we got there, so I plunked both children into the cart (Costco has double seated carts) and we went inside where we walked virtually every aisle, just looking at stuff. After purchasing our items we had a delightful snack at the snack bar and spent 5 minutes looking at the demo Nissan Altima parked by the exit.
On the freeway on the way home, a small voice from the back seat inquired, "Can we go to another store?"
So we did. And after a stop at the Co-op, our arms full of Hippie Groceries, we returned home again, safe for at least five more days from the infernal one.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Overheard on Craigslist
In which your humble narrator offers up a risque Craigslist post for your perusal.
Courtesy of Wife-a-roo, who trawls Craigslist every night because we don't have any money to buy anything and she needs to get her shopping fix somehow:
Courtesy of Wife-a-roo, who trawls Craigslist every night because we don't have any money to buy anything and she needs to get her shopping fix somehow:
Kinky. I'm glad my kids didn't need their baby-swing to also be some sort of pan-sexual freak-fest."This gently used Fisher-Price baby rocker swings both ways."
Monday, December 14, 2009
Trudge, trudge, limp, collapse
In which your humble narrator claws his way across the finish line of the semester, only sacrificing a little sanity along the way.
The children are still sick. Child #1 is finally getting to the end of his cold, which makes him much more likable now that his upper lip isn't shellacked with a shiny covering of snot all the time. Wife-a-roo is sick too, as of the end of last week. I was going to drive to Costco yesterday morning since we were damn near out of toilet paper, paper towels, baby formula and imported, Italian cheese.
He was temporarily restored by getting to drag the giant packages of toilet paper and paper towels around the house when I returned. I then spent most of the rest of the day grading papers in an attempt to finish everything so I can return stuff at the final exam tomorrow. Also, I think I discovered a leak in our new, $8000 roof.
This morning I was all set to leave the house without children in tow to meet with a faculty member regarding a research project that I've neglected for far too long. Then I was going to have lunch with a friend (We'll call him "Bobo" because it's way funnier than "Chris."). So I was getting my crap ready to go this morning as Sister-of-Me had consented to mind the offspring and Wife was home anyway with her illness.
Then Child #2 broke out in hives.
Welcome to Can't Catch a Break, Minnesota. Population: Me.
The children are still sick. Child #1 is finally getting to the end of his cold, which makes him much more likable now that his upper lip isn't shellacked with a shiny covering of snot all the time. Wife-a-roo is sick too, as of the end of last week. I was going to drive to Costco yesterday morning since we were damn near out of toilet paper, paper towels, baby formula and imported, Italian cheese.
9:45 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No.
10:17 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No. Don't wanna go to Costco.
11:05 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No. I don't want to go to Costco (starts crying).
Me: Okay, Okay. No Costco. Don't wig out, little dude.
3:30 p.m.
Wife-a-roo: (via cell phone message left while I am at Costco during Child #1's nap) Umm. It turns out that your son did want to go to Costco. If you're still in the neighborhood could you come back and pick him up? (Much screaming is audible in the background from Child #1)
He was temporarily restored by getting to drag the giant packages of toilet paper and paper towels around the house when I returned. I then spent most of the rest of the day grading papers in an attempt to finish everything so I can return stuff at the final exam tomorrow. Also, I think I discovered a leak in our new, $8000 roof.
This morning I was all set to leave the house without children in tow to meet with a faculty member regarding a research project that I've neglected for far too long. Then I was going to have lunch with a friend (We'll call him "Bobo" because it's way funnier than "Chris."). So I was getting my crap ready to go this morning as Sister-of-Me had consented to mind the offspring and Wife was home anyway with her illness.
Then Child #2 broke out in hives.
Welcome to Can't Catch a Break, Minnesota. Population: Me.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The White Menace is Coming! Surely We Shall Perish Anon!
In which your humble narrator procures medication for his daughter gets his media criticism on and discusses the cultural differences between the frigid tundra of Minnesota where he lives and the smoggy, semi-southern hills of Cincinnati from whence he came.
Child #2 has an ear infection. We were supposed to get round 2 flu shots for both children yesterday but the on-again-off-again fever of Child #2 spiked once more yesterday morning so we took her in to see the doctor. The regular baby-doctor is off on Mondays so we saw a tall, laconic family practice doctor of Scandinavian descent, named "Olav Olson" or "Hjalmar Carlson" or "Lindstrom P. Nordic" or "Sven McSwedish" or something. He seemed delighted that we spoke in low, measured tones and communicated primarily by subtle eye-brow movements. Prescription for antibiotics in hand, we repaired, as a family, to the fancy-people's grocery to get some drugs at the pharmacy and donuts at the bakery.
Child #2 seems in better spirits already, just in time for the much ballyhooed snowstorm of the season which is supposed to begin later today. After attending to my personal grooming this morning, I flipped on the teevee to watch the weather while I got dressed. The local news boys and girls were nearly wetting themselves with anticipation of the (potential) 5-7 inches of white snow which will (maybe) fall on the metropolitan area (or somewhere else) over the next 36 hours. The sparkle of weather-related insanity gleaming in their glassy teevee eyes, they prattled on and on about the coming snowstorm as if it was the long-awaited messiah of frozen precipitation set to come to earth.
I don't remember this kind of frenetic weather mania from my childhood in Cincinnati. We had a couple of good snows, the occasional tornado and a lot of thunderstorms, but not the single-minded obsession with the weather that occupies a large portion of the real estate in the heart of any true Minnesotan. For example, the pre-first-snow paroxysm is not unique. There is also the annual "first thunderstorm rumpus," and the "first 80 degree day madness." The local newsies are an excitable bunch.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I like winter. I don't even mind the shoveling since it's an activity that, even Wife-a-roo will admit, cannot be pursued with small, stroppy children in tow. The only things I don't like are scraping snow off the roof, and the media frenzy that precedes each potential life-threatening snow fall. For God's sake, people. It's Minnesota. It's not like winter should come as a surprise.
Child #2 has an ear infection. We were supposed to get round 2 flu shots for both children yesterday but the on-again-off-again fever of Child #2 spiked once more yesterday morning so we took her in to see the doctor. The regular baby-doctor is off on Mondays so we saw a tall, laconic family practice doctor of Scandinavian descent, named "Olav Olson" or "Hjalmar Carlson" or "Lindstrom P. Nordic" or "Sven McSwedish" or something. He seemed delighted that we spoke in low, measured tones and communicated primarily by subtle eye-brow movements. Prescription for antibiotics in hand, we repaired, as a family, to the fancy-people's grocery to get some drugs at the pharmacy and donuts at the bakery.
Child #2 seems in better spirits already, just in time for the much ballyhooed snowstorm of the season which is supposed to begin later today. After attending to my personal grooming this morning, I flipped on the teevee to watch the weather while I got dressed. The local news boys and girls were nearly wetting themselves with anticipation of the (potential) 5-7 inches of white snow which will (maybe) fall on the metropolitan area (or somewhere else) over the next 36 hours. The sparkle of weather-related insanity gleaming in their glassy teevee eyes, they prattled on and on about the coming snowstorm as if it was the long-awaited messiah of frozen precipitation set to come to earth.
I don't remember this kind of frenetic weather mania from my childhood in Cincinnati. We had a couple of good snows, the occasional tornado and a lot of thunderstorms, but not the single-minded obsession with the weather that occupies a large portion of the real estate in the heart of any true Minnesotan. For example, the pre-first-snow paroxysm is not unique. There is also the annual "first thunderstorm rumpus," and the "first 80 degree day madness." The local newsies are an excitable bunch.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I like winter. I don't even mind the shoveling since it's an activity that, even Wife-a-roo will admit, cannot be pursued with small, stroppy children in tow. The only things I don't like are scraping snow off the roof, and the media frenzy that precedes each potential life-threatening snow fall. For God's sake, people. It's Minnesota. It's not like winter should come as a surprise.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Watcha got cookin'?
In which your humble narrator talks about food, even though maybe he really shouldn't.
I cook. And for the most part, I cook because I enjoy it. It's the least odious component of housewifery as far as I'm concerned. I read books about food. I listen to radio programs about food. I have what's grown into an actual collection of cookbooks. I used to just own cookbooks, but then I started buying weird, non-utilitarian cookbooks with recipes for turkeys stuffed with weiners, tripe, 60's style canapes, et cetera. Once you go down the road of just buying cookbooks for the awful food photography or weird antiquated prose dedicated to the "noble onion," I'm pretty confident that it qualifies as a "collection." I nabbed this from flickr, but it does appear in one of my cookbooks from the 1960's-1970s "creative period" in American cookery.
What always shocks me is that someone spent time creating such a putrid dish. I sincerely doubt that it had been "a winner at the dinner table for generations" when this was published.
The only thing that Americans are more neurotic about than sex is food. Rather than food being an enjoyable component of the whole "staying alive" thing that we've all got going on, it's become yet another arena in which we get to broadcast our social and political viewpoints to the world. I fully cop to being snooty about food. I prefer organic stuff when I can afford it. We don't eat highly processed stuff. We generally avoid food with scary chemical ingredients. But mostly I've made those decisions because the snooty foods taste better and are generally better for us. Yet, I don't think that really confers any moral superiority on me. I think dinner should just be dinner most of the time. And that means not talking about the food and its pedigree while you're at the table. And at the same time, I realize that most people eat garbage. Yet somehow I don't think looking down my nose at people the shop for groceries at Wal-Mart is going to lead them to make better choices when it comes to food. Manufacturers of food-like products have spent a lot of time and money convincing us that we don't have the time to cook and then offering us "convenience foods" that taste yucky and aren't very convenient. The greatest success of American advertising has been to convince us all how busy* we are. But hey! Here's a miracle product that will solve that problem.
When we were kids, my sister and I would ask Dad what was for dinner:
Us: What's for dinner, Pop?
Dad: Food.
Us: What kind of food?
Dad: Good food.
Us: Yeah, but what is it old man? We're too short to see what you're doing on the counter there.
Dad: Good food that you will like.
Us: You are completely obnoxious.
Dad: Yes.
And the thing is... I do this to my wife all the time. She's a picky eater, so I don't like to tell her what's in dinner because then she'll spend twenty minutes trying to pick out the offending ingredient (usually a vegetable).
My Mom was asking what motivated this behavior the other day. "Why does everyone always ask and why does the cook never want to answer the question?" I told her it was like when you buy a gift for someone and do a fancy job wrapping it up and then you finally present it to her and she sits there with a fully wrapped present on her lap and asks, "What is it?" And you say, "What the hell is wrong with you? Just open the damn thing!"
Sit down and enjoy the meal.
*Here's a handy test of whether you are "busy":
I cook. And for the most part, I cook because I enjoy it. It's the least odious component of housewifery as far as I'm concerned. I read books about food. I listen to radio programs about food. I have what's grown into an actual collection of cookbooks. I used to just own cookbooks, but then I started buying weird, non-utilitarian cookbooks with recipes for turkeys stuffed with weiners, tripe, 60's style canapes, et cetera. Once you go down the road of just buying cookbooks for the awful food photography or weird antiquated prose dedicated to the "noble onion," I'm pretty confident that it qualifies as a "collection." I nabbed this from flickr, but it does appear in one of my cookbooks from the 1960's-1970s "creative period" in American cookery.
The only thing that Americans are more neurotic about than sex is food. Rather than food being an enjoyable component of the whole "staying alive" thing that we've all got going on, it's become yet another arena in which we get to broadcast our social and political viewpoints to the world. I fully cop to being snooty about food. I prefer organic stuff when I can afford it. We don't eat highly processed stuff. We generally avoid food with scary chemical ingredients. But mostly I've made those decisions because the snooty foods taste better and are generally better for us. Yet, I don't think that really confers any moral superiority on me. I think dinner should just be dinner most of the time. And that means not talking about the food and its pedigree while you're at the table. And at the same time, I realize that most people eat garbage. Yet somehow I don't think looking down my nose at people the shop for groceries at Wal-Mart is going to lead them to make better choices when it comes to food. Manufacturers of food-like products have spent a lot of time and money convincing us that we don't have the time to cook and then offering us "convenience foods" that taste yucky and aren't very convenient. The greatest success of American advertising has been to convince us all how busy* we are. But hey! Here's a miracle product that will solve that problem.
When we were kids, my sister and I would ask Dad what was for dinner:
Us: What's for dinner, Pop?
Dad: Food.
Us: What kind of food?
Dad: Good food.
Us: Yeah, but what is it old man? We're too short to see what you're doing on the counter there.
Dad: Good food that you will like.
Us: You are completely obnoxious.
Dad: Yes.
And the thing is... I do this to my wife all the time. She's a picky eater, so I don't like to tell her what's in dinner because then she'll spend twenty minutes trying to pick out the offending ingredient (usually a vegetable).
My Mom was asking what motivated this behavior the other day. "Why does everyone always ask and why does the cook never want to answer the question?" I told her it was like when you buy a gift for someone and do a fancy job wrapping it up and then you finally present it to her and she sits there with a fully wrapped present on her lap and asks, "What is it?" And you say, "What the hell is wrong with you? Just open the damn thing!"
Sit down and enjoy the meal.
*Here's a handy test of whether you are "busy":
- Do you watch Dancing with the Stars, America's Next Top Model, Project Runway or Oprah?
- Do you have machines that wash and dry your clothes for you?
- Do you have indoor plumbing?
- Do you have time to take footnoted blog tests?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
"At the Car Wash"
In which your humble narrator observes an extravaganza of antiseptic compulsion at the grocery store.
Wife's sister is in town this weekend for a visit so I used the opportunity to go to the nice grocery store all by myself this morning at about 8:30. I like grocery shopping, especially at the fancy-people's grocery a few blocks from our house. It's a far cry from the grime-encrusted Krogers of my youth. The cashiers are competent. Everything is clean and shiny. The deli salads are all garnished and they must front all the shelves every night. Since I aspire to, one day, be a fancy-person myself, I like to go and pretend that I have unlimited time and don't have to look at the price of everything.
So I walk to the store with my environmentally-conscious, boutique liberal, green (literally!) reusable shopping bags and I get to the door. It automatically whooshes open (I will never tire of automatic doors) and I proceed to go get a cart. At the fancy-people's grocery they have those awful, teeny child-size "shopper in training" carts for the little children whose parents allow that sort of thing. More than one child has slammed into my shins over the years that I've shopped at this store. The Evil Mommy usually, shrugs, smirks and maybe mumbles an apology. I hate those little carts.
I also hate the "fun" carts that have a sort of plastic race car under the basket so your little hellion can pretend to be driving around the grocery while you shop. This brings us back to our story. There's a Evil Daddy and a little boy who have gotten one of the race car carts and dragged it into the middle of the aisle. They are both kneeling on the floor next to the car, rubbing it down with a stack of antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.
And the Evil Daddy says, "this is just like going to the car wash!"
Wife's sister is in town this weekend for a visit so I used the opportunity to go to the nice grocery store all by myself this morning at about 8:30. I like grocery shopping, especially at the fancy-people's grocery a few blocks from our house. It's a far cry from the grime-encrusted Krogers of my youth. The cashiers are competent. Everything is clean and shiny. The deli salads are all garnished and they must front all the shelves every night. Since I aspire to, one day, be a fancy-person myself, I like to go and pretend that I have unlimited time and don't have to look at the price of everything.
So I walk to the store with my environmentally-conscious, boutique liberal, green (literally!) reusable shopping bags and I get to the door. It automatically whooshes open (I will never tire of automatic doors) and I proceed to go get a cart. At the fancy-people's grocery they have those awful, teeny child-size "shopper in training" carts for the little children whose parents allow that sort of thing. More than one child has slammed into my shins over the years that I've shopped at this store. The Evil Mommy usually, shrugs, smirks and maybe mumbles an apology. I hate those little carts.
I also hate the "fun" carts that have a sort of plastic race car under the basket so your little hellion can pretend to be driving around the grocery while you shop. This brings us back to our story. There's a Evil Daddy and a little boy who have gotten one of the race car carts and dragged it into the middle of the aisle. They are both kneeling on the floor next to the car, rubbing it down with a stack of antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.
And the Evil Daddy says, "this is just like going to the car wash!"
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
All the Avas in Target, Let's hear some noise!
In which your humble narrator describes a trip to Target, ponders that all little girls in Minnesota have the same name and rejoices in the fact that his penury has been, at least temporarily, alleviated.
This morning Child #1, Child #2 and I drove Wife to work. She usually takes our sub-par public transit system as we only have one car and drive as little as possible. Most people seem to view this as an act of environmental extremism and look at us like we're eco-terrorists when we comment that we share a vehicle. Mostly it's because the Wife hates to drive. Also the University where we both work charges for parking at an equivalent rate to many studio apartments.
After depositing the breadwinner at her place of business we zipped over to the super-fancy, giant "T1" Uber-Target to grab some diapers and a few odds and sods. I only brave shopping trips with both children early in the morning if I'm alone. I prefer not to inflict their unhappiness on the general public. However, at 9:00 a.m. the Evil Mommies are out in full force with their comparatively lesser (in terms of quality, not mass) progeny. Screaming, red-faced children and exasperated Mommies were having pitched battles all over Target. (Full moon?) Today's three observed fits were all little girls. All named "Ava."
"Ava," a perfectly lovely name was #5 on the social security administration's list of most popular baby names for 2008. It was also the #1 most popular name for baby girls in Minnesota. There are 443 little Minnesota Avas that were born last year. I don't know what the other 440 were doing but 3 of them were having melt-downs of nuclear proportions this morning. Which brings me to two instructional points. First, it's a lovely name, but it's not nearly as original as you think. Second, if you yourself are an obnoxious, whiny person, don't name your kid something heavy on vowel sounds because if you do, people will mock you in their blogs.
Ava: Wahhhhhh! (unintelligible) Wahhhh! (garbled) cookie (?) Mommy! Wahhh (garbled).
Evil Mommy: Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-vuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Sto-o-o-o-o-p Whi-i-i-i-i-i-ning!
And in other news, I picked up another teaching assistant gig for this term. I'm looking forward to being able to eat more than rice and beans this semester.
This morning Child #1, Child #2 and I drove Wife to work. She usually takes our sub-par public transit system as we only have one car and drive as little as possible. Most people seem to view this as an act of environmental extremism and look at us like we're eco-terrorists when we comment that we share a vehicle. Mostly it's because the Wife hates to drive. Also the University where we both work charges for parking at an equivalent rate to many studio apartments.
After depositing the breadwinner at her place of business we zipped over to the super-fancy, giant "T1" Uber-Target to grab some diapers and a few odds and sods. I only brave shopping trips with both children early in the morning if I'm alone. I prefer not to inflict their unhappiness on the general public. However, at 9:00 a.m. the Evil Mommies are out in full force with their comparatively lesser (in terms of quality, not mass) progeny. Screaming, red-faced children and exasperated Mommies were having pitched battles all over Target. (Full moon?) Today's three observed fits were all little girls. All named "Ava."
"Ava," a perfectly lovely name was #5 on the social security administration's list of most popular baby names for 2008. It was also the #1 most popular name for baby girls in Minnesota. There are 443 little Minnesota Avas that were born last year. I don't know what the other 440 were doing but 3 of them were having melt-downs of nuclear proportions this morning. Which brings me to two instructional points. First, it's a lovely name, but it's not nearly as original as you think. Second, if you yourself are an obnoxious, whiny person, don't name your kid something heavy on vowel sounds because if you do, people will mock you in their blogs.
Ava: Wahhhhhh! (unintelligible) Wahhhh! (garbled) cookie (?) Mommy! Wahhh (garbled).
Evil Mommy: Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-vuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Sto-o-o-o-o-p Whi-i-i-i-i-i-ning!
And in other news, I picked up another teaching assistant gig for this term. I'm looking forward to being able to eat more than rice and beans this semester.
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