Martin Scorsese is a scene-stealing phony who clearly staked out my house for years before baking all of his notes into a mafia-themed film version of a rich ziti, dripping with cheesy, philandering husbands, drugged out hoo-ahs (whores in Jersey) and marinara-making wiseguys. Of course, a drugged out whore and a philandering husband do not live in my home, but there is marinara sauce and cheese, and the insanity of multi-tasking.
The similarities are close enough. After all, what do you think those disclaimers of "any person resembling these characters, living or dead is a coincidence" are all about?
Just dreamed it up out of thin air, right Marty?
My red, runny nose you did.
The latest installment of Goodfellas of Amador County happened just a few days ago, when I got that all too familiar feeling of being in the weeds without a whacker. I had a raging head cold. Snot flowed. Someone had rearranged my face.
My plate was so full it would have fed my mom (she's Italian.) My suburban thundered forth through the highways and biways of my town like an '88 Caddy, bags of guns and money (groceries and hospice donations) in the trunk and a helicopter that circled overhead (the clock) watching my every move.
My moves, by the way, were legendary. In the next ten minutes I had to lose the helicopter, pick up two kids, drop one off at basketball practice, make a stop at the hospital, the doctor's office and the beauty salon and get home in time to fulfill the promise I made to my husband that morning to make his favorite dish - Chicken Cacciatore - and still have all of us on the couch for American Idol at eight. The pressure was on.
No time for getting stuck at a light, I whipped a right turn into the gas station, cut the corner and popped out on the other side of the intersection, narrowly ahead of the school bus instead of stuck behind it. Basketball practice started in five minutes. Calling the coach, who doubled as my husband, and claiming a flat tire was not an option. I needed a plan.
I sped, I dialed, I broke the law. I watched the helicopter. I wiped my nose on my sleeve as my 9 year old answered the phone.
"Landry, listen; I need you to do something."
"Hello?"
"LANDRY! It's me!! Where's Jay?"
"Mom??"
"LANDRY! Turn away from the television. Listen carefully. Ready? Go tell Jackson to make sure he's ready for practice. Tell him to get his water and a sweatshirt and be outside in front of the house. I'm two minutes - no wait - tell him I'm thirty seconds away. GO NOW AND TELL HIM!!"
"Mom, can I have a snack?"
"Landry! Go do what I said NOW!"
"Fine." (sound of phone being put even closer to her mouth)
"JAAAACCKKKKSOOOOON MOM WANTS YOU OUTSIDE IN --"
"Mom, when did you say you were coming home?"
"I'm OUTSIDE NOW! TELL HIM TO HUSTLE!!"
"JAAACCCKKKSOOOON MOM IS OUTSIDE NOW WAITING FOR YOU! Um, Mommy?" she said in that sweet voice that basically ends my hysteria for the moment, lest I have to crown myself Worst Mother Ever and Eternal.
"Yes, sweet pea. What's up?" I said, wiping my nose.
"Mom, what do we have to eat?"
"Honey, I'll be back soon. I've got to run some errands," I said, hissing at my son to hurry up and shut the door as he poured himself slowly, one appendage at a time, plus his gym bag, into the front seat. "Bye, hon, see ya in a bit," I said to my daughter.
"Mom but wait I -" I hear as I snap the phone shut.
I pulled away from the house. Did I see a second helicopter? I knew I didn't have much time. If I cut through the abandoned car dealership behind the school, I'd be able to go left at the highway and sneak through the bank parking lot to the back of the elementary school where daughter number two was waiting. But first, I had to pick up more drugs (x-rays) from my dealer (the hospital) for my buyer (Dr. Pinhead) who seems to have perfected the art of needlessly billing insurance companies by ordering bi-weekly x-rays of a minor arm fracture. But before I did that, I had to get my son to the airport (gym) to catch his flight to Panama (basketball practice) because if I didn't the supplier (my husband) would break my kneecaps (give me that hateful "I'm-very-disappointed-in-you" look).
We pulled up in front of the airport terminal (gym entrance) and I shoved my son, his gear bag full of guns and money (basketball and water bottle) out the door. The bag popped open when it hit the ground. We were on a hill. Everything splattered. Drugs and hundred dollar bills were everywhere.
"Mom, what are you doing?"
"Haveagoodpracticeseeyalaterbye," I spewed as his shoes tumbled down the hill toward the bricks of cocaine (basketballs).
I roared away, already planning the five minutes I'd have between getting home after making all my drops and being at my eyebrow waxing appointment in the next town. I needed to get a head start.
Opening my phone, I pushed the buttons with my thumb, kept one eye on the phone and the other on the highway. With my other eye, I watched the helicopter watch me.
"Landry it's mom. I need you to get something out of the freezer in the garage and put it in the microwave to defrost."
"What? Mom, where are you?"
"I'm in the car. Just listen. Put the phone down and go out to the freezer and take out a package of heroin."
"What?"
"CHICKEN! OH MY GOD LANDRY THE CHICKEN!!!"
"Okay, okay. How long do I put it in the microwave for?"
"Just push 'defrost-1-start'. That's all you have to push. 'Defrost-1-start.'"
"What are we having?"
"Chicken cacciatore."
"Mom, are you talking on the cell phone while you're driving?"
"You're cutting out. Gotta run."
I glanced at the helicopter: the guns (groceries) had been in my trunk for more than an hour; the drugs (ice cream, frozen fish sticks) wouldn't last much longer. I wiped my nose on my sleeve again, watching the helicopter. I decided to bypass the stop at home and instead go straight to my next drop (eyebrow wax).
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the garage. I went into the house. A frozen pork roast sat on the counter - next to the microwave. A note lay beside it.
"Honey - Basketball practice cancelled - the band needed the gym. Meet us at Round Table."
I walked straight to the safe (wine rack) and pulled out my handgun (Zinfandel).
Then, I pulled the trigger.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
It takes a stink to raise a man-child
Let’s see….where to begin. Have I ever mentioned that my 12-year old son is a solid B student, gifted athlete, handsome devil, but living schizophrenically in two worlds? Not only that, he can pull you over to the dark side in just one sentence. Conversing with him is like being adrift on Lake Michigan in a cardboard box and no sail. If you sit perfectly still, the best you can hope for is calm seas. Try and lean one way or another to affect the direction and you might as well call it a day.
While I usually know right where I stand with regard to any of my three daughters, (“My hair is fine. Go away.”) with my son it’s a bit trickier to discern exactly what he needs from me at any given moment. See, he’s twelve and seems to have a foothold in both boyhood and adolescence. One minute he’s gooning around in his annoying sing-song voice, happy and carefree. Then, the phone rings. I answer it and tell him it’s for him. He takes the receiver. The sound that comes out when he says hello alerts me to the fact that he’s hiding some kind of sound-activated bass device in his sweatshirt. Mono-syllables squeeze forth in a forced baritone:
“Yeah. What’s up….Yeah. Yeah. Wait. I’ll ask. Mom. Can I go to DJ’s? Yeah. See ‘ya.”
Then, the phone call is over. Click.
“Wah-wah-wah, aaaaaahhhh-puuuukowie-neener!!” he yells, scooting along the kitchen floor in his oversized tennis-shoe slippers, chasing the dog out of the kitchen.
See what I mean? My little goofball one second, someone’s knight-in-shining-pre-pubescent-armor the next.
The troubling part is that he seems completely fine with his dual-personality. It’s me that is left scratching my head one second and on the verge of a psychotic break the next. Like the other night when I went into his room to tell him goodnight. I found him standing in the middle of the room looking around at nothing in particular. This is normal. That he was also wearing the underarmor he’d had on during his basketball game a few hours earlier struck me as odd.
“Are you going to sleep in the shirt you had on under your basketball uniform?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said with that half-grin that told me he at least saw the door I was opening – whether he would choose to walk through it was another matter.
“Sheesh, Jay, how can you sleep in a shirt you just played a game in? You might get away with it now, but you won’t get away with it when you start to smell…” my voice trailing off to that mumblespeak that always serves as an introduction to the topic of puberty. He really perked up at that point.
“Well, do I smell? I’ve been wondering. I don’t know what it smells like,” he said in his man-child baritone. He also seemed….eager.
Now it was I who stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular. I was at a crossroads – a body odor fork in the road. Now what? I wondered. In an instant, I did what any caring mom would do. I lifted my arm.
“Here. Take a whiff,” I said. I knew there was only one way to paint this picture for him.
“Well, can you smell me first?” he asked. I said sure. I knew I’d smell a whole lot of nothing, but I played along.
“Nope, I don’t smell a thing really. Now you try it,” I said, offering up the Mother of all pits.
“Ewwww!!!! I gotta go poooootttttty…” my son squealed, flapping his arms from side to side with elbows pinned to his torso, flying out of the room and down the hall.
Just when they think they’re all grown up, they remind you there’s still a little time left.
While I usually know right where I stand with regard to any of my three daughters, (“My hair is fine. Go away.”) with my son it’s a bit trickier to discern exactly what he needs from me at any given moment. See, he’s twelve and seems to have a foothold in both boyhood and adolescence. One minute he’s gooning around in his annoying sing-song voice, happy and carefree. Then, the phone rings. I answer it and tell him it’s for him. He takes the receiver. The sound that comes out when he says hello alerts me to the fact that he’s hiding some kind of sound-activated bass device in his sweatshirt. Mono-syllables squeeze forth in a forced baritone:
“Yeah. What’s up….Yeah. Yeah. Wait. I’ll ask. Mom. Can I go to DJ’s? Yeah. See ‘ya.”
Then, the phone call is over. Click.
“Wah-wah-wah, aaaaaahhhh-puuuukowie-neener!!” he yells, scooting along the kitchen floor in his oversized tennis-shoe slippers, chasing the dog out of the kitchen.
See what I mean? My little goofball one second, someone’s knight-in-shining-pre-pubescent-armor the next.
The troubling part is that he seems completely fine with his dual-personality. It’s me that is left scratching my head one second and on the verge of a psychotic break the next. Like the other night when I went into his room to tell him goodnight. I found him standing in the middle of the room looking around at nothing in particular. This is normal. That he was also wearing the underarmor he’d had on during his basketball game a few hours earlier struck me as odd.
“Are you going to sleep in the shirt you had on under your basketball uniform?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said with that half-grin that told me he at least saw the door I was opening – whether he would choose to walk through it was another matter.
“Sheesh, Jay, how can you sleep in a shirt you just played a game in? You might get away with it now, but you won’t get away with it when you start to smell…” my voice trailing off to that mumblespeak that always serves as an introduction to the topic of puberty. He really perked up at that point.
“Well, do I smell? I’ve been wondering. I don’t know what it smells like,” he said in his man-child baritone. He also seemed….eager.
Now it was I who stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular. I was at a crossroads – a body odor fork in the road. Now what? I wondered. In an instant, I did what any caring mom would do. I lifted my arm.
“Here. Take a whiff,” I said. I knew there was only one way to paint this picture for him.
“Well, can you smell me first?” he asked. I said sure. I knew I’d smell a whole lot of nothing, but I played along.
“Nope, I don’t smell a thing really. Now you try it,” I said, offering up the Mother of all pits.
“Ewwww!!!! I gotta go poooootttttty…” my son squealed, flapping his arms from side to side with elbows pinned to his torso, flying out of the room and down the hall.
Just when they think they’re all grown up, they remind you there’s still a little time left.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Let's argue about it
The situation: my nine year old daughter and twelve year old son will not stop arguing. No topic is too meaningless, no issue too worthless for them; they can make mountains out of molehills faster than I can make a gin and tonic, which is why I had to come up with a plan, quick. Turns out, it's also going to make me wealthy.
The idea hit me the other day when I overheard this little gem of a convo at the breakfast table:
Niner: Stop looking at me.
Twelver: I'm not looking at you.
Niner: Yes you were.
Twelver: No, I wasn't.
Niner: Yes, you WERE.
Me (from across the room): Grow up, both of you.
Twelver: Mom, I was not looking at her. I was looking out the window behind her.
Niner (with gusto): No you weren't; you were STARING at me!
Twelver (with even more gusto): Landry, if I was staring at...
Me: Both of you grow up!! If you want total privacy when you eat, take your cereal into the closet!!
I immediately realized my mistake. Twelver, otherwise known as Literal Boy because of his inability to detect sarcasm, started to get up. So did Niner, who will do anything, anytime, no matter how ridonkulous. I told them to use their mouths for eating and try not to activate their eyeballs.
"Does that sound reasonable!?" I asked in that tone of voice suggesting to them that mom is teetering on the edge of coming completely unraveled. They know this tone. It usually results in very nervous expressions on their faces. I sort of enjoy that, which makes me a little nervous, but continued anyway:
"If there was a way to make money on your arguing, I'd be FILTHY RICH! LISTENING TO YOU TWO MAKES ME WISH I'D NEV..." I stopped short of saying that terrible thing a parent should never, ever say to a child, wondering if my eyeballs were replaced by little spinning dollar signs like the ones in cartoons. I had a twinge of guilt, knowing what I had almost said aloud, but that feeling was immediately replaced with a highly rational thought: I would never ever wish they hadn't been born, but does that mean I can't help out some unsuspecting, perfectly happy young couple who enjoy weekends in Napa having hot, protected sex and then returning to their chic, comfortable and most importantly, empty apartment?
That's when I began to hatch my plan. I would videotape their arguments, have them professionally produced into thirty-second public service announcements and sell them to Planned Parenthood for their next birth control campaign. I'd make millions! The first thing I'd do with the money is put a little into the kids' college fund. No, make that a lot into their college fund. Then, because college is still several years away, I'd splurge on that ear-drumectomy surgery I'd been saving for. I saw the commercial one day right after an episode of Hannah Montana. There was no subliminal message; in fact, I had my back to the T.V. at the time. All I needed to hear was the booming announcer:
"Parents, do you fantasize about being deaf?" and I was listening! I hastily wrote down the toll-free number on the back label of one of the wine bottles laying next to me. BAM!!
Now, I encourage the arguing. I have hidden microphones all over the house. I look for ways to help them turn minor skirmishes into full-blown offensives.
"Jackson, did I see Landry just go into your room looking for a pencil?"
"What? Where? LANDRY...."
I even began modeling the kind of behavior I want to elicit from my children, just like all of the parenting books describe. I use my husband for this part of plan. To keep things authentic, lest my children figure it out, I didn't tell him what was up.
"Stop looking at me," I said to him the other night at the dinner table.
"But you're beautiful, baby, I can't help it," he replied.
I glared at him. He frowned.
"What the hell is that look for??" he half-yelled. Now, we were getting somewhere.
"You know EXACTLY what!" I hissed.
"Do not!"
"Do too!!"
"You're crazy!"
"Well YOU married me so I guess that means YOU'RE CRAZY TOO!!"
"Let's argue about it!!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
The idea hit me the other day when I overheard this little gem of a convo at the breakfast table:
Niner: Stop looking at me.
Twelver: I'm not looking at you.
Niner: Yes you were.
Twelver: No, I wasn't.
Niner: Yes, you WERE.
Me (from across the room): Grow up, both of you.
Twelver: Mom, I was not looking at her. I was looking out the window behind her.
Niner (with gusto): No you weren't; you were STARING at me!
Twelver (with even more gusto): Landry, if I was staring at...
Me: Both of you grow up!! If you want total privacy when you eat, take your cereal into the closet!!
I immediately realized my mistake. Twelver, otherwise known as Literal Boy because of his inability to detect sarcasm, started to get up. So did Niner, who will do anything, anytime, no matter how ridonkulous. I told them to use their mouths for eating and try not to activate their eyeballs.
"Does that sound reasonable!?" I asked in that tone of voice suggesting to them that mom is teetering on the edge of coming completely unraveled. They know this tone. It usually results in very nervous expressions on their faces. I sort of enjoy that, which makes me a little nervous, but continued anyway:
"If there was a way to make money on your arguing, I'd be FILTHY RICH! LISTENING TO YOU TWO MAKES ME WISH I'D NEV..." I stopped short of saying that terrible thing a parent should never, ever say to a child, wondering if my eyeballs were replaced by little spinning dollar signs like the ones in cartoons. I had a twinge of guilt, knowing what I had almost said aloud, but that feeling was immediately replaced with a highly rational thought: I would never ever wish they hadn't been born, but does that mean I can't help out some unsuspecting, perfectly happy young couple who enjoy weekends in Napa having hot, protected sex and then returning to their chic, comfortable and most importantly, empty apartment?
That's when I began to hatch my plan. I would videotape their arguments, have them professionally produced into thirty-second public service announcements and sell them to Planned Parenthood for their next birth control campaign. I'd make millions! The first thing I'd do with the money is put a little into the kids' college fund. No, make that a lot into their college fund. Then, because college is still several years away, I'd splurge on that ear-drumectomy surgery I'd been saving for. I saw the commercial one day right after an episode of Hannah Montana. There was no subliminal message; in fact, I had my back to the T.V. at the time. All I needed to hear was the booming announcer:
"Parents, do you fantasize about being deaf?" and I was listening! I hastily wrote down the toll-free number on the back label of one of the wine bottles laying next to me. BAM!!
Now, I encourage the arguing. I have hidden microphones all over the house. I look for ways to help them turn minor skirmishes into full-blown offensives.
"Jackson, did I see Landry just go into your room looking for a pencil?"
"What? Where? LANDRY...."
I even began modeling the kind of behavior I want to elicit from my children, just like all of the parenting books describe. I use my husband for this part of plan. To keep things authentic, lest my children figure it out, I didn't tell him what was up.
"Stop looking at me," I said to him the other night at the dinner table.
"But you're beautiful, baby, I can't help it," he replied.
I glared at him. He frowned.
"What the hell is that look for??" he half-yelled. Now, we were getting somewhere.
"You know EXACTLY what!" I hissed.
"Do not!"
"Do too!!"
"You're crazy!"
"Well YOU married me so I guess that means YOU'RE CRAZY TOO!!"
"Let's argue about it!!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Ass: It's what's for dinner
I bought a roast the other day. Not just any roast. A rump roast. A large, asymmetrical wedge of beef that sports no cool name, like tri-tip or tenderloin. About all it really does is conjure up an image of a fat ass. That's its claim to fame. The ass roast.
It was my first roast. My mom made them all the time when I was a kid, usually petrified beyond recognition and served with mashed potatoes, peas and homemade gravy made with something called "drippings." Even then the word freaked me out. Now, it's even scarier. If I knew then what I know now, nary a morsel of anything made with "drippings" would have passed my lips.
So, I was in the grocery store, looking for something easy, yet impressive to serve my in-laws when the idea hit me: a roast! I quickly scanned the meat department for a large chunk of meat. I didn't even know that it was ass that I was looking for. I had no idea really what that thing was that my mother used to serve. I grill tri-tips and tenderloins; I don't put meat into the oven, unless it's a bird. I saw something that looked vaguely familiar. I checked the label: rump roast. There was no doubt about it, this was the very same thing my mom regularly executed in our aqua-colored oven circa 1977.
I took my ass home and poked holes in it, then shoved in chunks of garlic. Salt, pepper, olive oil and into the oven my ass went. An hour and a half later, I tore open an envelope of gravy mix and followed the directions. I added the "drippings" to it (evidence that I have, in fact, become my mother) and whipped up the potatoes. We had our dinner: a perfect piece of ass.
Just then, my nine-year old came in.
"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Assss..." I began, swiftly realizing my error. I continued: "...k me no questions, I'm trying to get dinner on the table."
It was my first roast. My mom made them all the time when I was a kid, usually petrified beyond recognition and served with mashed potatoes, peas and homemade gravy made with something called "drippings." Even then the word freaked me out. Now, it's even scarier. If I knew then what I know now, nary a morsel of anything made with "drippings" would have passed my lips.
So, I was in the grocery store, looking for something easy, yet impressive to serve my in-laws when the idea hit me: a roast! I quickly scanned the meat department for a large chunk of meat. I didn't even know that it was ass that I was looking for. I had no idea really what that thing was that my mother used to serve. I grill tri-tips and tenderloins; I don't put meat into the oven, unless it's a bird. I saw something that looked vaguely familiar. I checked the label: rump roast. There was no doubt about it, this was the very same thing my mom regularly executed in our aqua-colored oven circa 1977.
I took my ass home and poked holes in it, then shoved in chunks of garlic. Salt, pepper, olive oil and into the oven my ass went. An hour and a half later, I tore open an envelope of gravy mix and followed the directions. I added the "drippings" to it (evidence that I have, in fact, become my mother) and whipped up the potatoes. We had our dinner: a perfect piece of ass.
Just then, my nine-year old came in.
"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Assss..." I began, swiftly realizing my error. I continued: "...k me no questions, I'm trying to get dinner on the table."
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Where are your manners? (rhetorically speaking, of course)
Last night at the dinner table, in a span of twenty-two seconds, the ten-year old daughter was caught licking her mashed potatoes off the back of her fork and the twelve-year old boy turned the simple task of drinking milk into a highly complex procedure - which he failed to execute. Instead, he decorated his face with it, where it dripped onto both his shirt and the table. In fact, the mashed-potato-lollipop-licker got nailed twice in less than a minute; it was between takes that I turned to look at my son and saw the dairy beard.
What the hell?
I was already annoyed by the fact that husband, who sits right next to potato girl, didn't seem to notice because he was far too busy licking his fingers one by one: slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp. He doesn't lick his pinkie finger, but always hits the others in the same order, beginning with the ring finger and working toward the thumb. Guess what he does next? He picks up the napkin and dries his fingers.
Sooooo, when I turned and spied the milkman, doing it for the second night in a row I might add, I had a little somethin-somethin to say - to all of them.
"Can you slow down and make sure the cup is actually touching your lips before you tip it up to drink?" I said rhetorically, of course. He didn't get that. He actually answered.
"Mom, I DID!"
"Don't even go there. You didn't, or it wouldn't be all over your face and the table, now would it?" And another thing: his ability to detect rhetorical questions is non-existent.
"Mom, I --" but I cut him off.
"Just slow down. The goal is not to toss the milk from the cup to your mouth from an inch away." I wanted to add that there would be plenty of time for that someday with beer, after breaking his mother's heart and joining a fraternity, but I didn't want to open up that can o' worms at the moment. Fingerlickin' good man would have chimed in and admonished me not to criticize the brotherhood. Plus it would only lead me to conjure visions of frat boys in their underwear, getting blindfolded and paddled and it was certainly too early in the evening for that fantasy.
That's when I saw the potato-licker, at it again. Who taught children that it was a good idea to spin forks or spoons around and go at it from ten different angles? This is the same one who will simply tilt her head up to the ceiling if someone asks her a question just after she has taken a drink, so she can talk without it spilling onto the table. I desperately wish I was kidding.
"Kee, just move the food from your plate to your mouth with the fork; it isn't a sugar cone for your dinner."
I decided to test them one more time, just to see if anyone had learned anything.
"Why is it so hard to eat without involving fingers, noses, chins and fork cones?" I snapped. All but one had finally figured out that mom's questions don't always require answers.
"Well," clipped the younger daughter, who's nine and always ready with a long-winded speech when just a syllable will suffice. "Sometimes when the food is..." she began, glancing up to see The Look on my face. "Nevermind."
Not two minutes later, I noticed a smiley face made with mashed potatoes and peas on my son's plate. He can't be serious, I thought to myself. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked at the plate. He looked scared.
"Are you kidding me?" I said incredulously. My annoyance at his poor timing surged ahead of my disbelief that he was making pictures with his food. Again, the rhetorical question meter failed to launch.
"I wasn't --"
"You don't have to explain what it was you weren't doing. I can see exactly what you weren't doing because I have eyes in my head. And stop answering my questions!"
I ask you, am I asking too much??
(Don't answer that.)
What the hell?
I was already annoyed by the fact that husband, who sits right next to potato girl, didn't seem to notice because he was far too busy licking his fingers one by one: slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp. He doesn't lick his pinkie finger, but always hits the others in the same order, beginning with the ring finger and working toward the thumb. Guess what he does next? He picks up the napkin and dries his fingers.
Sooooo, when I turned and spied the milkman, doing it for the second night in a row I might add, I had a little somethin-somethin to say - to all of them.
"Can you slow down and make sure the cup is actually touching your lips before you tip it up to drink?" I said rhetorically, of course. He didn't get that. He actually answered.
"Mom, I DID!"
"Don't even go there. You didn't, or it wouldn't be all over your face and the table, now would it?" And another thing: his ability to detect rhetorical questions is non-existent.
"Mom, I --" but I cut him off.
"Just slow down. The goal is not to toss the milk from the cup to your mouth from an inch away." I wanted to add that there would be plenty of time for that someday with beer, after breaking his mother's heart and joining a fraternity, but I didn't want to open up that can o' worms at the moment. Fingerlickin' good man would have chimed in and admonished me not to criticize the brotherhood. Plus it would only lead me to conjure visions of frat boys in their underwear, getting blindfolded and paddled and it was certainly too early in the evening for that fantasy.
That's when I saw the potato-licker, at it again. Who taught children that it was a good idea to spin forks or spoons around and go at it from ten different angles? This is the same one who will simply tilt her head up to the ceiling if someone asks her a question just after she has taken a drink, so she can talk without it spilling onto the table. I desperately wish I was kidding.
"Kee, just move the food from your plate to your mouth with the fork; it isn't a sugar cone for your dinner."
I decided to test them one more time, just to see if anyone had learned anything.
"Why is it so hard to eat without involving fingers, noses, chins and fork cones?" I snapped. All but one had finally figured out that mom's questions don't always require answers.
"Well," clipped the younger daughter, who's nine and always ready with a long-winded speech when just a syllable will suffice. "Sometimes when the food is..." she began, glancing up to see The Look on my face. "Nevermind."
Not two minutes later, I noticed a smiley face made with mashed potatoes and peas on my son's plate. He can't be serious, I thought to myself. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked at the plate. He looked scared.
"Are you kidding me?" I said incredulously. My annoyance at his poor timing surged ahead of my disbelief that he was making pictures with his food. Again, the rhetorical question meter failed to launch.
"I wasn't --"
"You don't have to explain what it was you weren't doing. I can see exactly what you weren't doing because I have eyes in my head. And stop answering my questions!"
I ask you, am I asking too much??
(Don't answer that.)
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