He’s @#^%!@# creepy.
And you’re as lazy as me, admit it.
You’d forget about him in three days.
He’s @#^%!@# creepy.
And you’re as lazy as me, admit it.
You’d forget about him in three days.
Several weeks ago, we returned to the scene of last year’s Goat Encounters of the Herd Kind. You can judge for yourselves if the sequel is better or worse.
I again fought with my big DSLR but since we went on a weekday, the place was empty and there was no cider to quench my rage. I also discovered that my new phone may just take better photos. Also learned that it is much harder these days to capture a toddler in focus. So that’s fun. Christmas photos should be interesting this year.
He was much more interested in the animals this year which made it way more fun than just holding him up like we had to last year.
Back , way back, in the summer I was given Lightroom for my birthday in an effort to actually DO something with the photos I take. However, that program is so overwhelming to me I don’t even know where to begin to start learning. So I just haven’t. But in trying to learn, I played with presets. Which is cool and all, but it doesn’t help when the photos are out of focus anyway because your kid won’t sit the @%#! still for more than a second.
Happy #%!@#% Friday, friends!
My former coworkers can verify that I used to throw a minor fit when the old developer guy next to me would nom on bananas at his desk. The wretched smell would waft over the short cubicle wall and into my banana-free zone. And I would dry heave. When I was pregnant, I actually had to step away when he (or anyone else in the office) ate them. I never said anything, because really, it’s just a #%!#$ banana. And he was a really sweet guy. And it was all over in a few minutes anyway. Plus, hello excuse to leave my desk.
If you didn’t gather from that enthralling anecdote, I hate bananas. They are good for one thing only: banana bread. And when I make banana bread, I pretty much hold my breath until the pan slides into the oven where is becomes delicious non-banananey goodness.
At first glance, they are a perfect food. Cheap, abundant, wrapped in its own easy-peel wrapper that doubles as a cutting board, full of potassium and some other shit.
DO NOT BE FOOLED.
And apparently the bottom end of it tastes like Beelzebub’s booty. (Can someone verify this?)
DID I MENTION THAT THEY ARE FILLED WITH SPIDERS?!
Spiders, people. Venomous ones. No. Just. NO.
The worst. THE WORST.
Unfortch, Little A goes apeshit for bananas. His first real word is thisclose to being banana. He freaks out when I put them in the grocery cart. He powers through an entire one for breakfast. I have to touch them on a daily basis. And one would think, after five months of a daily peeling, I would be immune to its powerful scent. I am not.
Does anyone really like bananas? IT’S A CHIQUITA CONSPIRACY. I feel like the world thinks everyone LOVES bananas but nearly everyone I know does not. Including my mom’s side of the family, where a conversation yesterday exposed a communal hatred among two cousins, my brother and myself.
I will continue to give in to Little A’s obsession and continue to cut off the apparently awful tasting booty end. Because I love my little spawn.
The sacrifices we make as parents, amiright?
BANANAS. NO. NOOOOOOOOO.
Sidenote: This post was really hard to write as my N key isn’t working so well. SO MANY EDITS.
First, it’s Veterans Day. Thank one. If you don’t know one, let me know and I’ll thank one on your behalf. I know plenty.
Most of the time.
We found out that McCormick & Schmicks had a Veterans Day menu and it had been awhile since we went anywhere…nice. So we made a reservation, asked specifically for the Veterans Day menu, ordered some wine and enjoyed a great lunch. My husband, active duty with 700+ days of overseas deployment and
nearly a decade of service under his belt, had pointed to his meal choice ON the Veterans Day menu. On the check it was listed as a Veterans meal.
Silly us, we thought it would be complimentary. That’s what it had said on the menu and website, after all. WE WERE SO NAIVE.
Apparently, in McCormick & Schmick’s World, the word “veteran” means “retired”. The waitress told us so. She even flat out corrected my husband when he corrected her on the definition of veteran. She also had the balls to tell my husband that he was not a veteran because he wasn’t retired. Seriously. When my husband continued to question the policy, the waitress continued to stand by it and then threw her manager under the bus, saying that’s what she had been told. While the special menu had been labeled VETERANS MENU, they really only meant that retirees were deserving of a free meal. If you bitched enough, they would extend the policy to those who have served overseas.
NO ONE TELLS MY HUSBAND HE ISN’T A VETERAN.
Still serving your country as active duty? HAHAHA, fuck you, you have to pay.
As the waitress walked away in a huff to discuss our anger with management, a woman at the table next to us turned in shock at what happened. She WAS a retiree and could not believe the interaction she just listened to. She seemed to be as appalled and offended as we were.
You guys, the restaurant was packed with people, most of which were clearly military members of all kinds. We weren’t going to be the only ones disappointed and outraged by this “policy”. That’s what hurts the most. This wasn’t about us. This was about all of them, in Baltimore and around the world.
We ended up getting Big A’s meal for free, but the waitress and her lack of apology, rude attitude and lack of understanding of the word veteran talked herself into a hole and out of a tip. Big A asked to see the manager as we left and she made the situation worse. WORSE. We received a haughty apology, with the explanation that the fine print on the mailer specified retired personnel or those who’ve deployed to a war (which clearly wasn’t understood by the waitress who flat out told us deployments don’t make a veteran) only. BUT GUESS WHAT, LADY. We didn’t get a mailer. And the fine print did not exist on the menu or on the website. She explained that the “campaign” had been very successful, acting like she had done us a favor for comping the meal. And not giving a damn that Big A was trying to stand up for his people. She talked in circles, told us the same thing and couldn’t answer questions with anything but “well we comped your meal, so…”. I’m still unsure if it was this particular establishment’s policy or corporate policy, but either way we will never return to any of them.
Other companies are doing much better with their Veterans Day specials. More often than not, active duty members are specifically listed as part of the offer. Starbucks even goes one further and extends the free coffee to active duty spouses. AND stated a commitment to hiring vets and active duty spouses. THAT is how you honor those who fight and have fought for freedom, McCormick & Shits. NOT by exclusion.
Veterans aren’t just elderly VFW gentlemen anymore. We’ve been in major wars for over a decade now. Those young guys in active duty joined WHILE we were in conflict, knowing what they were joining for and they’re going to be told that they don’t deserve a free $16 meal because they haven’t retired yet?
Thanks for your gourmet generosity, assface.
Dear @$%$! Baby.
You’re not a baby anymore. You’re not even not yet a toddler, you ARE a motherfucking toddler. No Britney Spears references for you.
It was only four months, but Big A returned home to a totally different kid. One that doesn’t just crawl, but can walk, run, go up AND down the stairs, do squats and spin in circles. One who does not rely on formula or purees anymore, but eats pretty much what we’ll eat, sans hot sauce. One who KNOWS things. Like where to go when I say it’s time to eat. To sit on the bottom step when I say it’s to put shoes on. Where his head, nose, ears, toes, hands, butt and belly are. To start climbing the stairs when it’s time for bed.
I can tell you what something is and you remember. You GET it. Like, literally. I can tell you to go get something AND YOU GET THE THING I TOLD YOU TO GET. You know Dada’s hat, the Terrible Towel, Snoopy, Scout, Kenny Bear, and various balls.
Asking you to go get blue balls is my favorite activity.
You know certain books well enough to know I’m going to ask you where that thing makes the pom poms for his bed. Or what happens when the hippos go berserk.
I know you know things. Which makes it SO #@%#!# FRUSTRATING when you repeat the same offenses. Constantly. In a span of six minutes.
Your eyes light up when I ask if you want a cookie. You hang on for dear life to the snack cup of Teddy Grahams in the car and fall asleep, keeping the death grip in tact with one and the other inside with a grip on some snacks. And when you wake up to go into the house you take your hand out of said snack cup and stuff your face. And I laugh, hysterically, in front of the house, every time.
You make bull dog face by sticking out your bottom lip with a scowl. You are a tough guy and scrunch your nose and growl. You still drive me batshit with your wicked tantrums, but holy shit you are a funny kid.
You are tiny and we can blame maternal genes on that one. I’m short. My mom is short. My mom’s whole family is short. At your 15-month checkup (which happened at 16 months because, DUH, me) you were only 19.5 pounds and 29.5 inches. Which, while not a problem yet, is landing you still at the bottom of those crazy charts. Like, almost OFF the crazy charts. You still fit in some 9 month clothing. That ain’t right.
You will NOT be having Christmas Cage Match with your cousin, who at 6 months outweighs you by two pounds.
I love your snuggles and your kisses, both the sloppy ones and the newly practiced closed mouth ones. I love watching you learn. I am trying to have a longer fuse, but you really know how to push my buttons. At least you know how to put your toys away. That melts my heart AND takes away one of my daily tasks.
I love you, kid. But you’re @!$$%@! crazy.