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In the car.
Mr. T, pointing at two side by side covered spare tires: Look, that RV has a butt!
DynaGirl: Or chipmunk cheeks.
Mr. T: But they’re on the back. Why would chipmunk cheeks be on the back?
DynaGirl: Well, I don’t know.
Wait, chipmunks don’t have cheeks on the back?
On the way up to bed.
Goose: I hate being me.
Mom: What do you mean?
Goose: I don’t want to be me.
Mom: Why?
BigHugs, patting Goose’s back: It’s OK about you.
Goose: I want to be smart.
Mom: You are smart.
Goose: I want to be so smart I don’t have to go to school. I want to know everything already.
Huh—I thought you did.
Bath time again.
DynaGirl: My legs are so dry sometimes they hurt.
Mom: That’s why we have to put cream on them everyday.
DynaGirl: I hate cream.
Mom: Well, how else are we going to make your legs be not dry?
DynaGirl: You could use your magical powers of momness.
You have no idea how many times I’ve wished that were true.
For my Cinco de Mayo party last year, I picked up some $1 plastic margarita cups in bright, festive colors to use for the virgin margaritas and strawberry daiquiris we served that night. The cups did triple duty as they were also party favors for the guests and vehicles for my charming personalities game.
I downloaded some fiesta-ish clipart, cut them out and laminated them (to make them margarita-proof) and put them on a wire ring to loop around the stem of the cup. Each of the guests were asked to pick out a cup with the drink marker charm of his or her choice, and then over dinner I read the following personality descriptions based on the picture they chose:
burrito: You are completely wrapped up in yourself, and you’re full of beans.
sombrero: Your looming presence casts a shadow wherever you go. People tend to dance around you.
sun: You’re always eager to shed some light on any given subject. Be careful, or your more sensitive colleagues will get burned.
cactus: You project a “Stay back!” attitude, but those who make it through your prickly defenses find you sweetly refreshing.
salsa: When the chips are down, you like to spice things up. Careful not to overdo it—not everyone can stomach your enthusiasm.
salsa w/chips: You are always ready to compliment your friends, but heaping on too many insincere remarks may bring them to the breaking point.
chile peppers: Your sweet, peppy nature is difficult for some to digest, but your true friends can’t get enough of you.
tortilla chips: You play the supporting role to many spicier personalities, but too much pressure often leaves you feeling crummy.
tomatoes: Is it toMAYto or toMAHto? You are deceptively mysterious, but those who dig deeper may be disappointed to find nothing more than a fland, thin-skinned fruit.
taco: You are open to taking on new challenges, but tend to crack under the pressure.
I must give credit to my younger sister for providing the descriptions. She also threw in this one for good measure:
pinata: Everyone is happy to see you, but happier still when your guts are strewn out across the floor. People only like you when they’re getting something out of it.
All of my guests got a good laugh out of it, and were really good sports considering a lot of these are a tad on the negative side. The funniest part came at the end of the readings when one of the guys in our group said, “Yeah, those all pretty much fit.” What?!
So next time you’re having a gathering of friends or family, try making your own charming personality drink markers. You don’t have to be using stemmed glasses—just print them out on sticker sheets or even regular paper and then stick them on a big plastic tumbler with a protective layer of clear tape. If you’re having a theme party, pick objects along that theme or just pick a set of things from your group’s shared interests or maybe some inside jokes. And if you’re having trouble coming up with the descriptions, just throw it out there to all your blogosphere friends—we’d be happy to lend a hand.
Talk to me: Which one of these charming personalities best describe you? Or can you come up with your own descriptions to go with these fiesta items?
I had originally thought it would be fun to post about throwing a Cinco de Mayo party. I hosted one last year for a group of friends and it was really a lot of fun. But I figured the post would be much improved with visuals of the decorations I planned to give instructions for or recipes I made or games we played and I’m very sorry to say that I am just too lazy for that much work. This is a non-profiting blog, people, and I’m just not ready to put forth that kind of effort yet. With that in mind, plus the fact that my appreciation for this holiday really only goes as far as I really like Mexican food and the movie The Three Amigos, I decided perhaps I should not pretend to be the authority on Cinco de Mayo festivities.
If anyone is interested in learning how to make tissue paper Mexican flowers or a guess who concentration game made up of Latina celebrity body parts or delicioso virgin margaritas or fiesta-themed personality test drink marker charms (hmmm…I might just have to post this one), please feel free to contact me and I’ll hook you up.
In the meantime, here is a recipe for guacamole that is muy fantastico:
2 ripe large avocados (or 3 medium or 4 small)
3T diced white onion (about one half of a small-mediumish onion or one quarter of a largish one)
4T diced Roma tomatoes (about one good-sized Roma—some people like to seed and de-pulp theirs, but I don’t bother)
4T cilantro, finely chopped (if you’re not a huge cilantro fan, cut this to 2 or 3—if you hate cilantro, you’re dead to me)
2T jalapeno, finely chopped (about one decent sized jalapeno—I do seed mine first)
juice from 1 lime (I actually only put in half my lime last time I made it—it was extra juicy)
salt to taste
Cut up the avocado and mash to desired consistency. I like to leave mine just a bit on the chunky side. Chuck in the rest of the ingredients and mix well. I will also occasionally add a clove of minced garlic.
It should look kind of like this.
If you already have a tried and true favorite guacamole recipe, I won’t guarantee that this one is better. I will guarantee that this one is pretty dern good, although a lot of what makes a good guac depends on the flavor of the avocados. Sometimes I get some pretty bland avocados which is most disappointing. I like to get them when they’re fairly soft to the touch—you should get a dent with a gentle thumb press—but not too mushy or there’s a good chance they’ll already be turning black inside and that’s just depressing, especially considering how much I have to pay for avocados in my neck of the woods.
If you have a good guacamole recipe or other avocado/guac tips you’d like to share or if you just want to give us your favorite Three Amigos quote, please feel free.
Coming up this week: mini chicken chimichangas and maybe those fiesta-themed personality test drink marker charms
Oh, and one more treat for you.
Chuck cut this out and stuck it up on the fridge.
What do you think he’s trying to say?
Last week I was at the grocery store with my two-year-old, who passed out midway through. Normally I would be relieved to have a child sleep through this kind of errand except that my cart was full and I had no place to put her, so consequently I had to hold her and try to navigate my very heavy cart through the aisles one handed. It was a real pain in the tuckus.
I finally made it to the checkout and started unloading my groceries with BigHugs’ poor head bobbing violently around while I tried to balance her on my shoulder and stoop down to empty my cart. A nice red-vested manager-type man came up and offered to unload my cart for me. My first inclination was to turn him down, not because I’m the kind of person who hates the possibility of putting someone out even when they’re offering (although I am) and not because I’m so independent that I’m offended by someone’s offer to help (because I’m not)—I was just afraid that he would do it wrong.
I have a particular grocery cart unloading procedure that must be strictly adhered to at all times. First, all the heavy stuff like canned goods, juice pouch boxes, bottled juices, etc. Then boxed items like cereal and crackers. Then refrigerated beverages like milk and juice. Then frozen foods. Then refrigerated foods. Then produce. Then eggs. And lastly, bread.
See, this way all the heavy stuff is at the bottom so it doesn’t smushify my produce, eggs and bread. And putting all the refrigerated stuff together and next to the frozen foods helps keep everything cold and makes unloading the grocery bags that much easier when I get home. Sometimes I make a grocery store run right before another appointment, which often gives me just a few minutes to drop off the groceries at my house on the way. If all the refrigerated stuff is together, I can just take in those one or two bags and leave the canned goods and other stuff in the trunk to unload when I have more time. Plus most of the canned and boxed goods go straight to the garage shelves anyway, so what’s the point in dragging them from the garage into the house only to drag them back out to the garage again?
This kind of grocery organization just seems like common sense to me. I’m completely amazed when someone in the checkout line with me will unload their cart all willy-nilly. Cans of cat food with the tomatoes? Really? Bread first? What? And I’m completely irkified if the checker ignores my deliberate placement of goods and goes out of her way to disrupt the order. One woman reached over my boxes of pasta, past my triscuits and actually grabbed my yogurt so she could stick it in the bag with my canned beans. There was a reason why the yogurt was next to the cheese and butter, lady. I did it on purpose! Didn’t you see the protective barrier of boxed goods between my heavy canned and delicate chilled items?!
I once had a checker who not only recognized, but praised the system. That was somewhat gratifying. Someone got me.
I did finally relent and allow this man his good deed. Of course he did it all wrong—eggs first, produce and refrigerated items spread all over the place with canned goods randomly interspersed, and my bread smack dab in the middle of it all. Sigh. But I just kept my mouth shut and said thank you. Sorting through the aftermath and eating trapezoidally shaped sandwiches was worth it. After all, there was no way I could have unloaded that cart all by myself in a timely manner and the man was really so very kind about it.
Have you ever had to hold your tongue when someone “helped” you? And more importantly, do you have a grocery unloading system?
Getting ready for bed.
Goose: Where did the first babies come from?
Mom: Like the first babies on earth? Ever?
Goose: Yeah.
Mom: From Adam and Eve, I guess.
Goose: Where were Adam and Eve borned from?
Mom: Well, they weren’t really born, I don’t think. God just put them on the earth already grown up.
Goose: Where did God come from?
Mom: From another God?
Goose: Where did he come from?
Mom: You mean where did the first person who ever existed come from? I have no idea.
Did I think about this stuff when I was six?
Over lunch.
Goose: I wish we were dogs.
Mom: What?
Goose: Dogs. I could be your puppy.
Mom: Who would be our master? Who would take care of us?
Goose: People like us.
Mom: But if you were a dog you wouldn’t be able to read or write or draw pictures or do gymnastics.
Goose: Well then I wish we were dogs that could do all the things people can do.
Mom: But if you want to do all the same things people do, why not just be a person?
Goose: Because dogs are cuter.
That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.
In her bedroom.
Mom: Goose, this room is getting out of control. You need to clean this up.
Goose, in her best pout: But I suck at cleaning.
Mom: No you don’t. Remember a couple weeks ago when you cleaned your whole entire room all by yourself? You did an awesome job.
Goose, almost genuinely sad now: But I’m just so lazy now.
Sigh. There can never be any doubt she’s her mother’s daughter.
On a bad day.
bythelbs: I’m going to go run a couple errands. Hopefully by the time I get back I’ll be in a better mood.
Chuck: Take all the time you need.
I let that one go.
Another bad day.
Mom, pulling out hair and screaming in exaggerated exasperation: Argh! BigHugs, you’re driving me crazy!
BigHugs, giggling: You’re funny, Mom.
That smile saves her every time. And me.
At tuck-in time.
DynaGirl: Thanks for giving me birth. You’re the best mom in the whole entire world and I’ll always love you no matter what.
Mom, making goofy face: Are you sure?
DynaGirl: Yes, even when you do embarrassing things, I’ll still love you deep down. Very, very, very, very, deep, deep down.
I love you too, sweetheart.
After school.
Mom: Don’t forget you have piano today, so you should try to fit in one more practice.
Mr. T, heavily sighing: O-kay.
Mom: Don’t you enjoy learning to play piano?
Mr. T: I suppose someday I’ll appreciate it.
That’s all I ask.
I know all three of you are just tingling with anticipation, so here goes…
Third place goes to Cheryl for: spanked hubby
How did I miss this post?
Second place goes to Jodi for: how big is a llama’s penis
Who wants to know?! Go visit Jodi here to see more of the kind of wackiness that’s bringing people to her site. I think she actually saved her best for her own post. At first I considered deducting points for selfishness, but who among us wouldn’t have done the same thing? If you haven’t been over to Jodi’s site before, check it out.
And first place to Madhousewife for: haul used pantyhose
I didn’t actually laugh my buttock off, but I’m delightfully intrigued for the same reasons Mad gave. Plus, I couldn’t really make up my mind (I also quite enjoyed “mein comfy chair hitler” and “potty training donkeys”), so I threw all the entries into a “hat” and this is the one I pulled out. Congrats Mad!
Now, as for the promised fabulous prize, in the interest of full disclosure I did not actually know what the fabulous prize would be when I first offered the incentive. I did a search for “fabulous prize” to see if it sparked any ideas—all I found was a bunch of random blogs of people giving away random (often unspecified) prizes, one of which was a handsewn sock monkey. A genuine handsewn sock monkey? How can I possibly compete with that?! I cannot.
So you’ll have to settle for a genuine DVD copy of one of these fine films recorded off my DVR:
From the recent The Complete Jane Austen series:
Persuasion, Northanger Abbey, Miss Austen Regrets, Mansfield Park, Emma or Sense and Sensibility
Sorry, I do not have Pride & Prejudice as I already own that on DVD. These are all good (well, Mansfield Park was kind of eh), but I highly recommend Sense and Sensibility—in my opinion, it’s superior to the Emma Thompson version.
Also from Masterpiece:
A Room With a View
My Boy Jack (This one stars Harry Potter’s Daniel Radcliffe as John “Jack” Kipling, son of Rudyard Kipling and is about his service in WWI. I haven’t actually watched it yet. It sounds good, but depressing.)
If Masterpiece Theater isn’t your thing, I also recently recorded Step Into Liquid, a really fun surfing documentary. I can’t say that I’m particularly into surfing, but I found this a delightful and fascinating way to kill 90 minutes.
To collect your prize, e-mail me at bythelbs at yahoo dot com with your address and DVD selection. I’ll also throw in some other bonus surprise(s), so you can still hold out hope for something fun and exciting (I can tell you right now there will be no handsewn sock monkeys—just put the sock monkey out of your minds, people) if you’re disappointed by the DVD offering.
Speaking of sock monkeys…
old school sock monkey
pity the fool sock monkey
Chewy sock monkey (where’s the sock?)
And last, but most certainly not least…
sock monkey dress?
So my 2 year old, BigHugs, has issues. I know, a child of Bythelbs has issues?—shocking! Everybody has their little quirks—likes and dislikes, routines and rituals, fears and phobias—and BigHugs is no different. She has a fear of hair, or rather a particular kind of hair. The kind of hair that is no longer affixed to its natural place of origin. The stray hair.
Now, I realize that this is not an uncommon aversion. I can’t say that I know anyone who delights in the discovery of loose hairs in random places, but BigHugs’s fear is rather irrational—it’s like she believes the hair actually intends to do her harm. She’ll find one and stop dead in her tracks and call out for help. The first time this happened was really quite alarming. I was downstairs in the kitchen, I think, when I heard her scream.
BigHugs: Mom! Mom! Help!
Mom, calling back while rushing up the stairs: What’s wrong? Are you OK?!
I see her just standing in the middle of our playroom, completely petrified.
Mom, examining her: What happened? Are you hurt?
BigHugs, wimpering: There’s a hair.
Mom: A what?
BigHugs, more desperate now: A hair.
Mom: A hair? Where?
BigHugs, in a panic: There’s a hair on my puzzle!
Indeed there is a hair. I pull it off.
BigHugs, with a huge sigh of relief: Thanks, Mom.
I thought it was kind of funny and shrugged it off with a laugh. But it wasn’t a one or two or even three time occurrence—it’s like everyday, several times a day. She finds one on her clothes and you’d think she had a spider crawling up her arm. She finds one on the floor and she can barely work up the courage to walk past it, and when she finally does she gives it a wide berth. She finds one on a toy and she’s near tears. She finds one on her plate…OK, I’m totally with her on that one.
I spend a good portion of my day rescuing my toddler from perilous hair-related situations. I do sweep and vacuum, but there are six people living in our home, four of whom are female, all with long hair that has a propensity for shedding. One hundred percent effective prophylacticism is just not possible. The other day she brought me a koosh ball. Fortheluvva…I told her to just forget about the koosh ball. I could spend the rest of my natural days dehairifying a koosh!
I suppose I’m willing to make the sacrifice to secure the emotional well-being of my baby, but I’m becoming a little concerned about our physical well-being and that of those around us. Last week we were driving in the car when she worked herself up into a tizzy. “A hair, Mom,” she cried. “A hair!” She sits right behind me, so I reached back and frantically began blindly rubbing up and down her leg and seat. Luckily I happened to catch it on one of my passes, but I’m not sure how long I could have gone on driving with the one hand while trying to fend off evil hairs with the other, all the while trying to concentrate on the road with my toddler in full panic-attack mode behind me. What if we’d been in an accident? How would I explain myself? Would the officer really be willing to fill out the report with ”Cause of accident: a hair”? Is that covered by my insurance?
Yesterday there was a ray of hope—BigHugs spotted a hair on her sleeve and cried out for help. Tired and spent, I replied, “Just pull if off then.” And she did.
Don’t you hate it when you’re all psyched up for a new episode of your favorite sitcom, only to realize two minutes into it that it’s not really new, it’s just a cheesy clips show? Sure, there may be some kind of thrown together lame excuse for a plot, but it’s only there to try to distract you from the fact that the writers are either A) so full of themselves they need an entire episode devoted to reliving their past glories B) totally washed up and out of brilliant or even passable ideas or C) lazy. Personally, I would go with C because that would be my excuse.
Actually, that is my excuse. For this post. See, this isn’t really a post about sitcoms or writers or writers block or even laziness—well, maybe laziness—it’s essentially a cheesy clips post. But a cheesy clips post born out of a genuine fascination with my “blog stats search terms” page. I am somewhat amazed and amused by what brings people to By the lbs. I wonder about what they were truly looking for when they typed in those fatal search terms that led them here and also what they thought once they arrived.
So here’s my list of top 10 favorite search terms along with links to the posts I think they led to:
10. key excerpts from heston’s ten commandments—I surely hope I did not offend this person as I’m assuming from the phrase “key excerpts” they take the late Mr. Heston’s “Ten Commandments” quite seriously.
9. how to build a replica of the grand coulee dam—Sorry, dude. I know, it doesn’t even have anything to do with the Grand Coulee Dam. I believe this post also suckered in the person searching for “archaeologist detective.” They grand coulee dam well better not be working on a novel—that’s my idea.
8. how many carbs do wintergreen tic tacs have—Actually, I suppose they could have been sent here as well. Do you think wintergreen tic tacs have a different number of carbs than other varieties? At least they weren’t doing a search for spearmint tic tacs. I wouldn’t care if spearmint tic tacs had a weight-loss inducing negative carb count, I still couldn’t choke them down. *shudder*
7. bladder of steel—For more potty related hijinx and hilarity, you should head over here.
6. teeth dentist—As opposed to a toenail dentist?
5. arm broken goose—There’s actually another one that popped up on my list for “goose breaking arm.” You would think they would most likely be from the same person except they appeared on my list several days apart. Is there more than one person out there that needs this kind of information or is it just one person who after not finding what he was looking for with the first set of search terms decided to try again with a different variation only to end up back here again? That must have been frustrating. I’ve been there, buddy—I feel your pain.
4. “ever stuffed his pants” blows it—I thought for a moment this actually could have been me until I realized that this would have only led to my website after I had written the post that I would have done this kind of research for. Unless it was a past me who had travelled into the future totally bypassing the time in which I had written this post so therefore would have had no memory of it. Time travel trips me out.
3. i need to assert myself—Well, unassertive person, maybe you should start by using a capital “I”. Come on, show a little confidence! You can’t assert yourself if you think you’re all small like that. By the way, if the post was unpleasant for you, just keep it to yourself—you’re not part of my party anyway.
2. kraft sucks—See, I’m not alone! I wish I knew who this person was so I could contact them about starting an anti-kraft movement. Well, maybe not an anti-kraft movement, but at least an anti-kraft salad dressings movement. (I realized the other day that I use an awful lot of other kraft products and I’m just too unprincipled to give them up completely.) I think I may actually have madhousewife to thank for the “kraft sucks” line.
1. dishophobia—Yes! This is by far the most validating of all. More proof that I am not alone—screw Fred—someone else out there is suffering from my plight! Is that you, Plasticware Man’s Wife? I’m here for you!
So, all you fellow bloggers, what are some of your best “search term” stories?
Oooh, and here’s the twist:
Leave a comment with your story about either crazy search terms that led to your blog or a search you initiated with completely innocent search terms that boldly took you where you had never gone (or wanted to go) before. You have until Sunday night 10 pm PDST, and then I will choose a winner (randomly unless someone makes me laugh my buttock off) to receive a “fabulous prize”. The winner (or winners in the event that more than one person makes me laugh my buttock off, in which case I will regrettably be completely buttockless) will be announced on Monday.
Goose left us a little love note:
And inside:
I found it on my bathroom counter first thing in the morning, which means she had woken up early to work on it. That’s a big deal for Goose. She has always been my best sleeper—the first to ask to go to bed at night and the last to be dragged out in the morning. Yesterday when I was picking up in her room I found the evidence: some loose crayons, a black color pencil and a mostly used up sticker sheet. I love it when she does little things like this in secret, like the time she disappeared for the better part of an hour and I discovered her in her clean bedroom. The room had been a disaster, so I knew it had been quite an undertaking for a six year old. She even made her bed and organized her stuffed animals. She did this without being asked and without seeking recognition.
Each of my children find small ways like this to express their affection—it always makes me smile and tugs a bit at my heartstrings. But with Goose it’s different.
With Goose I’ve always joked that the terrible twos started at two weeks. She was a needy infant and a demanding toddler. Temper tantrums were her forte—kicking, screaming, making herself so red in the face you thought she might pop a vein. She’s always had a rebellious streak, and I would swear she says no just to show that she can.
I tell people she’s the child God sent to make me a better mom. My first two were easy—well, there were the health issues, but the emotional and behavioral stuff were nothing compared to #3. She’s the one teaching me patience and restraint, forgiveness and how to work through the guilt and move on. She is my refiner’s fire. Often my inclination is to douse the flames—she pushes and I push back. But I’m slowly realizing that when she screams “I hate you!” she really means “Please love me” and I try to reassure her this is so.
Now that I think about it, Goose has written love notes ever since she began writing. Only she used to write the words backwards with the letters in reverse—a perfect mirror image. We always thought this was a funny quirk, that maybe it had something to do with her being left-handed. The letters always said the same thing or variations thereof, depending on who they addressed: “I loves my mom. My mom loves me.” I’m wondering now if she didn’t use these for a little self-affirmation, Stuart Smalley style. Did she look to her reflection for some reassurance that the little girl in the mirror was truly loved?
She doesn’t write in reverse anymore. I suppose you could say that now she just knows better, but I’d like to think it’s proof of our progression—that we’ve come to the point where no matter what kind of day we’ve had together we can go to bed confident that the last petal we pluck will always be she loves me.
Tucking the girls into their bunkbeds—DynaGirl’s on top.
Mom: Goodnight, sweetheart.
DynaGirl: Good—Achoooooooo!—night.
Mom, trying to clean the spray off her face: Eeew! You got it all over.
DynaGirl, chuckling: Sorry, Mom.
Goose, laughing hysterically from bottom bunk: I wish I had done that!
I can see the little wheels spinning in Goose’s head—I’m giving some serious thought to wearing a face mask to tuck-in time for the next couple of weeks.
BigHugs bit me yesterday afternoon. At 11:30 pm that night:
BigHugs, snuggling up with Mom: You have a purple owie?
Mom: I think it’s better.
BigHugs: It’s all beh-wer now?
Mom: Yeah, it’s OK. It doesn’t hurt.
BigHugs: I sowee I eat your arm, Mom.
Mom: It’s OK, sweetie. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
BigHugs: I sowee I eat your arm at sham-tasicks.
Mom: It’s OK, BigHugs. Just don’t bite anymore, OK?
BigHugs: O-kay.
It’s actually quite reassuring to know that my 2 year old is capable of feeling unsolicited remorse.
Helping DynaGirl dry off after a shower.
Mom: What are you doing?
DynaGirl: I’m flaring my butt cheeks.
Mom: Flaring?
DynaGirl: Yeah, you know, like when I flare my nostrils?
Mom: chuckling
DynaGirl: What? What else would you call it?
Mom: I don’t know, maybe clenching?
I think maybe I like “flaring” better. I imagine she’d make a pretty awesome fitness instructor.
I had to fill a prescription for Mr. T this morning, so I had about 20 minutes to kill in Albertson’s while I waited. Killing time in a grocery store is always a dangerous thing for me, especially when I’m not there with a pre-planned grocery list. I did need milk and oj and bread, but that took me all of 5 minutes to load into my cart which left me with a full 15 minutes of food browsing. And did I mention in my rush to get the girls off to school and the other two packed in the car for the doctor appointment, I forgot to eat breakfast? So needless to say, I ended up bringing home some unnecessary items including the Fritos and snickerdoodles.
Let’s start with the Fritos with Lime & Salt. I have never seen this particular variety before, but the package doesn’t say “new” so perhaps my local Albertson’s is just slow to pick up on the lastest culinary trends. I enjoy a corn chip. I realize not everyone does. My brother-in-law enjoys tortilla chips in general, say like with salsa or a good guac, but he abhors Fritos—he says they taste like feet. I’m not certain I know what feet taste like (actually, I’m pretty certain I don’t know what feet taste like), but I can’t imagine it would be a very pleasant tastebud experience unless maybe they were smothered in peanut butter and hot fudge, but my brother-in-law never said anything about peanut butter and hot fudge so I can only assume he meant plain old feet. But corn chips are OK for me, or rather, good corn chips. Once when I was young my mom had picked up some Laura Scudder’s corn chips. Those. were. nasty. I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to include “Scudder’s” in their brand name—it doesn’t sound very appetizing to me, but then I don’t remember any of the Laura Scudder’s products ever tasting very appetizing so maybe the brand name was born from some kind of subconscious effort to appease themselves of the guilt of putting out such scuddy products by offering a subtle warning—a little truth in advertising kind of thing.
Anyways, I tried the Fritos with Lime & Salt and have found them to be quite enjoyable. They have a bit of a sour bite which you would expect from a lime, but the flavor isn’t so overpowering that it leaves you with that funky aftertaste. It’s a bit like running your tongue along the rim of a virgin margarita glass, but more subtle like. They’re rather salty, but not sooo salty. I’m not screaming “These Fritos are making me thirsty!” or anything. I’ve been enjoying them on their own, but I imagine they would be quite tasty with a little bean dip or guacamole or fresh pico or perhaps as a garnish with your favorite chili? My kids are all enjoying them as well. Thumbs up all around.
One thing I did find interesting, though—while I was perusing the ingredients to make sure they were suitable for my allergy-stricken children, I noticed the ingredients listed natural flavors including “natural lime flavor and natural lime type flavor.” What do you suppose “natural lime type flavor” means? That “type” thrown in there makes me a little suspicious of the “natural”. Or is it just code for lemon? Is lemon “lime type”? Interesting.
OK, now onto the Pepperidge Farms Soft Baked Snickerdoodles. I’m not normally a fan of soft baked type store bought cookies. For some reason, no matter what the variety they all have the same kind of taste for me—like there’s some kind of distinctly flavored softifying secret ingredient. Given the choice between the old school crunchy Chips Ahoy and Chewy Chips Ahoy, I’ll take the crunchy every time. But I was drawn in by the “Melt in Your Mouth Recipe” claim on the bag and heaven knows I loves me some snickerdoodles.
I wish I could say I was pleasantly surprised. They weren’t nasty, but they were not great or even really good. That distinctly flavored softifying ingredient was definitely present as well. And they most certainly did not melt in my mouth. Maybe if I poured a boiling hot cup of cocoa into my mouth and let it sit there while I dropped in pieces of the cookie (I’d have my head tipped back of course to prevent the cocoa from dribbling down my chin when I opened my mouth for the cookie), it would melt. But I doubt it. They were pretty darn chewy and not in a “this Charleston Chew is chewy, but not too chewy, Louis” kind of way, but rather a “is it almost time to swallow now” kind of way.
Oh well. At least now I won’t feel compelled to finish them, which is a good thing considering I’ve already polished off half my bag of lime Fritos.
I had to take a brief hiatus from my “There goes the neighborhood” series after my most anticipated (by me) installment was derailed by a moving neighbor. They were very festive neighbors. You could always count on them to fully immerse themselves in the holiday (any holiday) spirit and then share that drunken joy with the rest of us. They had a big inflatable lawn ornament for every major seasonal celebration: Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Valentine’s Day, Easter. And not just one ornament, but several per holiday. They liked to think outside the box, too. One man’s lawn ornament was their roof ornament. They even constructed these ingenius little platforms to put them on to counteract the slant of the roofline.
This year right after Valentine’s Day they put up their Easter characters. There was a Tigger, an Eeyore, a Pooh, a Piglet, and a Pooh and Piglet duo all decked out in various Easterish accessories like bunny ears, eggs, baskets, etc. They also had a trio of brightly decorated Easter eggs. I believe that’s six, yes six, 6-8 ft tall inflatable characters gaily adorning the edge of the roofline. Oh, and each conveniently featured internal lighting, so there was no escaping them day or night. It was quite a thing to behold.
These neighbors also had a greenhouse in their backyard that you could see mysteriously glowing in the evening hours just over the top of their fence. Some of us quietly speculated about the contents of that greenhouse, contents which we thought might possibly explain a situation in which someone would think covering their roof in ginormous inflatable holiday characters was a good idea.
But alas, the day I had determined to finally snap my shot, the characters were gone! The greenhouse was even gone. They had been there the day before and then they suddenly disappeared with no warning. I saw no moving truck or large vehicles of any kind. Did they slink out of town in the dead of night? It was quite depressing, and I was afraid I’d lost all love for the project.
Well, apparently my neighbors have rallied to my support. “We can’t let Bythelbs down! We’ve got to find some way to annoy the living crud out of her,” they exclaim. So here we are back at the parking situation. I know, I know—dead horse and all that, but reader, these people continue to push the limits of acceptable parking practices and I’m constantly left to wonder if it can possibly get any worse. When will it all end?
I’ve already bemoaned the lawn parker, but here’s more proof that this has become an epidemic in my neighborhood:
Now in this instance, I suppose I should feel obliged to note that their driveway was indeed already full, but what you can’t see from this photo is that the rest of the street was virtually clear of other automobiles. There was ample, nay abundant, parking within 10-20 feet of their drive and yet they chose the lawn. Sigh.
Our next culprit puzzles me exceedingly. As you can see, their drive is completely clear as is the street in front of their house, but they have chosen to park on the walkway to their front door. They’re basically parked on their front porch. Why? Why?!
There used to be attractive potted plants along the red brick of that walkway, but it seems they have moved them for the express purpose of creating space enough for their Ford Windstar. I have seen several people come and go from this house, and none of them walk with a limp or use a white cane or appear to have any other physical disability that would prevent them from walking the extra 15 feet to their driveway. I’m just sayin’.
And now it would seem that my neighbors no longer feel the need to misuse their own property for their parking follies. Any old sidewalk will do:
In this case, it’s not just about being an eyesore. There’s a real safety issue here. This is a public sidewalk intended for the use of pedestrians to safely convey themselves from one end of the neighborhood to the other without the fear of being struck by a parking vehicle. Are you feelin’ me?
Double sigh.
A couple of weeks ago while helping DynaGirl wash her hair, we got to talking about her name and where it came from. I told her I got her name from my best friend in third grade, and then I tried to think of some interesting memories about my friend to make the namesake thing all the more exciting for my daughter.
Mom: I remember she had a pet chicken. It was one of those black and white speckly kind. She kept it in a cage on her patio because they lived in a condo and didn’t have a backyard.
DynaGirl: Was it a rooster or a chicken?
Mom: Hmm…I’m not sure. Actually, maybe it was a rooster because I think it crowed one morning when I had been sleeping over.
DynaGirl: Really? Cool. What else?
Mom: Her mom was a beauty queen.
DynaGirl: What’s a beauty queen?
Mom: You know, like in a beauty pageant? She had a bunch of crowns and sashes and things in a display case in their living room.
And then I was very sorry to say I couldn’t think of any more to tell her. But apparently DynaGirl was impressed because a few days ago while I was washing her hair again (we seem to have a lot of our most meaningful mother-daughter conversations during this ritual), she said:
DynaGirl: You should have been a beauty queen.
Mom: What do you mean?
DynaGirl: Well, it would be really cool to have a mom that was a beauty queen.
Mom: Oh, sorry.
DynaGirl: Mom, what did you do that was special? Before you were a mom?
I racked my brain trying to think of something that would be even the slightest bit impressive to an eight year old girl.
Mom: Well, I was kind of smart and got really good grades in school. I got a full scholarship to college.
DynaGirl: What’s a scholarship?
Mom: It’s when you get money to pay for your school. College costs a lot of money, and I had mine completely paid for.
DynaGirl: Oh. That’s cool, I guess.
She didn’t seem very impressed. I was thinking later that I should have told her I had won thousands of dollars. My kids often fantasize about winning large sums of money, so surely that would have been exciting. But then I figured considerable cool points would have been deducted once I explained that all the money was spent on school. Maybe I should have just told her that I used to do a great Fat Albert impersonation. That might have been fairly impressive had she any idea who Fat Albert was.
I’m not exactly sure what DynaGirl was looking for. Something to give her bragging rights with her friends? Does she think her mother being more special would somehow make her more special by association? I’ve decided that my nonspecialness (in the flashy beauty queen sense) is really more of a blessing for her. She won’t be living in my shadow. She won’t feel the need to compare her accomplishments to mine and then feel lacking in any way. The only big shoes she’ll have to fill are my literal size 9’s. That’s a gift, right?
So tell me about what makes you special. What would you say to your child if asked the same question?
So the kids have spring break this week. Spring break is something I look forward to with equal parts relief and dread. On the one hand, it’s lovely to have a week with no schedules, no places we have to be, no times we have to be up and about, no school lunches to pack or homework to be done. On the other hand, what am I going to do to keep the kids happy and entertained all week? Boredom leads to grumpy, testy, bickering, unpleasant children (and Mom), and a forecast of rain for the week threatened to make this “break” anything but.
By day 1, Mr. T was already bored to tears. While the girls busied themselves making a new sign for their bedroom door, Mr. T did this:
I was glad to see him channel some creative energy, and he was quite pleased with himself when he was all done. Of course, when the oohs and ahhs and picture taking were over he was back to being bored.
It’s now Day 3. Mr. T is sick and the girls are taking advantage of a brief appearance of the sun. I can hear them screaming and running around outside. Aren’t those the loveliest sounds? The sounds of happy, carefree youth, the sounds of unbridled joy and delight, the sounds that come from outside the house.
A couple of months ago I had gotten out the phone book for some reason or other and BigHugs took to carrying it around and leafing through its pages. I could not understand what the appeal was, but she was happy so hey, whatever. I put it away a day or two later and she moved on to the next thing, which happened to be Mr. T’s boy scout handbook. O-kay. Well the other day she walked over to the closed pantry and I thought maybe she was looking for a snack, but she asked for the phone book. I got it down for her and she was just so excited. It was like Christmas morning.
I tried to discover the source of her affection for Dex.
Mom: Why do you like the phone book so much, BigHugs?
BigHugs: I love the phone book because it’s a big square.
Mom: Ohhh.
BigHugs: I love reading the phone book, Mom.
Mom: You’re reading the phone book?
BigHugs: I want to read the alphabet. Look at all these pages. The pages are all smart.
I noticed she paused in the yellow pages section at an ad for Les Schwab tires. She plopped down on her tummy, propped herself up with her elbows, rested her chin in her hands and gazed at Les for a good 2 minutes before continuing her perusal. She was quite distressed when one of the pages ripped as she flipped it over.
BigHugs: This page is broken. We need to fix the phone book. We need some sticky tape to fix it.
Sticky tape a la Dora the Explorer.
I put the phone book away for now, but I’m thinking I have a good idea of what to wrap up for her 3rd birthday in a few months.
Dad: Hey listen, the frog is back. Hear it?
Mr. T: It must be a holy frog. We always hear it after we read scriptures or say prayers.
DynaGirl: Like a holy cow?
Mr. T: Yeah, but holy cows live in India.
DynaGirl: I thought they were from Japan or China or something.
Mr. T: No, it’s India. If you eat a cow there they’ll like kill you.
I think I may have to bone up on my world religions.
Mom: Goose, hold still! I can’t do your hair when you’re so wiggly. Sometimes you drive me so crazy…
Goose: So crazy you want to kill me?
Mom: No, I don’t want to kill people when I’m crazy. Do you want to kill people when you feel crazy?
Goose: I’d only want to kill people if Jesus told me to.
Mom: That is never going to happen.
Just how disturbed by this should I be exactly?
I had the dentist appointment yesterday. It really wasn’t so bad. I went to bed Wednesday night realizing once again that my two week flossing to good oral health (or at least good enough oral health to dupe the hygienist into thinking I was a semi-regular flosser) plan was completely forgotten yet again. So Thursday morning there I was brushing, flossing, swishing, rinsing and repeating like a madwoman, but it worked out OK. They really didn’t chew me out much. In fact, my hygienist was so complimentary of the cleanliness of my teeth, I was beginning to think I’d gotten away with the whole thing. But then the dentist came in and did that little gum measuring thing with the pokey metal prodder thingy and my gums bled some, and then she came right out and asked if I flossed every day. “Not every day,” I said. Plus, wouldn’t you expect anyone’s gums to bleed if you shoved a pokey metal prodder thingy in as far as it would go? I personally would be worried if they didn’t bleed. It would seem almost inhuman, right? Like a zombie or something?
So it wasn’t really a bad experience. Like I said, my hygienist was very complimentary. Almost too complimentary. When she first brought me back she apologized profusely for the long wait I had. It was about 40 minutes, so an apology was definitely in order and appreciated, but she only had to say it once and move on. She went on and on about how sorry she was that I had to wait–they had several emergency patients in that morning who happened to be flying somewhere later that day and you can’t let them leave the office and go take a flight somewhere with tooth or mouth pain because then that tooth or infected area or whatever might explode mid-flight–it wasn’t usually like this (actually, it totally is), but thank you so much for your patience.
After she finishes apologizing, I plop myself down in the chair and she asks me how to say my name. I tell her (Bie-thuh-powndz) and she says, “Oh wow, that is such a cool name. Beautiful! It sounds French or something. Is it French?” It’s not French. “Wow, I’ve never heard of that before. So pretty.” I thank her. My name is unusual, so it’s kind of cool to have people compliment it. Not everyone does. Sometimes they just say, “That’s un-u-sual”, which really means “weird”.
She makes some little notes in my chart and says, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.” Isn’t it in my chart? Is this a test?
“No way! You can’t be. I totally would have guessed you were in your twenties. What kind of moisturizer do you use?”
“Just the cheap stuff from Target.”
“Well, I’m going to have to pick up some of that. You look great!”
She starts putting on my little bib and then stops and stares at my hair. “That’s a great foil! Who does your hair?”
“My sister.”
“Where does she work?”
“She just works out of her garage.”
“Well, she did a great job. I love the color. So pretty.”
I thank her and think she’s sweet to have noticed and said something. That’s cool. So she finishes putting on my bib and then gets out all her little instruments. While she’s arranging her tray she says, “Cute shoes!” I thank her again and tell her they’re very comfortable.
“I have a Steve Madden pair a lot like them. I’ve had them for like seven years, but I swear to G that they’re still like my favorite pair.”
“Oh, yeah, uh these are Skechers, I think.”
“Skechers makes great shoes.”
OK, she likes my shoes. Cool. So she starts in on the polishing, and while she’s got the little spinning polishing thing in my mouth on one side and the little spit sucker vacuumy thing on the other says, “Wow, there’s really not much to clean her.” Cool. I’ve pulled it off.
“And your teeth are a great color. Do you drink coffee?”
“Uh-uh.” Why do they always ask you questions when you’re obviously incapable of responding?
“Tea?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Red wine?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Anything with caffiene?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s so great. Caffiene is really bad for you. Good for you! And your teeth have like no staining at all. You’re taking awesome care of them.”
Snort. If she only knew.
So she goes to rinse off the polishing gunk with the little water squirter thingy and accidentally gets some overspray on my face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Here let me just clean that up for you a bit. At least I’m not rubbing off your makeup. You must not be wearing any.”
“Actually, I have makeup on.”
“Well, it can’t be much. You’re so pretty, you don’t even need to wear make up.”
Ohhh-kay, lady. This is starting to get a little weird. Are we almost done yet?
After she gets me all cleaned up, she readjusts my bib–”We don’t want to get anything on your pretty sweater”–and starts in on the flossing. She finishes the bottom teeth and starts in on the top.
“Oh, you’re just like me, you’ve got that gap. You know what they say about that, don’t you?”
I have no idea, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.
“It’s a sign of intelligence. And true beauty.”
All right. Can we just get this over with?
The dentist comes in and does that ouchy gum measuring thing and then after the whole flossing discussion and some other stuff I won’t bore you with, I’m ready to go. I get up out of the chair and my sweet hygienist says again, “Look at her foil. Isn’t it a great foil?” “Oh yeah,” says the dentist.
Yeah, okay, whatever. I’m out of here.
“See you in six months!”
Uh-huh.
OK, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate a compliment as much as the next gal, but when people go kind of overboard like that, don’t you start to question their sincerity? I think this is an instance where less is more. Just swoop in, drop off the kind word or two and then move along. Gushing just smacks of phoniness or even pity. But then maybe I’m just a cynical ingrate incapable of graciously accepting a compliment.
So I heard back from Kraft. They were so helpful.
Hi Bythelbs,
Thank you for visiting kraftfoods.com. The formulation of KRAFT Peppercorn Ranch with Bacon Dressing has indeed changed and I’m sorry you were disappointed with our change.
In early 2008 KRAFT reformulated its Regular and Light pourable dressings, and now they do not contain artificial preservatives, resulting in a more fresh taste.
We have also made some quality and taste improvements to the following regular flavor dressings:
Balsamic Vinaigrette
Catalina
Classic Caesar
Creamy Buttermilk
Creamy French
Creamy Poppyseed
Tuscan House Italian (formerly House Italian)
Ranch
Ranch with Bacon
Roka Blue Cheese
Thousand Island
Zesty ItalianOur staff works very hard to provide the best tasting and satisfying products to the preferences of most consumers. Your opinion about the product is important to us as well and I will share your comments with our product development staff. Thank you again for taking the time to share your thoughts.
Kim McMiller
Associate Director, Consumer Relations
Argh! Zesty Italian is on the list, too! That’s DynaGirl’s favorite. Do you know how hard it is to find an Italian dressing without cheese?! If they’ve screwed up the Zesty Italian too, I just might have to stage a full-on Kraft Foods salad dressing boycott.
Do you have any idea who you’re messing with here Ms. McMiller?! We’re talking a potential of tens of dollars of lost revenue annually! Are you prepared to let that happen on your watch?
So Goose’s BFF’s mother invited us to dine with them at McDonald’s Monday, much to the delight and excitement of Goose who rarely gets to experience such a treat since sometime in the past year or so Mr. T and DynaGirl decided that McDonald’s is the Devil’s diner and no persons in their right minds would ever eat there voluntarily, and consequently in recent months the Bythelbs family’s patronage of the golden arches has dropped off considerably. But since Goose is in half-day kindergarten and gets out of school a full 3 hours before her other siblings, Mom will sometimes treat her to a drive thru happy meal. I avoid going in to the Playplace as a general rule because well, it’s a McDonald’s Playplace and it just kind of ooks me out, but I relented on Monday and accepted the invitation to eat inside.
I’ve never quite been able to figure out how the Happy Meal holds such magically enchanting powers over my children. As soon as we walk in the door, they immediately head to the display of that week’s featured Happy Meal prizes, and then there’s the discussion that inevitably follows about which toy is most desired and how death or at least eternal misery is certain if said toy is not present in the Happy Meal box of wonder, and then Mom must always point out that one does not get to choose the toy–a toy is just chosen and it is completely beyond Mom’s powers to change any child’s Happy Meal toy destiny and no amount of begging and pleading can change this. Of course the begging and pleading and hoping and pining and crying and whining continue until Mom threatens to leave right then and there with no Happy Meal box of wonder or french fries or chocolate milk or all-white meat pieces of chicken mushed together and molded into random egg and boot shapes.
Well, Monday was no different, only Goose really was on her best behavior and deserted the begging and pleading for just the hoping and pining for the Disney Princess plastic choker complete with a real live picture of Beauty and the Beast’s Belle on a locket-like pendant filled with perfume balm (it looked like lip balm, but the instructions showed a finger and a wrist and a disembodied nose floating above with some squiggly little lines I took to signify scent). BigHugs on the other hand was completely enamored of the Pirates of the Caribbean pirate ship (this was one of those gender specific boy/girl toy weeks) and went to full begging-pleading-hoping-pining-crying-whining mode. I usually try to stand firm on my principles and not ask the lovely McDonald’s workers for specific toys (because I’m just not one of those parents and I believe in teaching my children “you get what you get”), but I saw the pirate ship just sitting there at the Happy Meal box waiting station and on impulse asked if I might have one of those pirate ships. So BigHugs did get her beloved pirate ship, and I’ll be damned if Goose didn’t get her princess choker! Success! And amazingly enough, both BigHugs and Goose ate their meals without trying to sneak off to the little rodent tubes and tunnels before they had finished, and when it was time to go shoes and jackets were happily reapplied and we skipped out the door on our merry, little way. This was destined to be the best McDonald’s experience ever!
So we got home and Goose was proudly prancing about in her precious plastic perfumed princess pendant and BigHugs wants to know where her pirate ship is. No problem, I had tucked it safely away in the diaper bag back at the Playplace while we readied ourselves for departure. And there it was, except when I pulled it out it was missing a mast. The ship had originally come unassembled with two masts to stick into the deck and stick them I did, but now one was unstuck. Oh well, I figured it had probably just fallen off into the diaper bag, so I rifled through the bag but didn’t find it. So I emptied the bag of the wallet and diapers and little wipeys box and cheerios and Dora fruit snacks and first aidy ziploc with the bandaids and benadryl and the snot rag and everything. No mast. Hmmm. Well, on the way home, I had to stop suddenly for the idiot driver who had swerved in front of me and sent all manner of loose articles in my van flying and sliding all over the place. It probably got knocked out of my bag and slid under the carseat or something. Whatever–I can check it out later or next time I happen to be in the car. Or I can check it out now since BigHugs is looking at her ship a little funny like she knows something is not quite right. I looked under all the carseats and the floor mats and inside the open box of capri suns because hey, it was open and it certainly was not beyond the realm of possibility that a wayward pirate ship mast could have found it’s way inside during a sudden brake-slamming type stop. Hmph. No mast. Anywhere. It is lost and gone forever. I went back into the house and told BigHugs I’m sorry, but her mast was lost and gone forever, but it’s OK because her pirate ship still has one mast and is just as wonderful as it ever was. No biggie. But BigHugs looked sad. “The mast is lost? My pirate ship is broken? Mama can fix it.” “No, honey, I’m sorry, but it still works.” “Oh.” She left the ship on the table and walked away. Even better, I thought, because now I have a reason to throw it away now rather than waiting the customary 2-3 weeks before the lame-oid Happy Meal toy “mysteriously” disappears.
Fast-forward an hour. It was about 4 pm, and I had approximately one hour before Mr. T and DynaGirl’s piano lessons. The pirate ship was still sitting on the table looking all lonely and sad. I thought to myself that the little lost mast must have fallen off in the Playplace or maybe the parking lot as we were loading up. The little crazy wheels in my head started turning. You know, I thought, McDonald’s is right on the way from the piano teacher’s house. Perhaps I could just make a quick pass of the parking lot on my way home from dropping off the kids–it would only take a minute. If the mast wasn’t just sitting in the parking lot, I would just come home. No biggie. It’s not like I was going to go in and scour the Playplace or inquire at the counter if they had found any spare pirate ship masts floating around. But then I thought, that’s so lame–it’s just a cheapo Happy Meal toy that’s going to be forgotten in about 2 seconds. Drive by the parking lot? Don’t be ridiculous–you’re not actually considering doing that. I distracted myself by helping DynaGirl with some last minute practicing and rocking with BigHugs who was begging for a nap.
It was time for piano lessons and BigHugs was asleep, so I loaded the two oldest in the car and left Goose to watch the sleeping Big Hugs with very detailed instructions about not answering the door or unlocking it or even peeping out the window or answering the phone unless she hears Mom or Dad on the answering machine or trying to operate the microwave or any other electrical appliance (except for maybe the tv that she darn well better be parked in front of without making the slightest movement off the couch for the entire duration of my absence), and reminded her to be sure to run right over to the next door neighbor’s if some calamity should befall our house in the 6.2 minutes it will take me to make the roundtrip to drop off the kids at piano. I drove the kids to piano, thinking all the way about that little plan I had formed earlier in the back of my mind with the quick drive-by perusal of the parking lot, but I quickly dismissed it and decided once and for all that I most definitely would drive directly back home and forget all about it. But then I got to the stop sign–I could drive straight through and go home or turn right and make that quick hop over to MickeyD’s. I was at a crossroads, people. Stay straight and return to the safety of my home, keeping my dignity and sanity in tact or make a right turn towards Crazyville.
I turned right. There I was gunning the pedal to the floor, heading straight off the canyon wall into the abyss of insanity, Thelma and Louise style. And it was strangely exhilarating. Well, maybe not exhilarating, but my heart was racing and my palms were beginning to feel all tight and sweaty against the steering wheel. I pulled into the parking lot and there was an open space–the exact space I had pulled out of 3 hours before. As I pulled into the space my eyes scoured the ground for the tell-tale white mast, and holy cow there it was! Right there! Not a foot away from my now parked vehicle! I wouldn’t even have to turn off the engine and I could be out and in before anyone could know what I was doing! Just one little problem–there was a car parked in the space next to me and its back tire appeared to be ever so slightly covering the helpless little mast. As I got out of the car to make my first extraction attempt I noticed there was someone in the driver’s seat. I would have to be discreet. I quickly bent down (leaving my car door open for a quick retreat) and tugged at the mast. It was stuck. Like totally stuck. I weighed my options: I could accept defeat and just leave, wait for the car to leave or politely ask the driver to just back up the tiniest bit to release the mast. I dismissed the first option immediately. I mean, however crazy this whole scenario was, the mast was right there–I had come too far to give up now. The second option didn’t seem very wise, seeing how I had no idea how long that person might be planning to sit in the parking lot and also considering I had two little girls at home waiting for me who had now been alone for 8 minutes instead of the 6.2 I had originally planned on. I went with the third option. Sure, the lady might think I was completely nuts, but then again maybe she was a mother and would relate to my wanting to mend my child’s broken heart. I wouldn’t have to tell her her vehicle was sitting on a piece of a Happy Meal toy, right? I wouldn’t lie or anything, but I could let her think it was some more valuable possession. That would be OK, right?
I stood up (because I had been crouching by the back tire trying to recover the mast) and tapped on the passenger side window. The lady looked up and seemed somewhat alarmed. She was in the middle of her meal–looked like maybe a quarter pounder with cheese and large fries–and was shaking a bottle of something (ketchup? tobasco sauce?) onto her fries. I smiled my sweetest, non-crazy smile and signalled for her to roll down the window. She just stared at me. I tried to talk to her through the window, but she just pointed at her ear. I came around to the driver side window and tried to speak to her again. She just shook her head. I made another attempt at the roll down the window signal (all the time smiling for reassurance) and she just pointed to her ear and shook her head. She looked like she was probably of Hispanic decent, so I suppose it was possible that she did not speak English and figured there was no point in trying to talk to me. Only it didn’t really look to me that she was mouthing any Spanish words. I’m no professional lip reader, but I can recognize a “No habla ingles” when I see one. I finally tossed my hands up in the air and returned to my car. I sat there in the driver’s seat for a moment and weighed my options again. I thought I should really just leave. I had now been away from home 10 minutes, and it would take me an additional 4 to get home. Who knew when this woman was ever going to leave the parking lot. Maybe she was somebody’s ride and she was waiting for them to end their shift. Maybe I had frightened her to the point that she was afraid to make any move at all. And who knew what kind of condition the mast would be in anyway once her tire rolled off of it. How heavy is a Chrysler Town & Country anyway? Would the plastic of the mast be able to withstand the pressure of the vehicle pressing it into the asphalt parking lot? I decided once again that I had come too far to give up now.
I tried to sneak a peak at her out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t want to full-on stare at her–I mean obviously this was a very paranoid woman if she wouldn’t even roll down the window for a perfectly unmenacing looking woman with no visible weapon of any kind. (Plus she had to have had a good thirty pounds on me, she should have felt confident that she could take me down if need be.) Who knew what she would do if I spooked her? Here is my mind’s play by play of what happened next: OK, she’s down to her last couple bites of burger. Oh, now it’s done! She’s folding up the wrapper and tossing it into her bag. It should be any time now. Oh crap, here come the rest of the fries! Come on, anyone can eat fries and drive at the same time! OK, the fries are gone. She’s collapsing the red cardboard and putting it into the bag, too. Here comes the drink to wash it all down. Wait, now she’s stopping to make a phone call. That was fast, there must have been no one there. Come on, start the engine already. OK, now she’s cleaning out something from under her nails–must have been the ketchup. She’s got her phone out again. And it’s closed. Here comes the napkin to wipe her face and it goes into the bag, too. Oh, oh! She’s reaching back…yes! She’s got the seatbelt. The seatbelt is now buckled! She’s turning the key in the ignition, she’s looking in the rearview mirror, she’s backing up! And she’s gone! I dashed out of the car, snatched up the mast, hopped back in and after a quick examination saw that other than a few minor asphalty dents and scratches, it was perfectly fine. Oh ho ho, victory was mine!
I sped home. My 6.2 minute round trip ended up being 20 minutes. Goose was still sitting on the couch watching TV and BigHugs was still asleep. I washed and dried the little mast and stuck it back where it belonged and then busied myself with dinner preparations. A few minutes later Goose said, “Hey, you found the mast.” “Yeah,” I said. “Where was it?” she asked. “Oh, around.” There were no witnesses. No one ever had to know. Then after picking up the two oldest from piano I headed back into the kitchen to finish dinner. Mr. T came in and said, “Hey, the mast is back! You found it, huh?” “Yep.” My heart started pounding a bit. Don’t ask, don’t ask. He didn’t probe any further. Chuck came home from work and BigHugs was awake. “Oh, my pirate ship. I found the mast!” she said. “You got a pirate ship, BigHugs?” said Dad. I quickly tried to divert the conversation, “Yeah, we went to McDonald’s today. Dinner’s almost ready.” BigHugs was so excited for her resurrected pirate ship that she kept it by her side throughout dinner. DynaGirl noticed, too. “Where’d you find the mast?” It was almost too much for me. I began hearing a tell-tale Poe-eskian beating, I was feeling a scarlet C (for crazy) burn into my chest. What was this, the Spanish inquisition?! But then everyone dropped it. Deep breath and exhale. It’s OK.
But is it OK? When I was younger, living at home with all of my siblings, there were varying degrees of crazy around my house and my oldest sister used to joke that she and I were the only normal ones in the family, and then I would go into my room and write, “Dear Diary, I am the only normal one in the family.” I’m beginning to think I’ve just been kidding myself all of these years. I mean, I’ve been able to admit for quite some time now that I’m a tad OCD (OK, maybe more than a tad) when it comes to losing things and having incomplete sets of things and really needing to find that last puzzle piece in order to feel like life would go on in any kind of happy way, but after Monday I’m having a harder time laughing off that little bit of nutjobbiness that I used to rationalize away as a somewhat endearing quality of quirkiness. I’m beginning to think I’ve left the little dinner cruise ride around quirky harbor and jumped on the transcontinental non-stop flight to Crazy Town.
I can’t even rationalize the whole adventure as a passing whim, a heat of the moment snap decision. It was full-on pre-meditated crazy complete with the plotting and the covering up–my little crazy wheels spinning in my crazy brain the entire time. I fear I have no defense, and I’m not sure where this leaves me.
Or maybe I’m overreacting? Perhaps, gentle reader, you could offer some reassurance? What do you make of this little incident? Is this totally something you would do? Or maybe not something you would do, but something you would maybe do in your head but not actually ever go through with? Are you finding amusement in the re-telling of my little adventure? Or are you starting to fear for my well-being and the well-being of my children and wondering what kind of moral/ethical responsibility you have to somehow intervene now that you’ve heard about it? Let’s say on a scale of 1 to crazy, you’d give it a …?
Dear Kraft Foods Customer Service Person,
My children have multiple food allergies including dairy and eggs, and are very limited in their food choices, especially when it comes to salad dressings. They have been big fans of your Ranch with Bacon salad dressing, and while this may sound silly, it has meant a lot to be able to offer them this type of dressing since usually all they hear is “Sorry, you can’t have that”.
Today while grocery shopping, I noticed that your salad dressings have a new packaging. I’ve learned from experience that new packaging sometimes means a change in ingredients as well, and I was extremely disappointed to see that your Ranch with Bacon variety of salad dressing now contains both milk and eggs–two things to which my children are severely allergic.
I don’t understand why a perfectly good product that also featured the added benefit of being suitable for my special needs children would need to be so altered. It’s actually quite distressing to have to tell them yet again that they can no longer have something that they love. I am also very surprised that considering how common these types of food allergies seem to be these days there is not more of an effort made by companies such as yours to be more accommodating. I would think it would only widen your customer base.
I do thank you for clearly marking the allergens on your new and “improved” Ranch with Bacon dressing. At least I was immediately able to tell that your product is no longer suitable for my family.
Sincerely,
Bythelbs
Yes, I did actually send this e-mail yesterday. As soon as I returned home from my grocery shopping trip, I marched right upstairs, googled that darned Kraft Foods and headed straight for their “contact us” page. It takes quite a bit of navigating to finally reach the page where you can send an actual e-mail to someone. They have all of these FAQ menus in place that in no way addressed my particular need/complaint, so as you can see I was fairly well annoyed by the time I started writing.
As any of you who have ever had to deal with any kind of special dietary restrictions know, it really is quite distressing to have a product that fits all of your special requirements just up and change on you for no good reason. And now I have to break it to Mr. T that life continues to suck and be unfair because not only can he not have ice cream and birthday cake and regular ol’ pizza with cheese, he must also kiss the Ranch with Bacon salad dressing goodbye.
Badly done, Kraft Foods. Badly done.
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