to be written

There's a post I want to write about Chip's thoughts about Pizza Hut and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

There's a post I want to write about the weird and dumb things we've done in relationships.

There's also one waiting to be written about kickball in fifth grade.

There's one to offer advice and another discussing the symbolism behind a word Alice has been saying for a while.

I have all this... stuff. Stuff that I want to write. But I am currently indisposed. Another late night of coughing from the Bean on top of a project that had to be finished. Both left me limp and tired, late night eyelids barely able to stay open.

So.

Until tomorrow, my peeps, tell me your opinion on this mind blowing question: which restaurant reinvents more make believe food--- Taco Bell, with the thousands of repeating combinations of beans/cheese/meat/tortilla item OR Olive Garden with the also thousands of repeating combinations of meat/cheese/pasta item. It's a conundrum. Taco Bell has been reinventing the Taco/fancy spanish-sounding olupa thing longer, but I think Olive Garden does it more often, and I think they make up more fake food names. What's your call?

horrible christmas song round-up

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It's that time of the year when we've been subjected to enough holiday music that we know, we just know what's good and what's bad. And when a Christmas song is bad, you know it's really bad.

Last year I did a pretty comprehensive list of horrendous Christmas songs, and I stand by that list, I do. But I think there is more to be said - namely more from you.

I want to hear your nominations for Worst Christmas Songs, include sub categories please.



My new additions to the list:

For Worst Christmas Song Involving Footwear:
Christmas Shoes - I'm not sure what can be said about this song other than it ATTEMPTS TO MAKE YOU CRY, WITH DEATH. And that's not cool. Especially for Christmas.

For Worst Semi-Decent Song Ruined by a Popular Singer:
The First Noel, as weirdly sung by Sarah Mclachlan - Listen, I really like Sarah. I do. And I have her album, which is pretty lovely, EXCEPT FOR THIS SONG. She tries to sing it all tribal and sexy and it just... doesn't work. It's The First Noel, for crying out loud. It's supposed to be this sacred song about the birth of Christ and it just goes strangely awry from the first few thrummy drum beats. I skip it every time because it goes beyond anything listenable and needles directly to CREEPY. If you've heard it, you know exactly what I mean.

Speaking of Songs Ruined by Popular Singers:
- Burl Ives. The dude can do one song, and one song only, and that's Have a Holly Jolly Christmas. Anything else he sings sounds campy and strange.
- Santa Claus is Coming to Town as sung by Bruce Springsteen. It's not necessarily a Christmas Pulitzer Prize Winner or anything, but still: a solid song. However, when Bruce Springsteen starts to strangely belt it out, all downtown and throaty, it's dumb and annoying. I don't listen to it.
- Anything Christmas-y as sung by Jewel. Because, according to Chip, Jewel ruins everything.


Your turn.

binge sewing

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I had the best of intentions (and the best of plans) to get all my Christmas gift sewing done before Thanksgiving. Based on previous years, I knew that it was my only chance: getting it done before the mad slide into holiday insanity of December. And just as in previous years, October evaporated into November which slipped into December with nary a bit of sewing done. There were VERY GOOD REASONS for the lack of sewing. But still: NO SEWING.

My solution was this: a sewing intensive. Me, the machine, iron, ironing board, and notions set up in the dining room for available round-the-clock work. I set myself up on Friday morning and worked furiously, ignoring housework. I let Bean watch Scooby Doo until I was singing the song in my sleep. I stitched hems and ironed seams and pinned patterns until my eyes crossed. And still, here it is six days later and I haven't even gotten to the half way point.

Last night nearly broke my resolve. I'd been working on Bean's Christmas dress all day long - I picked back the seam for the neckline FOUR TIMES. And the gathers - THE GATHERS. The thread kept breaking and I had to go back and sew it again and again and I wanted to stab myself with stick pins. STAB.

But after many hours it was done and ready for Bean to try it on. So cute! With the gathers around the neck and the tiny little fabric-covered buttons! I was so proud. I called Chip over to watch to proceedings, grabbed Bean and told her she was going to try on a brand new dress! (Again: SO PROUD.)

And then it wouldn't go over her head.

She got really upset.

But I wasn't going to give up, not after all that work.

So I tugged.
And wiggled.
And wedged.

And Bean? She wasn't pleased.

But eventually I got it over her noggin and on her body.

And it was.... not good.

Funny fitting. Tight near the arms. With a weird pinched fold up near her arms.

In a word: AWFUL.

And then there was this, from Bean: I DON'T LIKE IT. CAN WE TAKE IT OFF? TAKE IT OFF NOW?
NOW?

I stomped around the house for the rest of the evening, feeling like the biggest sewing failure EVER.

(First rule of sewing: if the recipient of your sewing project says CAN WE TAKE IT OFF within the first 60 seconds of wearing the garment, you have a problem. Second rule of sewing: if the garment won't go over your recipient's head, you probably shouldn't try to force it. ...On second thought, that might be the first rule.)



I'm heading back into the sewing trenches today. I have scrapped Christmas Dress Number One. Ugh. What's making you crazy right now? For me, it's a sewing project that wants me to die.

stretching it out to two entries, really

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In response to yesterday's post.



One of the greatest pleasures of being married to Chip is how fun and weird he can make everyday things.

Case in point: SuperWhy.

When we all saw our first episode, we were on a trip - and somehow we kept missing Bean's daily allotment of Sesame Street. It must've been due to the time change, I'm not sure, but we'd get back to our room from breakfast, turn on the TV and get... not Sesame Street. Instead, it was Wyatt and his SuperWhy gang and all their adventures rewriting fairytales.

I sort of hated it from the very get go.

And then came the final song. And you know what? I hated that too. But it stuck in my head like superglue and I found myself singing it later that afternoon. So did Chip. However, in fine Chip fashion he decided to channel Eddie Vedder singing Hip hip hooray, the Super Readers saved the day.

It was so weird, so awesomely weird--- and I love it. It's one of my very very favorite things in life, listening to Chip sing this ridiculous song in an even more ridiculous voice, and when he starts making up words? Oh, if I could share it with you I would.

Now we sing this stupid song all the time. Like seriously, ALL THE TIME. I've listened to Bean sing it over the room monitor, when she's supposed to be asleep in bed. Chip has sung it in Home Depot (about buying a toilet seat--- lyrics were something like Hip hip hooray, we get to buy a toilet seat today. We're at Home Depot, we've got some options, we'll work together to spruce up the potty.) So. Now that you think my husband is adorable and also so very odd--- I'll tell you that the entire SuperWhy thing continues to bounce between annoying and freakishly charming for me. It depends on the day. I'm not a fan of rewriting fairy tales to get a different ending, but I do like the fact that they teach children about positive thinking, cooperation, and confidence. I also like that they stress the importance of reading--- how it opens doors, unlocks secrets, helps you to understand human behavior. That song, though. It can stay with me for DAYS. And not in a good way.



In other news:

The Cat in the Hat. I absolutely adore Dr. Seuss. Love him. His delightful illustrations, the stories, the characters. Love. So I was excited to check out PBS' The Cat in the Hat Knows A Lot About That. I still do like the concept, and I can't believe they got Martin Short to the the Cat's voice--- but I've got to tell you after a while, it gets to be a little... annoying. True story.


Curious George. Cute animation. And again, points for the effort to make it educational. But seriously, I can't stand how people let this monkey do whatever he wants, wreaking havoc all over the city (and countryside). But what gets me the most, beyond anything else (including the man in the yellow hat sending George out BY HIMSELF, WITH MONEY, TO BUY DONUTS), is George's monkey voice. Like nails on a chalkboard, people. Annoying.



Super Grover Version 2.0. I support Sesame Street's efforts to teach kids about the scientific method, help them to problem solve and be more observant about the world we live in. But I don't think they needed to change Super Grover to do it. I loved him, the original Super Grover, with his fluttery cape tied with that puffy ribbon and his aluminum hat. He was just perfect. Now they've got him suited up in armor, people. ARMOR. And did I mention shoulder caplet thingamadoodads? I liked Super Grover just the way he was. But I'm a Sesame Street purist. I'm not so much a fan of Abby's Flying Fairy School either (tell me what THAT is supposed to teach). So I think I'm still fence-sitting about SGV 2.0 (oh dear me did I just give Grover a geek-chic ACRONYM? Kill me now.)



Let me just add that I'm totally on board with Ellie's thoughts on Sid the Science Kid. I kinda like Suzie and she comes up with some fun songs, but the montage at the school with the singing and the dance--- ARGH.



As for Pat Sajak? When I was trolling the internet looking for pictures of his 'do, I unearthed a whole debate about whether or not he's bald--- so I'm letting Mr. Sajak off the hook altogether. But I do have one request, if Mr. Sajak is listening - go with a slightly less bronzey-blond color, and we'll all be the better for it.

annoying or freakishly charming?

(I'm taking a break from Real Content today. Come! Join me in the silliness!)



In my journey of parenthood, it has occurred to me that many of the things that are geared toward children straddle the line between annoying and freakishly charming so carefully that I can't decide if these things are just fine, or if I want to literally claw my eyes out and place them in a lead-lined box for the irritation.




In honor of this conundrum, I present to you a new feature here at The Creamery:

annoying
or
freakishly charming




The new pbs Cat in the Hat, specifically Martin Short as The Cat. And more specifically still, his singing.
What do you say? Annoying or freakishly charming?

Curious George's monkey voice. The aeeee eeeee ieeeee.
Annoying? Or freakishly charming?
(You don't have to watch the whole 2 minutes and 9 seconds to make your choice)

Super Grover Version 2.0.

I'm talking about the New and Improved, Updated and Tricked Out Super Grover (version 2.0!). And frankly, I'm not sure if I should even ask, because I have a very strong opinion about this one, but nevertheless: Is he annoying or freakishly charming?

SuperWhy. There's a laundry list of things to say here, a veritable cloud of, um, let's just say quirkiness from SuperWhy that is sure to either totally unhinge someone, or melt them into a puddle of cuteness. Let's leave it at: the song, the retelling of stories in weird and totally inaccurate ways, and this, which Bean has taken to repeating at odd times during the day: Peas and carrots, carrots and peas! Come out book, please please please!

What do you think? Annoying or freakishly charming?

And just in case you think this is limited to toddler pop culture: What say you about Pat Sajak's hair?

Annoying or freakishly charming?

My answers (and disclaimers) coming tomorrow. But I do want to know what you think--- and do you have any others to add to the list?

sunny days

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Mom keeps a large green bin on reserve for visiting grandchildren and other dignitaries of the under 3-foot set.

It contains the remaining bits of our childhood toys.

Matchbox cars and trucks of every shape and size.

Boats and a circus train.

And Little People, dozens of Little People (you know the ones)--- Not the Little People of Leprechaun fame, but the Fisher Price Little People with the round-barrel bodies and spherical heads.

I had a blast sitting them in tiny rectangle cars and pushing them in tiny little strollers.

They still have a motor boat and a yacht, but no one has the keys to Main Street or the Parking Garage. The castle is gone. So is the schoolhouse. And sadly, most of all, the loss of the big apartment building over on Sesame Street.

However, in my search among the survivors, I spied a few familiar faces.

I believe Ernie is sporting a black eye from the fight he had with the blond teacher with the pony tail. And Burt, poor Burt is looking a little worse for wear, what with him sleeping behind the dumpster and underneath the schoolhouse swingset.

Gordon is the only one still looking like he can sing Making Believe with Maria and Bob. I have to question his use of the Sanitation Truck as Big Bird conveyance--- though Big Bird himself can't offer much of a backstory. After losing his head feathers in that unfortunate toxic waste spill...

That is, unless Big Bird always looked this blitzed.

the awesome/not awesome of taking sleepy cold medicine at night

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One of the best things about writing a post saying that I've been busy and I'm still busy and it might be a little bit before I write again is that, inevitably, I end up writing the very next day. Every time.


So last night* I took some sleepy cold medicine. Let's not talk about why because I am refusing to even mention the Sick word for fear that my body will just give up, wave the white flag, and then succumb to a constant couch bound shivering mass. So instead let's just say that I took some cold medicine last night for some odd reason.

This morning has me thinking about the pros and cons of that action, as evidenced by my direct experience. Without further delay, I present a return to AWESOME / NOT AWESOME, via sleepy cold medicine, all in REAL TIME, because I am fancy. And also loopy.



Awesome:
Sleep! Sleep sleep sleepy deepy schlepy sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

Not awesome:
It is 5am? No?
7am? No?
You're telling me it's 8am and I'm still blurry-eyed and mumbly?!



Awesome:
Rested.

Not awesome:
Rested but feels very-much-like-a-lingering sweater over my enter body, including eyes/ears/mouth/nose. What time is it again?



Awesome:
No more fiery throat of brimstone and death!

Not awesome:
I have given Bean the following for "breakfast" since I can't even be bothered to know what time it is exactly: wheat pretzels, chips, twisty pretzels, Special K cereal. They are all the very similar shade of BROWN, and each of them has fit nicely in an easily-ported-around-the-house CUP. I'm not sure she's even seen a slip of milk in several days.



Awesome:
Have I mentioned the sleep? The glorious, so desperately needed sleep?

Not awesome:
My ability to even care about things that should be dealt with has dwindled to the following: if I can be sitting down while doing it, and if it involves as little thinking/talking as possible. To wit: in the last several minutes Bean has spilled her brown food du jour and I have merely bent down, whisked the floor-infected bits to the side (for sweeping at a later time) and then refilled the cup. Sleep-walker style.



Awesome:
If I can suspend my distant but still real irritation that I'm not doing anything of substance, it's a nice little ride, the not caring. I like feeling unaffected by the growing list of To Do's.

Not awesome:
Still. It's a REAL irritation. And my list isn't getting any shorter, nor are the ever-growing piles of brown food bits lining my walls getting any smaller. (Add "sweep and mop" to the list.)



Awesome:
I am so easily distracted! I can't be bothered to bother! About anything! Other than sitting here on my tushy and thinking longingly about the couch across the room. Mmmmmmm couch.

Not awesome:
Distracted! Yes! And there is a bathroom to clean! And emails to write! And phone calls to make! And --- Hey there's the couch over there and I think I also spy the comfy green blanket. Mmmmmmmm couch.




Whatcha got on your awesome/not awesome list today?





*And for accuracy's sake I will tell you that I did, indeed, write this post on Thursday morning(ish), but felt that I shouldn't burden you with thinking of this depth and breadth until Friday had properly rolled around.

You're welcome.

bobby flay: grim reaper of dreams

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I give full and complete credit to Chip for this observation. He noticed it first and then totally ruined my bland disinterest by making a casual remark about Bobby Flay, darling of the Food Network and (apparently) Chef Extraordinaire.


About this: Bobby Flay, Iron Chef and quite possibly the only person that works at Food Network (because otherwise wouldn't they, like, restrain themselves from giving ALL the shows to Bobby Flay - at last count he has FOUR count 'em FOUR different shows in rotation on that network)... and I believe he also sold his soul to Wishbone Salad Dressing because he occupied an entire TV CHANNEL 24-7 for several weeks leading up to the Fourth of July. With recipes for SALAD DRESSING.


Anyway. My rant is about one particular show in the Bobby Flay empire: Showdown with Bobby Flay. If you haven't seen it, the basic concept is that Bobby Flay, renowned chef and television personality of the galaxy, "surprises" unsuspecting amateur foodies and small-time chefs by showing up and challenging them to a showdown featuring their signature dish (from chocolate chip cookies to coconut cake to fried chicken). Both Bobby Flay and the chef being showdowned then proceed to each make the dish while a few judges (arranged beforehand) eat the offerings and declare a winner.



Sounds innocuous, right? Well. That's what I used to think.



And then Chip comes along and points out the following:


1. First the obvious: Bobby Flay is a PROFESSIONAL CHEF. With a veritable SEA OF MINIONS (not the lovely creamy kind that I have, either). These are Minions of Cookdom - two are shown on-screen each episode, but I bet that there is a whole slew of scurrying Minions researching the dishes and cooking up various test options and doing their dastardly Minion behind-the-scenes work all the while Bobby Flay just lords it over everyone with his supposed charm and good behavior and VAST KNOWLEDGE OF ALL THINGS RELATED TO FOOD.



2. Whereas the cook being challenged is, like, USUALLY A HOME-TOWN, HOME-TAUGHT COOK. No Minions to speak of. Maybe a hapless kitchen helper or friend standing by wringing their hands and trying to appear competent as the army of Food Network cameras descend on them, (have I mentioned) TOTALLY BY SURPRISE.



3. In some cases, maybe even in MANY cases, the dish that Bobby Flay is trying to copycat and beat is the home-town cook's CLAIM TO FAME. Their one and only SPARK OF FAMEDOM. The thing that other people KNOW THEM FOR. Who the heck is Bobby Flay to TAKE THAT AWAY FROM THEM? He's all, I know that you've been making your great great grandmother's recipe for three generations and everyone from the surrounding five counties comes to your kitchen door to sample it, but dude. I got me some Minions, and they baked up a pie that will KICK YOUR PIE'S TRASH. Take that, hometown cook! May you forever be shamed into telling everyone that your pie is SECOND BEST to Bobby Flay! (mighty fist pump!) ---In my imaginings, Bobby Flay refers to himself in the second person, much like Elmo but with a tiny bit less fur and with, you know, THE MINIONS.



4. I further have a problem with the time Bobby Flay is able to research and prepare for the showdown. The hometown cook is told that they are being featured on a Food Network special about their particular dish. They do a little cooking segment with the cameras, and then have some kind of public celebration with their nearest and dearest friends to eat their creation. It's at the shindig that Bobby Flay busts in and dashes their dreams of starring in a Food Network special and announces BOBBY FLAY IN THE HOUSE! YOU WILL EAT BOBBY FLAY'S DUST AND BREAD CRUMBS (MIXED WITH A COMBINATION OF RED PEPPERS AND CILANTRO)! Prior to this interruption, though, Bobby Flay is given acres of time to prepare and practice and perfect his challenging dish. Also, though they don't necessarily show it on screen, I suspect the Minions are dispatched to the hometown cook's kitchen and root cellar to spy out any and all secrets.



Doesn't it all just seem... UNFAIR? And sort of STACKED AGAINST THE HOMETOWN HERO? Now that I have all these thoughts about how Bobby Flay will only be content when any and all left on the face of the earth worship him as the Best Chef of All Time Forever and Ever Amen--- I watch for little signs of cracks in the facade--- in Bobby Flay and the hometown chefs.



There's an episode where he's doing a challenge for clam chowder and the hometown chef is mad. You can just tell. It's all over his face, and the cameras can't skip past it quick enough. I don't blame him. I'd be mad too. Here's this dude who lives and breathes to make awesome clam chowder. And he's excited to be telling Food Network about it. It's a huge deal, right? And then here's our favorite freaking Iron Chef, Bobby Flay--- waltzing in at the back and suddenly it isn't a show about this guy's chowder, it's Bobby I'm Going to Make Better Chowder Than You Flay. Doing his level best to steal poor chowder guy's thunder Or there's the sweet little grandma who bakes pineapple upside down cake. It's like the one and only bright spot of goodness in her unassuming life, the one thing she offers to friends and family as her GIFT, something she can give them of her hands and heart and her veritable SOUL and then here's Bobby Flay, "Bobby Flay is going to CUT YOU, Grandma--- take THAT old woman! I can beat your pineapple upside down cake and then I'm going to go eat some spicy peppers! Bobby Flay is the destroyer of your SOUL!"

How much do you want to bet that Bobby Flay sits in his apartment on the weekends, trolling local newspapers for budding chefs and local food celebrities. Anyone who is eeking by with a small slice of notoriety. And BOBBY FLAY WILL NOT STAND FOR THAT, NO HE WON'T. So he calls up some of his Minions and his lackeys at Food Network to get on it. Clearly someone (a grandma? a 70-year-old hairy dude who lives to smoke meat? a woman from San Antonio, Texas who makes awesome tacos?) needs to be schooled. No one is better than Bobby Flay. NO ONE.

I make a pretty decent cupcake, and I'm starting to worry that Bobby Flay is going to burn through every chef's heart and soul, and start to run through the common masses. All I'm saying is that if Bobby Flay shows up at our next backyard barbecue and is all BOBBY FLAY CHALLENGES YOU TO A SHOWDOWN, I'm going to have to punch him in the throat.

So before that happens, I've decided that the Food Network folks need to take this in another direction altogether. Stop all the cooking. It's just pointless. Instead, I want to see Bobby Flay and Hometown Chef/Grandma/Angry Chowder Guy just wrastling it up in some mud or jello. Or how about we consider a demolition derby: last car still running is the winner? Sounds like a much better deal to me.

three truths and one lie

So here we go. Of the four things I've listed, tell me which one is the lie.



I am the designated cat puke cleaner-upper in the house.


The recent introduction of a revolutionary housekeeping technique has literally changed my life.


I am a semi-regular viewer of the soap opera General Hospital.


I am the only person residing in the house that likes black licorice.



And seriously, there's a story for every single one of these even the ones that sound pretty benign. I'm kind of dying to tell you the stories, actually. But first you need to judge which one of these is a fib. Go!

return of three truths and one lie

I have decided that we are in desperate need to play a GAME. What do you say? Game playing this week?


I propose the following: I'm going to tell you four things--- three of them true and one of them most decidedly NOT. And you get to guess which one is the fib. But there's more. Each day I'll tell you the background of one of the true stories until it's obvious which one is the faker. If you're in the mood, you should play along on your blog too. Let's see which one of us is the better liar. If you're playing along - let me know and I'll link back here.

That's all I've got, this fine Monday morning. The announcement of playing a game, an invitation for you to do the same, and then nothing else.

Except this: I had one of those surreal string of days last week where I had several MAJOR things to accomplish and I was scared into a daze of doing none of it. Like I found myself actually floating aimlessly and fitfully around the house saying to myself SO MUCH TO DO and then resumed my fitful floating. During the fitful floating I started fixating on the fact that we have exactly three photos hung on our walls and we've lived here for five years. So what does any intelligent person do when they have SO MUCH TO DO? Clearly they clean out the garage and extract a large box of unused frames that they then become convinced must be hung on the walls of the house. Immediately. So then (still not doing anything that I actually REALLY REALLY REALLY NEEDED TO DO) I shopped around the house to find some walls that would take frames well. This took a large chunk of time. After the walls were chosen, there was a good amount of staring and thinking and imagining which frames to put where and exactly where those frames should be positioned. Enter stage left: Insane Planning Whimsy armed with paper cutouts of the frames to tape on the walls to more fully envision the final product of frames-on-walls. And even then, after all the flitting and the frame shuffling and garage cleaning-out, there was frame PAINTING in the driveway and a trip to Home Depot for a refill of black spray paint.

The end result: I am STILL not done with my SEVERAL ITEMS THAT MUST BE COMPLETED IMMEDIATELY but I have nearly two walls of frames hung. So... win? Win for me?

I guess the lesson we learn here is that even when you think you have all this junk that should be done RIGHT NOW, it turns out that maybe it can wait several days. And dude, right now is a great time to hang some frames.

(In case you were wondering: no pictures in the frames. At least not yet. That's going to wait until the next time I have too much to do.)

So to recap: tomorrow we're doing three truths and one lie. And you should play too. How was your weekend?

you're welcome

Q:

What happens when you go into physical therapy on Friday, in tears, complaining of weird and intense shoulder/neck pain that has switched to the complete opposite side of your body?

A:

Jon the physical therapist sends you home with a towel wrapped tightly around your neck.

(And then you note that "throat towel", while not something you've ever considered as a fashion option for yourself, is, in fact, REALLY NOT something you can "carry off".

When Jon suggests that maybe you should wear the throat towel while you're tooling around Costco with your husband, you politely decline.)

things I don't understand

Justin Bieber's hair.








Chip's singing imitation of Eddie Vedder covering the opening song for Super Why.








Why Bean says GOPEN instead of open.













This overly used phrase on any of The Bachelor / The Bachelorette franchise shows: I really feel like we have a connection.











While we're on the subject of The Bachelorette: the crying weatherman on last night's episode. (I KNOW I shouldn't have even been watching it - and normally I don't watch it, but there was nothing on, and I was waiting for Chip to come upstairs so we could watch a movie, and... oh dear. There is no excuse. But I watched it. And the weatherman dude CRIED. Because the other guys were laughing at him.)

Michael Jordan's current facial hair configuration choice.







If any of you can shed light on any of the above, please do so. I'd greatly appreciate it, because I? Am totally clueless.

gummies for president

I am mounting a campaign.

GUMMIES WILL SAVE THE WORLD.

Or at least my family's vitamin-consumption needs.

How did I not know they existed until a short few weeks ago?

I got some for our resident carbivore, Bean.

Gummy vits to introduce actual VITAMINS into her diet of brown food (all carbs, all the time).

Of course I needed to try them first.

Make sure they were edible.

And they were.

Edible.

Quite sure, edible.

Yummy, even.

Perhaps delicious.

A few days later I found some gummy vits of the adult variety.

Snatched them up, the largest bottle.

Also delicious.

And then I found some gummy vitamin C at Trader Joe's.

Snatched up, no question.

And also: delicious.

Yum.

Orangey.

While in the vitamin aisle at Trader Joe's I was surprised to see

gummy veggie/fruit bits.

I have no idea of their purpose (beyond the already-covered-bases from the children's gummy vits).

But snatched up anyway.

Purchased.

And yes, at last, of course, also sampled by yours truly.

It's becoming a sickness.

I'm searching for the gummy version of anything

and everything.

Gummy calcium?

Gummy ibuprofen?

Gummy Benedryl?

A bonifide gummy habit.

I may kill myself with vitamin kindness.

there's alot going on in this post and you might not be able to keep up (I certainly didn't)

I lied when I told Chip earlier in the day,

"You know, this cold isn't so bad. It's totally doable, in fact. I'm just fine."

Maybe it wasn't that I lied, it's just that the Cold Fairy was waiting in the wings, listening to my gloating, and decided to dump an extra bit of MISERY on my soggy, self-righteous, stupid self.

Yes, I said stupid.

Because who ELSE would say that, just TEMPTING the fates to offer a New and Improved Rain of Toads to the Whimsy Misery Train?

Me. I am that stupid.

Speaking of the Fates and my stupid cold-tempting sneeze-having self: Chip and I met his sister Marissa to see Clash of the Titans a few nights ago. (This was when I was all COLD-SCHMOLD! I AM WHIMSY, HEAR ME ROAR!) It was a nostalgic sort of movie event, each of us envisioning bad claymation scorpions and awesomely terrible special effects from the original 1980's movie. The new one? ....let me just say this one word and you'll just know: thighs. The new movie? Thighs, thighs, thighs. Mostly man thighs. After the movie Chip was all, "I feel intimately familiar with Perseus' upper... thighs." And I was all, "BIG AS TREE TRUNKS, MAN. Was that really the same dude who was in Avatar? Really? Cuz he was all scrawny. And Perseus? Tree-trunk thigh-muscles." Chip merely raised his eyebrows at me and sighed. Because I am That Wife. Later, in the car as we drove home, Chip started to refer to himself as Demi-Chip in his attempt to show up the Demi-God Perseus (perhaps he was a little jealous of those thighs?).

I can tell when I've been reading a lot from this awesome blogger because my sentences get really short and I want to write really sarcastic things that would never be funny coming from me.

Also: I start to think I'm funnier than I am.

It's okay. I'm trying to keep humble.

I keep having this strange desire to shriek, "RELEASE THE KRAKEN!" And then I run my fingers through my manly Zeus beard.

The cold-that-wasn't-going-to-send-me-over-the-bend-but-did resulted in me taking this lip-lickingly good medicine.

Notice that there isn't any left in this photo. I can also give you a nice list of tips to end your diet NOW AND FOREVER MORE, which strangely enough, includes things like "get a cold and feel terrible" and "take this medicine which makes you feel fuzzy and weird ALL DAY LONG" so that you will then "decide to not exercise and instead eat a fully stocked hotel breakfast including HASH BROWNS" which leads to imagining a sign hanging over your head reading "abandon all hope, all ye who enter here" and then "eat an entire bag of homemade oatmeal cookies". Cheers!

In case you're keeping track (it's okay, I know you're not keeping track)--- we are still waking up at 4am and wanting to die. Just, you know, the usual.

I can't be held responsible for the choices I make when severely sleep-deprived. For example, from the Target $5 DVD bin:

I don't know either. It was a compulsion.

The last time I surrendered to this type of madness, I walked out of Target with a copy of The Last Unicorn (music by AMERICA). I remember just being madly in love with that movie when I was a kid. It was like a sickness, I loved that movie so much. Watching it several years later gives me insight into my psyche and I've got to tell you: I'm not pleased with what I've found. Um. This movie? ...................................it's terrible. Awful. Horrid. There is this music that just makes you want to put your head in an oven, and the animation is atrocious. It doesn't give me much hope for the cinematic masterpiece known as POPEYE, but you know what? I'm watching it ANYWAY. Me and my terribly tired eyelids.

Whimsy out.

blame the drugs

It's that nebulizer.

For four days now I've been doling out the treatments to Bean--- saving up for when she needs it most and is coughing and wheezing and generally sounding like a broken accordian.

The biggest problem is that she won't suck on the tube.

And she certainly isn't putting on the mask.

Even if it looks like a jaunty smiling fish.

So I do what I do.

I sit her on my lap with a pile of books nearby.

And I hold the nebulizer mouth thingy as close to her own mouth and nose as possible.

Hoping that the misty drug juice will sneak into her system.

But what happens is,


it also sneaks into mine.

And so


let me just say


I'm simultaneously wired


and exhausted


jittery


and dead.






But my child?


Totally unaffected.











Have a wonderful weekend, mah peeps.


Wish me good restful sleep when my husband comes home this evening.


...and maybe some other stuff.





I miss that guy.

olympicated

Some of the ways we've been enjoying the Olympics:



. Eating grilled cheese sandwiches on thickly sliced homemade bread.



. Imagining that the male ice skaters are wildly dressed servers at Olive Garden. I'll be back with your bread! (pirouette) Some salad for you! (triple jump) Would you like romano cheese on that? (swizzle, swizzle, swizzle)



. Practicing our reactions if someone offered us tickets to the opening night of compulsory ice dancing (where, it would seem, everyone dances to the EXACT SAME SONG-- a nerve-jangling salsa-polka hybrid thing... clearly written by DRUNK 80-YEAR-OLD LEIDERHOSEN JUNKIES. (Whimsy: Um, you can't make me go. Chip: Thanks, but I'd rather shoot myself in the unmentionables.)


. Trying to figure out what downhill skiers are envisioning when the cameras catch them minutes before their run, standing with their eyes closed, hand motioning through the air, head waving side to side. (So far we have thoroughly REJECTED the suggested answer of "running through the race course" in place of the following top three: wildly specific dance routine set to Flashdance, maneuvering their car through downtown Vancouver traffic, swim strokes for their attempted crossover into the summer Olympics so they don't have to wait another four years for a medal.)



. Repeatedly rewinding ski crashes (firstly ensuring that no one has died or harmed themselves irrevocably--- we are crass but we aren't tasteless).


. Watching Chris Del Bosco's helmet camera's first person view of his wipe out during Sunday night's ski-cross final. Our favorite part? His shadow as he's pinwheeling in the air just prior to the stellar faceplant.



and lastly



. Theorizing the origins of those terrible personal photos displayed for each and every athlete just as they are about to compete. (Some possibilities: out takes from prom night, evil photo booth sitting outside a wind tunnel, mug shots styled by Nick Nolte.)





Now it's your turn. How do you watch the Olympics?

a conversation with chip

Chip: You're not going to post those pictures of the deer in your parents' backyard, are you?

Whimsy: Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?

Chip: Because... they're odd.

Whimsy: I love odd. Besides, you took a bunch of them yourself.

Chip: Mine were restful.

Whimsy: What? Mine were restful too!

Chip: No. Yours were weird.

Whimsy: What do you mean by weird?

Chip: You took pictures of deer cleaning their bums.

Whimsy: It was a part of nature.

Whimsy: Would you rather I post the picture of the deer burying her head in the snow?

Whimsy: And besides, it's not like I took A LOT of them.

...and if you lasted through the end of this post, I have a teaser for tomorrow: I'm going to make an official announcement about the MINIONLYMPICS, coming next week!

death of a toothpaste tube

(There are some sincere thank-you's that I want to offer to you all. But first, to show just how low our threshold of hysteria, I present to you our photo essay of a bathroom implement...)

When I opened my overnight bag in the IHOP parking lot near the Boise Airport on Friday morning (looking for some nail clippers for Chip and some lotion for me), the only thing I saw was blue. Sparkly blue. On my overnight bag. In my overnight bag. On my make-up bag. In my make-up bag.

Stupid toothpaste.

Let me tell you about this tube of toothpaste. It has a problem. A lack of control, if you will. A bladder problem. Or a regurgitating problem. However you'd like to think of it - up and out or down and through. It doesn't matter. It tends to throw up sparkly blue goo whenever (and wherever) it wants. On the bathroom counter (left on its side for a little bit too long). On my hairbrush (again, on the side, too long). And now, in my overnight bag.

As soon as I got back in the car (toothpaste tube in hand) I told Chip that we needed to put it out of its misery. Dispose of it. Rid our lives of the barfy blue toothpaste tube.

We rode across Idaho trying to think of a fitting end.

Some possibilities included:

Death by tire.

Death by avalanche.

Death by Toddler.

Or even death by short perky dog.

With snorffling.

But ultimately, what seemed like the most fitting end, the most flattering end, the most humane end...

Death by firing squad.

But first...

A blindfold.

And then, the unthinkable happened. The poor incontenant toothpaste tube took matters into its own hands. Or tube (as it were).

And jumped to its own bitter end.

RIP, terrible toothpaste tube.

fa la la la laaaaaaaaaa - NOW EDITED WITH MORE LAAAAA

I have a strange Christmas tradition of ruining Christmas songs for Chip. Two years ago it was Winter Wonderland. This year we're focusing on John Lennon's Happy Xmas. We were listening to the song a while back and I mentioned how much I HATE hearing Yoko Ono's caterwauling in the background chorus.
Chip: What? Yoko Ono sings on this song?
Whimsy: YOU DIDN'T KNOW?
Chip: I thought it was KIDS! A group of off-kilter singing KIDS!
Whimsy: It is. But it's also Yoko Ono. And she sounds awful.

I could see the alarm in Chip's face as he listened to Ono's cat-in-heat screeching. I hate to say it, but once you notice it, you can't NOT notice it. Ever. Again. It becomes the Song That Is Really Sweet Until Yoko Ono Joins In.

Which is exactly what happened with Chip.

From Chip, day three: I can't listen to that song anymore without hearing her. Did she do it ON PURPOSE? Wasn't John Lenon a musician who is supposed to KNOW when someone should not be allowed to sing? ON THEIR RECORD?

Yes. And yes.

So I've done it again, ruined a perfectly good song for dearest Chip. And now, if you didn't already know about the Terrible Singing Injustice of Yoko Ono, I've done it for you. You're welcome.

Now while we're on the subject of Christmas music, let's talk about one of my least favorites. I used to really HATE Little Drummer Boy but now don't mind it so much as long as it's a nicer version without lots of RUM TUM TUMMING in the background. I think we should now hold an impromptu celebration of Worst Christmas Songs Ever Created.


In the category of Traditional Worst Christmas Song, I'm giving a hearty nomination to Deck the Halls. Could a song BE more irrelevant? First of all, I don't know ANYONE who decks their halls with holly. It's a BUSH. And it's VERY PRICKLY. Not the kind of thing that you should be draping up and down your hall. Second, I get that this is the season to be jolly and all, but I don't personally have any piece of clothing that could be considered HAPPY (this for the lyric "don ye now your gay apparel"). I'm going to skip over the very ancient use of gay for happy and just say this: I DON'T HAVE HAPPY CLOTHES, AND NEITHER DO YOU. And I'd venture to guess that no one ever had happy clothes. Clothes are clothes and they should be worn as such. Lastly, this dumb song is just that: DUMB. With all the FA LA LA LA LA madness going on, you feel terribly stupid singing it. And if you don't, you should. Because I said so.

In the category of Worst Regional Christmas Song, I'm going with this little Northwest Gem, Christmas in the Northwest. Chip was the unfortunate trapped listener on Saturday when we drove around delivering Christmas plates of cookies to friends. I ran to a door and delivered some sugar, and when I came back Chip informed me that I'd missed hearing it. And then he reminded me that we're awfully lucky that we get a CHRISTMAS WRAPPED IN GREEEEEEEEN. Think about those poor unfortunate souls in Texas or Arkansas. THEY GET A CHRISTMAS WRAPPED IN BROWN. I don't even want to imagine that song. (And as for that poor soul who wrote on the About.com page that this is "regional favorite since 1985", I think they tied you up and forced you to listen to CHRISTMAS IN THE NORTHWEST eleventy billion times until you decided that yes, it really IS a regional favorite mumble mumble mumble drool drool drool.)

And in the category of Top Worst Christmas Song, I'm going with Sippin in Seattle's Latte Land. It's another stellar regional tune and if you haven't heard it, you should be grateful. And then you should listen to it. BECAUSE IT IS SO TRAGIC. I feel a little bad saying all of this, because here's a lady who really loves her song and loves her town. Loves it so much she puts an entire album together celebrating the magic of Christmas in Seattle. Including favorites such as "We Wish You a Merry Fishmas" - and don't miss that old chestnut, "The Twelve Days of Coffee". As for the Latte song... I don't know how I feel about living in a world where someone not only WRITES a serious parody song about drinking coffee for Christmas, but PERFORMS it. And RECORDS it. And it gets PLAYED ON THE RADIO. Repeatedly. Because somehow, someway, every Christmas I hear it at least twelve dozen times.

And now that I've dispelled any notion you might have had about us Northwesterner's having great taste in music, it's your turn. Whatcha got for terrible Christmas tunes?

* * *

Edited to add the following additional terrible Christmas songs because I KEPT THINKING OF MORE SONGS AFTER I POSTED THIS.

In the late-night added category of Kitschy Kristmas songs that make you want to hurt yourself - I am nominating two songs: All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth and that awful chipmunk Christmas song. Blech.

And in the other late-night added category of Horrible Mention, I give you Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer (WHY? TELL ME WHY?) and the Twelve Days of Christmas (clearly the song that NEVER ENDS).