Tag Archives: obligatory seinfeld reference

Majesty, Monsters, and Mexico

At the dinner table, Dumples is without her favorite condiment. She says to her father, “Could I please have some more ketchup, Your Majesty?”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Did you just call him Your Majesty?” She nods. “So what does that make me?”

Without missing a beat, my favorite four-year-old replies, “You’re The Boss.”

Can’t argue with that logic.

Ketchup makes the rounds and Chicken tells a story from first grade land. A classmate is moving away. “She had to move,” Chicken tells us, jabbing her fork in the air for emphasis.

“Do you know where she moved?” Your Majesty asked.

“Ummm. Yeah. She moved to Mexico,” Chicken replied, almost stabbing herself in the face with her fork.

“Mexico?!?” I said. “Really? Why did she move to Mexico?” Because when you live in Minnesota and you’re fleeing the country, you go to Canada. It’s right there.

Chicken shrugged and applied six-going-on-seven-year-old logic. “Probably there were no houses to buy in Minnesota.”

Dumples and I are attending a parent-child class every Monday night in March. She receives undivided attention from me while she does (mostly) the same stuff she does at home — paints, builds, puzzles, asks a lot of questions, sings, points at other kids who are doing interesting things, etc.

The last fifteen minutes of the class is separation time. That means she eats Scooby Snacks while the grown-ups go into another room and talk about love, logic, and chore charts.

I came to collect her afterward. We were the last to leave, and her teacher said, “Did you tell your Mom what kind of cookie you want her to make you?”

Apparently, the snack time convo fell under the topic of “What’s your favorite kind of cookie?” and the teacher’s answer of “monster cookie” was making Dumples drool.

The teacher told me, “I guess you’ll be making monster cookies now.”

We walked out the door but not out of earshot when Dumples announced, “I know you won’t make monster cookies, Mom. Because you can’t cook!”

I heard the giggles behind me. But it’s true. The Boss can’t cook. Your Majesty is in charge of the monster cookies, the ketchup allotments, eye injuries, and any plans for our future exile. In other words, he’s King of the Castle.


My Verruca

Today I found out that I am part witch. The part of me that is witch is the part of me that made me hobble around; cry in pain through the twilight hours; and never, ever, ever tell another soul the embarrassing secret that was happening to the bottom of my foot.

That’s because I thought it was a corn. My mother thought it was a corn. My mother-in-law thought it was a corn. Google image search thought it was a — no, I can’t go back to that dark place. Anyway, even my primary care physician thought it was a corn. And that was embarrassing. Not only was it a corn, but it was a corn that would not be Epsom salt-bathed away, no matter how hard I pumiced.

That is how I ended up with a referral to the P-word, the foot specialist, the word we dare not say. There I sat in a giant airplane hangar, full of neutral colors and fake green plants and lots and lots of people waiting to see different specialists. I sat among a crowd of people who could barely stand up. (I watched them try. It was hard to watch.) My name was shouted and my blood pressure instantly shot through the roof. (Which as I said, was high enough to contain a jumbo jet.)

The nurse asked me some questions. What was my current level of pain? Did I feel safe at home? Have I had an unexplained weight gain? Are there guns in my home? Is there a religious affiliation that I would like them to note in case of…

“Excuse me. I’m here for my foot. Why would I need my rabbi?” I MAY have asked, “Am I going to die?” At the least, I was thinking it.

“Hmm, your blood pressure is pretty high,” the nurse noted, while I was pondering my imminent corn-fed demise.

She told me to take off my shoe and sock and sit in a massage chair. There was new age music playing. She said the doctor would be right in.

The doctor came in 20 minutes later. She was fifteen years old. I almost carded her. She had a scalpel, so I figured, sure, she was the doctor. She pushed some buttons and the massage chair moved around like a dentist chair. I stuck my foot in her face. “It’s a wart!” she proclaimed.

That’s when the big gun came out. The freeze gun. Doctor Goodfeet asked me if I was ready. I was not ready. But I said I was. Then the bullet hit the bone. Actually, the liquefied nitrogen hit the weird foot growth.

That was it. It was over. The massage chair never massaged me; my rabbi was a no-show.

And I’m no longer a witch.

Unless the procedure didn’t work. Then I get to go back and do it all over again. I’ll keep my rabbi on speed-dial.

Sweet Child O Mine

Every morning at preschool, drop-off is the same.

  • Sigourney and I have a great ride to preschool
  • We have a mature conversation about something (“I see da moon. Moon is always out, even in day time.” “I go to pweschool because I’m a big kid.” “It’s a wittle cold out this mowning. I have a jacket, so I am nice and cozy!” etc.)
  • We go into Preschool and wash hands.
  • We play a game.
  • I tell her I have to leave, and she cries.

We’ve got such a reputation going, that I have IN FACT heard that other parents, upon seeing us arrive, scurry out the door with hasty good-byes, lest their children breathe Sigourney’s air and turn their delightful have-a-great-days and I-love-you’s into an 80’s song (minus the L’s and R’s).


At the end of the day, Sigourney’s tune is always: “I had fun at pweschool. I love my fwiends.”

The following morning she always tells me on the ride to school, “I gonna cwy when you leave.”

And she does.


The ducklings needed a project while I folded laundry, so I tossed them some stuffed animals and their play medical kit. After a few minutes, I asked them how their doctoring was going.

M: How’s your puppy doing, Erma?

E: Good. He’s almost all better from crashing his roller skates.

M: How’s your monkey doing, Sigourney?

S: He’s DEAD.

Jumped on the bed one too many times. Saw a doctor who said, “put some aloe on it.” Came back to life a few minutes later.

Run That by Me Again

Have you ever done something just to see what it’s like, purely for the experience? Maybe you’ve gone para-sailing, gotten some ink, or cut your hair short — REALLY short.

For me, it was running the marathon. Last year, we ran the marathon. We trained for the marathon. And in the end, when we were no longer speaking to each other, we had that medal to show for our efforts (although Erma hardly ever lets me wear it). It was the hardest half-mile I’ve ever run-walked.


This is what people look like who are running a marathon. There legs are all bendy and their bodies are propelling forward, heading toward the end goal of the start line.

And I had no plans to do it ever, ever, ever again. For various reasons, including everything seen here.

But Erma wanted to run. She has running in her blood, or at least she has a love for running in her blood. So tonight we ran our second marathon.


This is Batman. He was a celebrity runner at the marathon who got to ride around in a jeep. Next year, I will dress as Batman so that I can run the marathon in a jeep. Best idea ever.

We came in fifth from last, behind an amazing blind child who people were cheering for like crazy, and we pretended it was kind of for us, too. Erma was giving everybody on the sidelines high fives, even babies. I was headed toward the finish line screaming, “WE DID IT. WE LIIIIIIIVED.”

Almost at the End


Then, in the end, we weren’t wearing matching bib numbers and security came for us. Yes, another fantastic marathon ending, as a police officer tried to ensure I was not abducting Erma. In the end, he used my friend Tiffany’s phone to look at my Facebook profile. That seems to be 21st Century proof of parental rights.

So, kids, before you go off on your rants about Facebook, remember: SOCIAL MEDIA SAVES LIVES.

Now I’m going to eat some ice cream and listen to some ukelele music.

Sigourney Does Tricks

Sigourney and Flathead watched us marathoners from the sidelines. Sigourney made use of her time by performing various tricks on the railing and peeing her pants. GO RUNNERS!!!


My Trophy Showcase

Outstanding! I have nominated myself for a whole bunch of new awards, that far surpass the Mother of the Year Award. I think it will be a short while before I hand myself a Lifetime Achievement Award for being a doofus.

And the award for Winter Weather Blunder goes to…

ME! for having the following conversation this morning as I was taking Sigourney to the childcare center:

Sigourney: It cold outside.

Me: Yep.

Sigourney: Why I no have coat on?

Me: *looks at Sigourney in shock and awe*

It was 28 degrees. How did I not notice she wasn’t wearing a coat until we were two steps from inside the building?

And the award for Worst Misuse of Chocolate goes to…

ME! Thinking to myself while eating a granola bar at my desk, “Why is my date stamp stamping brown instead of blue? Oh wait.”

Those 101 forms have never tasted so sweet. You are welcome, Jody!

And the award for Complete and Total Absent-Mindedness goes to…

ME! for taking our anxiety-ridden, squeaky-nosed dog on a shed-filled car ride to the veterinarian yesterday in order to update vaccinations needed to board him this weekend, then losing the tags and paperwork before getting home. I have searched for hours, wasted so much time and frustration looking for something that was put directly into my hand yesterday. I have no recollection whatsoever of my final moments with that dog tag.

Is officially not foaming at his mouth, but a new notation on his medical file says, “Anxiety.” Patient may be difficult.

And the award for Consumption of Food Wrappings goes to…

ME! as I say to myself, “Why does this Rolo taste like foil? Oh wait.”

And the award for Late Night Alertness goes to…

ME! for not being able to differentiate the sound of whistling through my nose from the sound of a child crying. “Is that a kid? Is a kid awake? It’s 1 a.m. Why is there a kid awake? … Oh wait. It’s my nose.”

Erma finds these awards surprising. Or she hears her sister talking to one of her mittens: “You stay on my tummy. You. Stay. On. My. Tummy. Mr. Mitten!!!!”

I am going to need a new display case for all of the trophies I keep giving myself. Yay me!

Gobs of Gum

I cannot resist a great deal. I took Sigourney to the grocery store yesterday as a pick-your-own fruit snacks bribe to get her to put her coat on at school — yes, the bribes have sunk to a new low; a fruit snack low. (And also because I needed breakfast cereal and whipped cream.)

There was an unbelievable sale on gum! Fifty cents a pack! I stuck a few packs in the cart and continued on my way. Then I swung back around to the gum and picked up a few more. Then…a few more.

How often do you see such a great deal on gum?

Sigourney was counting the gum as we shopped. “Fourteen gums?” she asked me, completely astonished by my gum consumption power. “Thazza lotta gum,” she wisely observed.

GUM2gummmmmmm GUM3

Maybe if I hold onto this gum long enough, it’s value will go up and I can sell it on eBay for like a dollar a pack plus seven dollars shipping (combined shipping available; see dealer for details). How could this plan go wrong?

And yes, I am crazy.

About gum.

The White Whale

The dingy fluorescent lighting in the bathroom at work really highlights the occasional silver in my hair. Once a strand catches the light, I have to hunt it down (a la Shark Week) until I have finally removed it. Usually, there is a new bald spot where I have been pulling hairs in search of the white whale.

The silver hair is only half as embarrassing as how dirty I now notice the bathroom mirror is.

But this one time, this ONE time, I just could not yank that glowing ember of former brown.

I brought my problem home to Flathead. “Can you please pull out my silver hair?” I asked him.

He replied, “All of them?!?!”

That was a real punch in the self esteem.

I thought there was only that one.

Introducing My New Line of Aromatherapy Products

Danielle* suggested that one anxiety coping mechanism is to find a calming scent and keep it close at hand.

I took this to mean go on a shopping spree and buy as much perfume as my heart desires.

Otherwise, I would just have to move to the beach (ahh, that lovely sea salt air of the Gulf of Mexico) or wire myself bouquets of roses every day (wouldn’t my work desk look nice, though?).

I hit up my favorite local variety store, Zanzbroz (not its real name) and doused myself in every scented offering in the store. I tried Bonfire (smoke, smoke, I’m going to choke), Paperback (smelled both musky and musty…I like books, but no thanks…I’ll check back when they come out with an eau de e-reader), and Thunderstorm (smelled good, actually, but the name of it could send me into a panic attack at a moment’s notice).

I bought a candle that smells like Henry David Thoreau, a bottle of kimono rose hand soap, and a notebook that didn’t smell like anything but had a nesting doll pattern on the front of it.

Still. These scents are good. BUT they just don’t do it for me. They aren’t calming, feel-good smells like Flathead’s t-shirt at the end of the day or cookies in the oven before they start to burn. (They always burn eventually. Why is that?)

If I had my choice of soothing scents, here is what the SILLYLISS line of products would look like:

That smell that settles in after it rains. It must be moisture on the grass and the leaves of trees. I love it. It’s ALMOST as relaxing as the beach.

This perfume contains only the finest of ingredients: the skin of newborns that has been bottled in part with the contented sighs of sleeping babes. You have to bottle this scent fast, like you’re catching a firefly, because it is gone in a heartbeat.

When you’re alone and life is making you lonely, just hop a flight to New York City and promenade down the major thoroughfares (Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Times Square, 42nd Street…). You will encounter the very best smell of street nuts. I can’t guarantee the sanitation of the street food, but you should take a health chance on the nuts, because they are worth it. Or just stand near the nuts and smell them until someone realizes you’re acting like a weirdo and punches you in the face, then mugs you. Nuts!

I’m not sure if I can technically stick the SILLYLISS logo on this. When Sigourney comes home with the lingering scent of sunscreen, I just want to inhale her. It must have coconut oil or something in it.

I guess, in summary, I *could* just buy a bottle of baby sunscreen, put the SILLYLISS label over it to hide my bizarre fetishes, and leave it on my desk at work for stressful moments.

Or I could go back to Zanzbroz and buy up the entire Paddywax Library line of candles so that I could breathe in the serene aroma of my favorite dead authors whenever I find myself spinning a bit out of control. It’s practically kismet. If Edgar Allen Poe can’t get me through an episode, who can? I mean, besides Danielle…

*I like to think of her as my life coach, my mentor, my post-high school guidance counselor. Does she exist in real life? Is she an invisible bunny? I can’t tell you. It’s very hush-hush.

My Beautiful Baby Pine Tree

I’m a winner!

Not of a marathon or a prize fight or an exemplary employee recognition, but something equally great:

A homemade puzzle frame which will eventually feature a picture of my kiddos putting together a jigsaw, and a surprise bonus of a cartoon version of me!

I won fellow blogger Coffee Powered Mom’s crafty giveaway! Check out her blog: I think today it was powered by about seventeen cups of coffee and a babysitting dilemma. (Wait, no, it is me who was powered by about seventeen cups of coffee. My bad.)

The last time I won a contest was in 1986. I was eight years old (don’t do the math), and I wrote a poem about a tree. I was called to the principal’s office and was awarded a sapling. I brought it home and showed my mother my beautiful new baby pine tree, which she eyed with disgust before dumping it in a garbage can. (Our yard was full of pine trees, and my blind mother was constantly battling with those cones.)

So the tree went to the dump, but my parents bought me a replacement tree: a tree of my choice. I picked an orange tree and I named her Valerie. I don’t remember eating a single one of Valerie’s oranges. But I was proud that she was mine, and that I won her.

The poem doesn’t exist anymore, but I think it went something like this:

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a pine tree

Maybe not. My eight-year-old poetry was probably much, much worse.

It was also the only time I was ever called to the principal’s office for any good reason.

Thank you to Coffee Powered Mom for making me feel like a winner again!