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I'm scheduling this to post itself sort of close to Thanksgiving. And so while you're all enjoying your leftover dead bird sandwiches, I figured you could enjoy these sights I saw around town.

First off, I think I need some of this lotion, 'cause I've been feeling all sorts of cynical lately: Also, I found out that in addition to serving up HAPPY chickens in Houston, we are also home of the Pollo Bravo: Now even though I do speak Spanish to a certain extent, at first glance I thought that this would mean that the chickens were brave. And doesn't that sort of make sense, that they would fry up the very bravest chickens in addition to the happiest?

But it actually means the same as the English. So I guess we're just CHEERING the chickens. Like, "Bravo! Way to go!! You're going to be the best dead chicken I ever ate!!!! Rah rah rah!"

I occasionally accuse myself of feeling like a train wreck. Today was the first day I ever saw the remnants of a real one though. Younger Gal took photos out our car window: It's just not every day you pass a truck full of plastic geese. At least I only pass a truck full of plastic geese every once in a great while: Goat milk lollipops, yum! Actually, my guess is that I'd probably like those.

And that's it! I hope everyone is having a great Thanksgiving weekend!
at 12:22 PM 10 comments: Labels: random pictures, show me a sign


It's Okay to Rape Your Future Step Parents Though. Apparently.

I think I have a disease. It's called: "Volunteering to ride on a bus for three and a half hours with fifty 8-12 year olds. And then spend a weekend with them. And then ride back. For three and a half MORE hours".

And each and every year when the principal asks who wants to do this, I say "ME! ME! ME!!!!"

I was told one time that you should never spend more than 20 minutes packing. So I've tried to reduce the time I spend on any given trip from a few days to a few minutes.

And whoever decided that is RIGHT! Because, as it happens, I still forget and remember in about the same ratio no matter how much time I spend on the packing.

On this trip I forgot a bath towel, BOTH my pillows, and a comb. But I remembered to bring chocolate and my Ipod, so at least I had the essentials.

Just before boarding the bus, I did find a beach blanket in my trunk. But it turns out those things are designed to REPEL water and not absorb it, so they're not much good for drying off. It made a great pillow though.

When my boy and I got back from camp, Younger gal gave gave me further updates on the whole, "honoring your parents" thing. She learned in class that you do have to honor your step parent, because when you dishonor your step parent, then you dishonor your parent.

BUT, she pointed out, that only counts AFTER the wedding. Until then, The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken is not technically her step father.

It turns out that I spoke too soon about feeling much safer. She's got seven full months to rape and pillage. And so I think I might just head back up to camp until after the wedding. 'Cuz camp stuff is so much safer, apparently: at 6:47 AM 11 comments: 

Two more things that go together like bread and butter: rape and pancake mix So I heard this ad for Fiber One pancake mix on Prairie Home Companion and I thought, "That's CRAZY! Why would you bother adding fiber to pancakes?"

Because when I make pancakes, I make them all delicate and fluffy with real butter like my mom taught me. And why the heck would you want to add fiber to a food that is going to give you a heart attack anyway?

But then I thought, "I guess it's like a Sea Breeze or a Cape Cod. Because with those drinks you can improve your urinary tract while destroying your liver."

And so with the Fiber One pancakes, you can probably destroy your heart WHILE you improve the health of your colon!

When I searched for it I found it at Amazon, which also listed it under the "buy used and new" section! Who buys used pancake mix? Especially not when we all know good and well that we're supposed to be afraid of even UNUSED pancake mix.

But then I looked on the nutrition label and I'm not even sure it WOULD destroy your heart. And how good could it really even taste if you don't add milk or eggs? And so that's why I don't buy box mixes EVEN if they could possibly be good for my colon.

On a totally and completely related note, our family had this heartwarming conversation at dinner the other night:

Younger Gal - There's rape in the Torah. It's true! Noah raped one of his sons...or was it one of Noah's sons who raped him? I think it was one of his sons who raped him! We studied about it when we were learning about honoring your parents! We're not supposed to rape our parents...

Me - Oh good. I feel so much safer now.

This was a little later in the conversation, and to find it funny, you have to know as much as I do about Hebrew, which is practically nothing. But I DO know that our rabbi is always encouraging the kids to add phlegm to their Hebrew, often in the form of a "ch" sound sort of mixed with with a gargle.

Older Gal - Does it really use the word "rape"?
Younger Gal - Yes. It really does. We're not supposed to rape our parents.
Me - What IS the word rape in Hebrew?
Younger Gal - "rape-ch-ch-ch"

Last but not least, I went to a seminar this week on setting limits with kids and stuff. Although I'm not exactly sure WHY I needed to go, when I have this old standby:

"If you don't change your clothes out from the washer to the dryer this very instant I'm going to burn all your clothes and you'll have to go to school NAKED!!!"

Naturally I ordered the materials on how to get your kids to do chores.

Yeah, anyway, the moral of THIS week's story is, I gather, send your kid to a religious school because they learn all sorts of useful stuff like not raping their parents which OBVIOUSLY helps reinforce the limits that you're setting at home*.

And also, pancakes out of a box will probably kill you at some point EVEN if you don't buy it "used", I'm just not sure how yet. But at least you'll have a clean colon when you die.

And also, Happy Birthday Mom!!!! People still want to know about the blood!

(*Seriously I do LOVE having my kids at a religious school, by the way)
at 7:45 AM 13 comments: Labels: death by teenager, Jewish stuff, kids and other small mammals


Wedding Flowers and Pork Blood, both in the same post. Because those things go together. Obviously.

I found out that planning a wedding is pretty similar to planning a bat mitzvah. For both occasions I find myself asking with alarming frequency, "What is that?!? Do we HAVE to have that?!?!?"

Except, instead that being in response to a 12 year old making multiple requests, it's in response to another adult thinking up all sorts of things I never would have even thought of. Like flowers.

In an attempt to reverse traditional gender roles, The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken and I had this (fairly typical) conversation last night while talking about wedding preparations:

Him: Will we need flowers?
Me: Flowers?
Him: Yeah, you know, a wedding? Flowers?
Me: Do we have to have that?
Him: Well you'll need something to hold.
Me: Oh. Yeah. I guess I am supposed to hold flowers. You don't mean all over the tables though, do you? Because I think those are expensive. Wouldn't it be better to use that money to booze people up?

Except, that was probably the wrong answer. Because, after all, he is the one who commands the plants around here so I suppose he might actually WANT flowers. And what the heck, they are pretty.

We said all that last night on the way home from seeing Seth Walker at a house concert: He was either totally, totally awesome or I'm just easily impressed. And plus he said the words, "hip ass Quaker", which I've never heard all put together in one sentence like that.

No seriously, it was wonderful, especially for someone who is as big a fan of white guy blues as I am. He said there was a better description for his type of music than "white guy blues", but it involved many more words and didn't seem to really pinpoint it any better.

I would have fixed his red eye, but my computer is so old and tired that it barely even agreed to rotate the picture and post it, much less mess with it before hand.

I posted last week about stalker guy handing my dad blood at a rest area. But I never realized you could just walk right in to the grocery store and buy blood: So that must mean that enough people all over town are saying things like, "Honey could you pick me up a head of broccoli, a bunch of grapes, and a pint of blood?" to make blood worth keeping in stock.

Here's a picture of my cousin's dog. Ain't he the cutest? And last but not least, here are two animals who were none too happy about us driving through their property: And so the moral of the story is, Seth Walker is even better in concert than his CDs. You can buy blood at the grocery store. And weddings are supposed to include flowers. That's what I learned this week.
at 8:34 AM 21 comments: Labels: I wanna see blood and gore and guts and veins in my teeth, Our shacking up days are numbered