But She Does Make A Hell Of A Cake

I really thought McMama's tendency to create meals as desiccated as the Sahara was limited to the meat course. But McMama is determined to keep surprising me, as she proved tonight. This evening's menu included (what was once) a baked potato that (when she was through with it) could have easily passed for a shriveled hockey puck. But I think I'm on to her. Instead of marveling that someone so adept at baking could be so useless at cooking, I am now starting to suspect that she does this on purpose. Because when she brought out the poor, wrinkly, dried out potato, she looked at me and asked if I was planning on blogging about it. I'm kind of starting to wonder if she's just a little fame-whore, just looking for a new opportunity to be mentioned in my little corner of the blogosphere. But then, I also kind of wonder what she'll do when she finds out there's only six people who actually read this thing with any kind of regularity. Maybe start cooking food I can actually eat? A girl can dream....

Out Fishing

Yeah, I know. I neglected you for over a week. I will submit to my twenty lashes with a wet noodle willingly and with appropriate regret for my lapse. In my defense, it takes quite a bit of time to make my lists and check them twice to be sure I am vacation-ready. And in the end, I still managed to forget the Turtle's toothpaste, my workout plan, and a scruffy sponge. Thankfully, I have heard that they do in fact have stores here in New York, so I believe we will survive. Either that, or Turtle will come home with a few more cavities, I'll gain a couple pounds, and I will have to track down an actual wash cloth for my showers. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

So, in case you haven't been keeping track, this is really just my way of letting you all know I am officially on vacation. I will attempt to update you on our goings-on, particularly since I know some of you are going to be concerned about our health and well-being on the nights that McMama is cooking. But no promises. I've been told that I'm internet-addicted, so I may take this opportunity to detox a little so that Oscar doesn't have to spring for a rehab facility. Then again, I hear from very reliable gossip rags that Promises is a wonderful place and I may even get time off for yoga class. If I can get Lindsay Lohan to show me the Lotus position (or, in lieu of that, perhaps the Coked-Out Whore pose) it might be worth it.

Mommy = Chopped Liver

This morning, I snuck into the master bathroom to get ready to go to the gym. Oscar was still sleeping, so I figured I might as well let him get some rest, and Turtle enjoys his time in the kids' care. But by the time I was done changing clothes, applying copious amounts of deodorant (because lord knows if I have to sweat at the gym, I should at least smell pretty doing so) and washing my face (because lord knows if there's a chance I am going to run into the cute trainer, I need at least one thing working for me) Oscar was blinking his eyes open.

We got to talking, which meant that I quickly exceeded my allowed time away from Turtle. He came wandering into the bedroom to make sure I wasn't doing something that had potential for fun without him and discovered that Daddy was awake. Now, you have to understand, Saturday mornings are quite possibly Turtle's favorite time period EVER. After a week of missing Daddy while he's at work, Turtle looks forward to having his favorite playmate home so they can wrestle and play keep-away with Oscar's phone. So when he walked in and found that his Daddy was awake and ready to play, it was like Turtle had won the lottery.

They started messing around, but of course, Oscar had JUST woken up and had a few biological imperatives that needed to be taken care of before he could fully engage in Saturday Morning Warfare. So while he got up and emptied his bladder, I hung out near the bed watching Turtle bounce around. It wasn't long before he noticed me and wandered over.

Turtle: "I need to play. You need to go be busy."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Turtle: "I need to PLAY. You need to go be BUSY."
Me: "You need to play? I need to go be busy?"
Turtle: "Yeah."
Me: "What do I need to be busy doing?"
Turtle: "You need to go be on the computer."
Me: "Do you need some alone time with Daddy? Is that why you want me to go away?"
Turtle: "Uh, YEAH."
Me: "Well, then."

It became suddenly clear to me why moms often feel the need to bust out the stories of excruciating labor for their offspring. When your place in your kid's life is second to the guy who had the easiest, most pleasurable job in the whole procreation process, it's hard not to want to assert yourself as the more deserving of that adoration. "BUT I DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU!" I wanted to scream. "I PLAY WITH YOU AND I FEED YOU AND I TAKE YOU TO THE GYM! ALL DADDY DOES IS SCRATCH HIMSELF, BELCH AND WATCH TV WITH YOU!" But I kind of thought that throwing a full-scale temper tantrum wouldn't be the best example to set for my three year old. I mean, it's one thing for ME to know that there are times that Turtle is the more mature one in our relationship. If he ever figures it out, though, I suspect the balance of power will shift in a very undesirable way.

Would You Care For Some Lexapro Or No?

As a stay-at-home mom, I tend to value my "alone" time. It's particularly precious considering I get so little of it. But tonight, with Oscar off doing whatever it is that Oscar does when he's not here, and with Turtle in bed doing his level best not to go to sleep, I find that I'm actually - well - bored.

It's one thing when I get alone time that does not require me to be at the house. When Oscar is at home and taking care of Turtle so I can venture into the world and figure out what grown up type people do with their time when they're not consumed with shooting monsters and making macaroni and cheese, I find that I am never lacking for things to do. Sometimes I use the time to do responsible parent type things, like grocery shopping. Sometimes I go over to Chez Snark's Mistress and watch SG-1 marathons and talk about what it was like when I used to eat sugar. (God, those were the days!) Sometimes I just take time for me, and go to a coffee shop where I can sneak a coffee shake and read or do some journaling. But when I'm the one tied to the house? When my free time involves looking at the same four walls I've been looking at all day long? It's not quite so easy to figure out what to do with myself.

I thought about doing some cleaning. But really, I've been cleaning all day. My dishes are done, my laundry is done, and I just can't work up the energy to work on anything else. I tried going online, but there was nothing on "teh internets" that was suitably distracting (aside from the news that my favorite trainwreck blogger, who took his blog down last week, has put his blog back up! Wheee! More rubbernecking for me!) I thought about reading a book, because lord knows I'm constantly complaining that I never have time to read any more. But not even that holds any appeal at the moment.

Honestly? I think I'm just feeling restless. I'm somewhat cranky and dissatisfied with certain things in my life and while I can normally distract myself with enough skill to forget that I'm cranky and dissatisfied, now that it's late and Turtle isn't asking me a zillion questions that all end with "or no?" such as "do you want to play with me or no?" or "are you sure I can have this cookie or no?" I find that it's much too quiet. It's much too quiet and I find myself spending entirely too much time dwelling on the fact that I seem to be in a perpetual state of disappointment lately and how maybe that's not such a good thing.

On the bright side, my two week vacation to Chez McMama is coming up in a week and a half. Did I mention how much I'm looking forward to sitting on her porch and getting "right" with the world? Because I am. A lot. I'm kind of hoping that if I sit there long enough, the grumpy, ornery bitch in me will just seep right out because I'm really not liking the me I am right now. Although, if McMama's porch doesn't do the trick, the Dunkin Donuts that's within walking distance of her house probably will. Because I don't care how much sugar I'm not eating; nothing says happiness like a cup of coffee and a donut. Unless it's "antidepressants and therapy," but that has to wait until I get home.

It's A Shame, Too, Because Gabriel Macht Is Hot And He Was THISCLOSE To Selling It

On today's list of things that are annoying me is a little gripe I have with the writers of romantic comedies. Now, I love me some romantic comedies. I'm the biggest sap in the known universe, will cry at the drop of a hat, and am a huge sucker for the happy ending where the guy and the girl ride off into the sunset together. However, I'm also not stupid. And while I'm perfectly willing to suspend my disbelief on any number of implausible situations, there is one thing common to most romantic comedies that's really getting under my skin.

You know that scene towards the end of the movie in which the couple, who for whatever contrived reason has broken up or is otherwise questioning their relationship starts working on their reconciliation because one half of the couple has come to find the other half of the couple and gives a huge speech about how they are "meant to be!" and the other half of the couple realizes that their fight was really stupid and he/she swoons and they kiss and all is right with the world because they have again affirmed that they are "meant to be!"? You know that scene? WHY does that scene always feature the one half of the couple interrupting the other half of the couple in the middle of doing something important in public?

IT MAKES NO SENSE! Do people just automatically delete all contact information they have for their significant others at the first sign of trouble in a relationship? Is there NOWHERE else they can think of to reach their partners than the VERY public venues they are known to frequent? Can she not just call the guy and ask him to dinner and a nice chat? Can he not send her an e-mail and request that they meet for caramel macchiato martinis at the Macaroni Grill and talk about where they stand? I mean, COME ON! Why does he always have to interrupt her teaching a cooking class when he realizes they should give up this silly fight and be together forever? Why does she always have to interrupt him giving guitar lessons when she goes to apologize for being a doink and ask if they can have a second chance?

And why are the people who end up being witness to these great proclamations of undying love never pissed that they paid good money for this class or these lessons and they're not getting their money's worth? You can't tell me there isn't a single cynical bastard who's going to make a snarky comment about how he isn't paying to watch people make out. Instead, they're all going to be overcome with the romantic rightness of it all and either applaud or start making out themselves? I don't think so.

I mean, don't get me wrong. Nine times out of ten, I watch that scene and it gets to me. I swoon, as I'm supposed to, and I gaze adoringly at the guy and wish Oscar could channel that guy once in a while because I'm only human and I like to believe in fairy tales, too. But that other time out of ten, I'm sitting there wondering why the movie didn't come with a barf bag because really. There's sweet and romantic and then there's contrived and stupid and when you cross the line, the cloying saccharine sweetness of it all is too much for any one person to take.

And I really wish "Because I Said So" had understood the difference.

Would You Like Fries With That?

Turtle is testing out a new career path this week. Not that he's given up on being a sniper or a serial killer, but he is considering alternate vocations of the variety that won't get him arrested. This week it's food service. Yesterday, he picked up his doodle pad, walked over to me and asked what I would like to eat. He made notations on his pad, then walked into the kitchen and came back to hand me imaginary platters full of food. And a glass of ice water. Because if nothing else, he is expert at keeping my water glass full.

This probably would have entertained him for hours, this taking of our dinner orders, but Oscar and I started to run out of things we wanted to eat, even in an imaginary sense. We ordered steak, sushi, grilled salmon, tortilla-crusted tilapia, roasted vegetables, squid salad, glasses of wine, and pretty much everything else we could think of to order because no matter how many times Turtle made his notations on his doodle pad, it was never enough.

Still, I'm thinking that he is ill-suited to the food service industry. As much as he seemed to enjoy taking our orders and as efficient as he was at serving our food in a timely manner, there remained one significant problem: no matter what we ordered, Turtle brought us hot dogs and water. So unless he's aiming no higher than a job at Wienerschnitzel, I'm thinking he's better off sniping. If I start saving my money now, I might even be able to afford his bail.