Bad Meat

Sometimes, when my husband has annoyed me in some way, I hesitate in answering questions. Like when he holds up a baggie of meat and says, "Is this good?"

I hesitate because, really, what is good?
Can meat be bad or good?
Does meat have a conscience once it ceases to be live meat?

Or maybe he's referring to his holding of the baggie. I'm no great judge of meat holders, but I'd say he's doing a fine job, standing there. Holding his meat.

I just stare at him, slack jawed.  I'm sure it appears that I am straining to remember when I prepared the meat (was it on Meatloaf Monday? Or Taco Tuesday?), but I'm actually weighing the morality of knowingly letting my husband eat questionable meat against the satisfaction I will get from his intestinal discomfort caused by said meat.

This makes me a bad person. I know.

Smell it, maybe you should just smell it. That way, it's on his shoulders. If his nose deems it an acceptable meat, then surely I can't be held accountable if things go south. Is it sauced? Is it strongly sauced? It is sauced to the extent that it might make 6 day meat smell like 3 day meat? 

It's not like it's going to kill him. Right? My God, what if there is something really funky wrong with that meat and he has a compromised immune system or a weak heart that's never been diagnosed, and bad meat is just the thing that is going to send him into a downward spiral? What if this baggie of meat and my petty grievance fells the only man I've ever loved?

What have I done? 

He is turning from me, muttering "I think it's fine." and I hurl myself down the stairs and yell "NO! It's not okay! Don't eat it! I don't want to lose you!"

He looks at me like I'm a lunatic, because I am, and says "No, really. This is what you used day before yesterday, I remember putting it in this baggie."

His life, spared by his good memory and my guilty conscience.

Tips for a Great Honeymoon (and Marriage)

Sarah over at The Ex-Pat Bride was foolish enough to ask me to write about my honeymoon, and I took the opportunity to be a bossypants about what she (and everyone) should do on her honeymoon and throughout her married life.

The fate of her marriage, no doubt, lies in whether or not she takes my advice.

Go over there and read it, and feel free to add your own tips. Because there is nothing that newlyweds love more than getting bossed around by a bunch of chubby, crusty old married people whose idea of adventure is deciding whether to go to Costco or Target. Not saying you're all chubby and crusty, but - you know.

If you're visiting SFC from The Ex-Pat Bride, welcome! I apologize in advance.

Traffic Court

One day last month, I went to pick Katie up at a birthday party. I was nearly out of gas, so I decided to take the Husband's car. Because I am a rule follower, and an upstanding citizen, and don't even cut across parking lots, choosing instead to go up and down the aisles correctly (much to the annoyance of my passengers) - you can imagine my shock and horror when I was pulled over by a policeman.

The Husband had failed to register his vehicle. But the nice policeman didn't give the ticket to the law breaking husband, he gave it to the innocent, the unfortunate, the law abiding - me.

I cried. He was unmoved.

So this morning, I sent Katie off to school, and dropped Julia at preschool, and Henry and I headed downtown to the Hall of Justice.

The ticket said to be there at 8:30, but the Husband assured me that I would be fine showing up around 9:30, after preschool drop off. Now, if you know me even a little bit, you know that:
1. I hate being late.
2. I hate being lost.
3. I follow the rules.
4. If numbers 1-3 get screwed up, there is a good chance I will vomit, or cry, or have to poop, or all three.

In my mind, I am already late. And because I have become a country mouse, and rarely go into 'the city', and our little city refuses to do things like have streets that go both fucking directions, I got turned around. By the time I get to the courthouse, I am sweaty, teary, and I'm experiencing some intestinal distress. I pull my literal and figurative shit together, strap Henry into the stroller, and head in.

Here is what I learned in Traffic Court:

1. Normal people don't get traffic tickets. Or they pay an attorney to take care of it for them. Of the 8 gazillion people in line, not a single one of them could be classified as 'normal'. Excluding me, of course.
2. It is possible to use "motherfucker" in every sentence, as every part of speech. As in, "That motherfucker over there...He went to the motherfucking store...That is motherfucked up." Thank you to the woman behind me for introducing "motherfucker" as a verb.
3. The jails in Danbury are "no shit" and the ones in Yadkin County have the best food.
4. No one brings their kid to traffic court. Again, excluding me.
5. You can entertain a 20 month old for exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes with 1 Dum Dum, a Hot Wheel, a pack of wipes, some Froggy Farkle dice, a miniature flower pot, 6 rubber bracelets, a robot ring, and 7 band aids.
6. At 1 hour and 16 minutes, the screaming will begin.
7. Grown ups don't like hearing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" as much as kids.
8. It is absolutely possible for an individual to process every traffic violation through a little window, without speaking a single word. He actually communicated with me using only his thumb. Seriously.
9. That bitch over there better watch her face. I don't know what this means, or who she was talking about, but if it was me, I was fully prepared to use my child as a human shield.

The Husband will be paying for this one.

Model Student

When I was in the 5th grade, we studied weather systems. For my weather report, I chose to explain the power and fury of the hurricane the only way I knew how - in song.

A hurricane is a tropical storm,
With floods and winds and rain.
It starts way out in the ocean,
Where it huffs and puffs and strains.

Catchy, no? Is it any wonder that I remember the words 30 years later?

That is the same year I did an interpretive dance to 'Mountain Music',by the country supergroup Alabama. It was a tap dance. I had never taken a tap class in my life.

Other 'special projects' during my school years included a rewriting of The Eurythmics 'Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)' to explain the Electoral College, and a dramatic interpretation of the Bay of Pigs in which I portrayed both President John F. Kennedy and Fidel Castro.

I am so grateful to the many teachers who indulged my desire for non-traditional learning.

So, when we went in for Katie's parent teacher conference today, and the first thing the teacher said was 'Katie must grow up to be an actress.', I couldn't help but beam with pride.

She is the first one to offer (or get elected) to write a script, or make a poster, or recreate a traditional Inuit Home using egg cartons and cotton balls. When she comes blazing through the door and announces 'I have a project!', I don't know which one of us is more excited.

Listening to her talk about the things she loves, her hands flapping all over the place and her eyes dancing and her goofy 10 year old laugh, it all makes me want to grab her and smother her in kisses. It makes me want to keep her here forever, just like this, because she is perfect. Even though she is a complete slob and prone to tears and pinches her sister, she is perfect.

My dad once said to me of Katie, 'She's just like you, but nicer.' I'll take it one step further. She's just like me, but better. She is an extraordinary person, and brings me immeasurable joy.