We Give a Whole New Meaning to “Discriminating Taste”

I swear on my bulldog, Wonderbutt, that this conversation occurred in our teachers’ lounge during lunch a couple of weeks ago:

Amy: So, how do you like that burrito from Habanero’s?

Penny:  It’s okay.  I’m not too excited about the rice, though.

Amy:  Oh?  Why?

Penny:  Well, I’m just not a big fan of white rice.  I like brown.  You know, like, uh, Mexican.

Me:  Isn’t that some kind of reverse discrimination?

Leonard (as he lifts a fork to his mouth):  Yep.  Otherwise known as “rice-ism.”

Not to be confused with device-ism…

…or advice-ism,

and certainly not as politically correct as lice-ism.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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This Fortune that Scared The Living Daylights out of Me is For Your Eyes Only Because You Only Live Twice and I am Probably Going to Die Another Day

I know you think I’m a bit paranoid, but between my Mac jeering at me and my latest experience at a Chinese restaurant, I am beginning to have second thoughts about leaving my bed every morning.  Actually, third thoughts.  I already had been having second thoughts due to the whole I’m-depressed-what-the-heck-do-I-need-to-get-out-of-bed-for-anyway depression thing.

So, my husband, the ever-suffering Cap’n Firepants, and I went to eat Chinese food a couple of nights ago.  Now, everyone knows that the only reason you go to  a Chinese restaurant is to find out what is going to happen next in your life according to the prescient fortune cookie placed before you at the end of the meal.  (I don’t ascribe to either the “in bed” or the “on the toilet” factions who obviously do not give their fortunes the respect they deserve.)

As soon as I took my cookie off the plate, I knew something was wrong.  Through the plastic wrapper, I could see the fortune clearly sticking halfway out of the cookie, and I’m pretty sure that is never a good sign.  When I broke apart the wrapping, and carefully tugged on the fortune, it easily came out.  That is because the half that I was seeing was the only part of the fortune I was going to get.  The rest of my fortune was not inside my cookie.  It was not anywhere. I ONLY GOT HALF A FORTUNE.

Technically, it looks like it’s probably about three quarters of the fortune, but three quarters is kind of long to type, so I took some poetic license and I am saying it’s a half.

“Do you want mine?” Cap’n Firepants generously offered.

“Are you crazy?  I can’t take your fortune!  That’s your fortune!  It’s already foretold.  We can’t switch fortunes now!  Fate is not that foolish!  Fate knows who got which fortune!”

I may have said the above in a slightly high-pitched, somewhat crazed sounding voice that betrayed my confusion and rising panic over the apocalyptic piece of paper I was holding in my hand.

I ignored the wide eyes and raised eyebrows of Cap’n Firepants, and pondered two very important questions:  ONE)  What was my fortune supposed to say?  and Deuce) What horrible events resulted in this torn fortune?

I find the last part of the fortune pretty ominous, “…getting out after you…”  and I’m quite frankly more than a little concerned about the “real test in life” for which I am obviously not going to be prepared BECAUSE SOMEONE. RIPPED. MY FORTUNE. IN HALF.  (I have noted this new phenomenon of placing periods in the middle of one’s sentence to emphasize the importance of what you are saying, and have decided that I am going to freely employ it from now on, as pretty much everything I say is important.)

I am also disturbed about what caused the fortune to be ripped in the first place.  I imagine two factory workers arguing over whether or not this fortune should be sent forth into the world to its destined receiver, and they struggle over it.  In the last seconds before the cookie passes by on the conveyor belt, one worker rips a part off and  tucks the torn end into the cookie, staving the other, desperate worker off until the plastic wrapping phase is complete, and the cookie is dumped into a giant pile of other cookies where there is no hope of ever finding it again.  And then the workers both get eaten by a giant shark.  It’s like some kind of James Bond scene.

And. I don’t. even. like. James Bond movies.

And I am supposed to decipher this half-fortune, so I can somehow pass my “life test” and keep “out of rough things” and avoid people getting out after me and somehow save the world.

This is exactly why I don’t like to get out of bed.  There is way too much pressure.

So here’s the other side of my fortune in case any of you out there want to try to crack the code. I am pretty sure that those symbols do not mean orange. I’m thinking it says “Screw you” even though Google Translate seems to side with “Orange”. They are probably in on the plot, too.

There’s Absolutely Nothing Wrong with Eating Hamburger Helper for Breakfast

My family does not trust me in the kitchen.  Even the dog.  Mrs. Pain in the Butt, our golden retriever, paces and pants every time I turn the stove on – just because I happened to set off the smoke alarm a few years ago while I was cooking.  My husband is just as bad. Since I had never operated a gas stove before we moved into this house, he is convinced that I am going to blow us all up.  This paranoia stemmed from the fact that, the first night we moved into the house, I placed a box on the counter next to the stove, inadvertently turning one of the dials ever so slightly.  We woke up in the middle of the night to the distinct smell of gas.  I try to tell him, “But I wasn’t even cooking when I almost killed us!”  He does not find that reassuring.

The only family member that meets my rare trips to the kitchen with delight and anticipation is our bulldog, Wonderbutt.  Despite all evidence to the contrary, he steadfastly clenches to the belief that I am going to give him food scraps while I am foraging for a Diet Coke.  

And our daughter?  Here is how confident she is about my kitchen skills:

My husband, who usually prepares breakfast in the morning, had to leave early one day, and reluctantly left it up to me.  My daily breakfast is cereal, but my daughter is used to gourmet meals made to order by Cap’n Firepants.  That morning, at 6:20, I went to wake her up.

“Hey, sweetie.  Time to get up.”

Grunt.

“Umm.  Daddy had to go to work early, so it’s just me today.”

Grunt.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

Silence.  Then a hesitant,  “You know how to make waffles, don’t you?”

Crap.

“Well, I probably could.  I think it has a recipe on the side of the box.  But I think I would need to use the mixer (don’t I?), and that would take a lot of time.  Plus, you know I’m not good at doing multi-step tasks early in the morning.”

She sat up, and looked at me.

“You. Just. Put. Them in the. Toaster,” she said slowly.

“Oh!  Those kind of waffles!  Sure, I can do that!” I said with great confidence.

“Okay,” she said, looking at me doubtfully.

“I can!” I said.

I marched to the kitchen to prove my point, thinking, “Geez, why can’t she just have a darn Pop Tart like every other kid in America?”

Oh yeah, because we don’t have Pop Tarts.

Another thing no one trusts me to do – the grocery shopping.

Wonderbutt as he hopefully waits for me to take pity on the poor, starving dog

December’s Dead Rubber Post

I need to title these a bit more carefully, I guess.  I was searching my own blog to find out if I ever did a November Dead Rubber Post, and found the one that I did last year.  Only, I had to read half of  it to realize that I wrote it over a year ago.  Which makes me wonder, “If I don’t even remember it, my readers, half of whom had probably not even chanced upon my blog yet last November, would probably not remember it.  Which means that I could do a little copy/paste trick and none would be the wiser.”  Except now that I’ve filled you in on my evil scheme, you would be wiser.  If I even had the energy to erase those first few sentences, I would not have to be composing a Dead Rubber Post to begin with.  So, here we are.

If you would like to read last November’s Dead Rubber Post, and to find out what the heck a Dead Rubber Post is, then you can click here.  Otherwise, you can just look at some pictures of Wonderbutt the Bulldog employing his usual diplomatic manners as he encounters more evidence of nefarious Christmas decor that must be eaten.

Wonderbutt and Mrs. Pain in the Butt confront a new holiday decoration.

Mrs. P.I.B. keeps her distance, but Wonderbutt never backs away from a fight.

Wonderbutt cautiously approaches.

 

Wonderbutt ferociously warns Penobscott Penguin that his presence is not welcome in the Firepants household.

 

Penobscott deflates in defeat.

Satisfied that he has established his Grinchitude, Wonderbutt retires to his bed to chew on his (rein)deer antler. We’re still waiting for him to discover the tree…

 

 

 

 

 

Canines in the Kitchen

Wonderbutt rounding the kitchen corner after having just finished his supper.

Wonderbutt pleading with me to let him finish Mrs. P.I.B.’s supper, too.

Mrs. P.I.B. taking her own sweet time to finish her supper. She breaks at least 3 times to meander over to the water dish.

Wonderbutt looking forlorn as Mrs. P.I.B. abandons her food yet another time, and I stand guard.

Mrs. P.I.B. finally leaves the bowl to Wonderbutt.

Wonderbutt scavenges the crumbs.

Wonderbutt does his best to look nobly emaciated so I will give him more food. It doesn’t work.