She Didn't Inherit Her Mother's Adrenaline Junkie Gene, That is for Certain

Over the winter break we took a family trip to Six Flags Magic Mountain. What with it being a stones throw from our house and about a third of the total cost as that of Disneyland, it is fun and affordable way to spend an adrenaline filled day with the family. [Editor's note and cost saving tip: If you don't already have a season pass which is only $54.99 dollars or don't plan to go often enough for that to pay for itself, buy your admission tickets online for only $29.99 instead of the $54.99 that they would charge at the park. Also? Disneyland doesn't offer an online deal for single park-one day passes NOR do they offer an option to buy one PERIOD online. You would have to wait in line at the park to purchase your tickets].

While our boys love the rush that roller coasters can bring; Girl-Child is not much for the things that create the illusion of danger. Or one for speed. Or for anything that moves, really, for that matter. She was at least five years old before she would let me put a quarter in one of those little wonky rides at the mall. And even then she would grip the contraption for dear life with an expression of total fear plastered across her face. It wasn't until she was six before she went anywhere near the merry-go-round. So imagine our surprise when we were able to talk her into riding The Gold Rusher [one of the more seemingly harmless rides and an excellent choice for one's first roller coaster] with Mr. Farklepants. And it wasn't until it was our turn to board the train that she worked up the courage to take a ride with dad. Would you like to see how that went? A girl's first roller coaster ride: A pictorial:

"I can do this! I'm here with my daddy...he said it doesn't go really fast. I trust my daddy. My daddy will save me!"

"Wait a minute...WTF?!?"

"Daddy, YOU lied to me"

This is more her speed.

Clearly, nothing like her mother (an oldie but a goodie from last summer):



**photos from Mr. Farklepants and his bitchen mistress, the Canon 5D Mark II

Reason Number One and Counting Why I Will Never Have a Yard Sale

Oh my God, you guys. I can't believe I haven't told this story already - and just when I was starting to think I'd run out of stories to tell. Okay, well, so today I went to the bank which I almost never have to do thanks to that beautiful invention - direct deposit. But I had a handful of checks the kids had received for Christmas and I figured it was high time to cash those suckers. That is all really here nor there except that it explains where I was and why I was parked in a spot that had a lot of cross traffic happening behind me; besides which, it is a better set up than today I was backing out of a parking space. Maybe. I dunno, whatever. Welcome to my stream of consciousness.

Anyway, so I'm backing out -real slow like- because it's busy and the black Toyota Sequoia parked next to me has the blackest tinted windows on earth and I quite literally could not see through them to determine if a car was coming. Or pedestrians. I get just far out enough to see a woman with a shopping cart waiting for me. So I halt to let her go what with that whole pedestrians have the right of way thingy and we do that whole she waves me on and I'm all no, no, after you wave to her and she's like, no really just go so I start to go at the same time she decides to stop waiting for me and we both do that immediate halt thing and she is all PISSED. And by this time I really do have to wait because there is a car speeding by but she thinks I'm still waiting for her and her teeth are all clenched but she still mouths the words just go lady or something because whatever she was muttering under her breath it was said with plenty of seething. So I just GO and I'm kind of hoping I take out her cart with my SUV on the way because I hate her a little bit at that moment and -what the hell? I was just trying to be nice and all law abiding. Screw that chick. And she reminds me of this lady who came to my door once.

Is she finally getting to the story? Yes, I believe she is. And you know what? I think she's realizing it's not really that great of a story. I hope she tells it anyway because I've gone this far. Oh, look...we're taking a trip in the way-back machine! Yay the way-back machine! I LOVE the way-back machine.

It's early summer of 1997, and Mr. Farklepants, a nine month old Boy-Child#1, and I are about thirty days away from our escrow closing on the house in which we currently live. During that time we lived in his mother's house and paid her mortgage and property tax while she lived in another location. We had a great deal with her and it was a perfect arrangement. Except that it was her house and it was always her house and that part was a little hard for a new wife to live with but...hence, the waiting for the closing of escrow on the current house.

Before moving we had a giant three day estate sale. I say "estate sale" because we pretty much sold anything that wasn't nailed down. That included a car. Much of the stuff belonged to my mother in law but the rest of it was what happens when two single people come to live together: a mash up of two separate dwellings, mismatched, mishmash, much of it second hand, most of it HATED. And none of that was coming into our brand new house, save for Boy-Child#1's nursery furniture and our bedroom furniture. Everything else went. And if that meant we had to live with a metal picnic table and folding lawn chairs in the dining room, so be it -but that is what happened- and totally a story for another day.

The estate sale was a success, except for not selling the car, haggling with some woman over a quarter for the dress I was selling FOR A DOLLAR, and getting conned out of ninety dollars. [Editor's note: That was the most authentic looking counterfeit one hundred dollar bill I have ever seen. Lesson learned, no bills over twenty dollars will be accepted, that is if there was ever going to be another yard sale, which there isn't] The following Friday the relatives are all gone, Mr. Farklepants is at work and it is just Boy-Child#1 and I at home when there is a knock at my front door. I answer, and on the other side is a pleasant looking woman...there for the estate sale. I explain that it was the previous weekend thinking maybe she had seen the ad my mother in law had placed and got the dates confused. And she? Was PISSED. Her pleasant demeanor fell away quicker than a drunk cheerleader's underpants at a frat party. "I READ YOUR SIGN" she yelled at me. My sign? "THE SIGN OVER ON THE CORNER OF BLAH BLAH AND BLAH BLAH BLAH". Oh, I'm sorry. My mother in law and her friends took the signs down but I'm guessing they missed one. Well, it was last weekend. "I DROVE ALL THE WAY OVER HERE AND TOOK TIME OUT OF MY DAY BECAUSE OF YOUR SIGN".

By now you'd think I'd be a little afraid and worried about this obviously crazy person on my front porch but the whole time I'm starting to get mad and I'm thinking, I've got a good twenty pounds and four inches on this bitch. I can take her.

BRING IT. I was kind of done being nice and all soft spoken and she actually flinched when I finally lost my shit "SO WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT LADY" screaming with flecks of spittle flying over my threshold. And she just looked at me. So I continued "THIS IS MY HOME NOT A STORE I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SELL TO YOU WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME".

She looks right at me and screams "I WANT YOU TO TAKE YOUR SIGN DOWN SO NO ONE ELSE WASTES THEIR TIME".

And I finish with: SO FAR YOU'RE THE ONLY IDIOT WHO THINKS IT'S THIS WEEKEND SO GO TO HELL. And with that? I slammed the door in her face.

The end.

Speaking of My Facebook Addiction...

This week there is a Facebook meme making the rounds asking you to post a profile picture of the celebrity you've been told you resemble or have been mistaken for. Marcy over at The Glamorous Life discovered that she looks like Faith Prince. I wish I could post the pictures of my friends who look like Phoebe Cates [omg, uncanny, so much so], Jennifer Aniston [yep, totally], and Ron Jeremy [I don't know exactly what it is he is trying to suggest but more importantly, I don't want to know]...but since I don't have their permission, I won't. But I will show you mine:



I get Jennie Garth. A lot. I've even been mistaken for her, and living here in Los Angeles, it would make sense that she would be in a Starbucks, or Coffee Bean, or wherever the hell I was when it happened.

Who's your celebrity twin-ish?

Twitter the Gateway Drug and its Hardcore Addiction Cousin: Facebook

Quite some time ago I, like Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, and Discopickles** created a Twitter account. There was a time, you know, when I used to actually write on my blog regularly, when I would think in terms of blog posts. It wasn't long after signing up with Twitter that I found myself thinking in 140 characters or less and by the power invested in me so help me God I will use "its" for "it's" if I'm one character over the limit. At first I would try to limit my tweets and discern what might be tweet-worthy. Because I didn't want to answer Twitter's "What's Happening?" and be all: Just took out the trash or first load of laundry for the day complete zzzzzzzzzzzzz....It didn't take much time to decide that things like: "When did James Cameron turn into Bea Arthur?" or "When my dog leaps onto the couch, she farts. Audibly and impressively. You're welcome." - were important updates for the world to know. Because I'm helpful with information like that.

About a year ago my college aged sister talked me into joining Facebook. And I was all, I already have a blog, I have a Twitter, I'll sign up but don't expect me to frequent that little corner of the internet - much. And she was all, yeah, we'll see about that sucker. Most of our family, adults and children alike, and our friends are there. It's a great way for us to keep an eye on our teenage son and his friends share photos, family updates, plan a get together, and communicate with those closest to us. But then there is the political aspect to contend with. If you want to keep something one on one or between a chosen few, you take your conversation to the inbox...away from prying eyes. And when I say prying eyes I'm talking about that person who's on your friends list simply because you went to the same high school. And then you start to realize that the politics of Facebook are very similar to that of planning a wedding.

If you invite Auntie Gertie then you have to invite her offspring, your cousin, the one who used to pour sand in your hair and stole your boyfriend when you were in sixth grade and you don't really like her, in fact, you kind of hate her guts and don't want her anywhere near you on the happiest day of your life, because wtf? It's YOUR wedding. This is Facebook. You get a friend request from someone you genuienly adore or did once and would like to reconnect. Then because of that connection it turns out someone from their friend list remembers you or went to the same school as you or maybe worked with you briefly at some point, or likes your profile picture and would like to see more of you. Whatever the case may be, now you've got a dilemma on your hands in the form of a friend request pending on your homepage. And you sit on it for a spell. Because you don't want to be rude or hurt their feelings by hitting that "ignore" button. But then you don't really want them keeping up with the witty banter on your wall and the pictures of your friends, family, and your kids in your albums. In other words: I want my Facebook to be a private, intimate affair and I don't want them at my wedding.

And I try to limit my status updates on Facebook because I'm hiding my addiction from the people closest to me. I don't need to come home to some kind of Facebook intervention with far flung relatives from around the globe. Because I've got it under control. Really. Really I do. No, really.


**In fact, not a Twitter name I checked. It's yours if you want it.

Tootsie Takes a Long Hard Look in the Mirror and Faces the Facts

I find myself, lately, uttering the phrase Oh my God I'm getting so old! I mean, it's true, I am. That is the way life goes. You get older. Fortunately, it's a gradual process. But sometimes events arise that smack that fact right straight across your face like a bitch. And certain events include but are not limited to the following:

• Tootsie's youngest sister graduated from high school last June and is in her first year of college. And when Tootsie says youngest sister she means the sister who is twenty years younger. What. Ever.
• Tootsie's other younger sister is turning 21 in just two months. It seems like yesterday Tootsie was changing her cloth diapers and ramming herself in the thumb with those fooking diaper pins. Hello, Mom? One word: Pampers.
• Tootsie's oldest son is 13 - A TEENAGER - and it dawned on Tootsie that hiring a 15 year old babysitter to watch the kids when she has her very own teenager right there in her own home seemed like a waste of five dollars an hour (who is Tootsie kidding? See following gripe)
  
• Babysitters in 2010 are at least ten dollars an hour. Tootsie used to make two dollars an hour babysitting. But that's okay because Tootsie didn't really like your kids anyway she just needed cigarette money.
• Tootsie's twenty year high school reunion was LAST YEAR.
• Tootsie's niece became engaged to be married over winter break**
• Tootsie's oldest son shaves will start high school in the fall.
• Tootsie can't remember the last time she went to a bridal or baby shower but does remember the last funeral she went to.
• Tootsie's flower girl from her own wedding just turned twenty-two.
• Tootsie knows when it's humid before setting foot outside because she is unable to remove the rings from her fingers.
• ETC...

**Congratulations to my niece on her engagement. And for becoming engaged and not being pregnant - way to break the cycle.

P.s. No one likes a showoff.

The Family that Parties Together Travels Back in Time Together

Tootsie and family attended a 1970's themed New Years Eve party to ring in 2010. With the movie Boogie Nights in mind, they hit the thrift store on Ventura Blvd to secure their vintage clothing. They left with two shirts and a dress. The dress is the only thing Tootsie had to purchase for herself. This means that Tootsie already had blue eyeshadow, gold strappy shoes with cork heels, a hair comb, a gold sequined purse, suntan pantyhose, and sundry costume jewelry at her disposal: which means that Tootsie either has some really cool treasures in her closet or some really tacky shit. Tootsie's oldest son looks like he fell right out of 1975 on a daily basis so not much effort was needed to achieve his look. Even Mr. Farklepants is wearing Tootsie's own belt. He IS wearing a wig but the douchestache and mutton chops are all his - which made it all the sweeter when it wasn't until AFTER he'd made a trip OUT IN PUBLIC to replace the flat tire on his car that he realized he still hadn't shaved. That, dear friends, is made of AWESOME.

LAX is not Even Kidding About Being There Two Hours Before Your Flight

The airport. I almost always try to fly out of Burbank airport whenever possible [side note: I know it's Bob Hope Airport, or "Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Airport" but no one ever EVER calls it that...just "Burbank", because? It's in Burbank]. I do this because it is small, and quaint, and you kind of don't mind being there. I mean, there's only one baggage claim! You can't get lost. You don't get tired walking from your car to the building. Or from the ticket counter to your gate. You get what I'm saying. But! Airfare being what it is (or was), my recent trip to visit family back east meant if I could afford to fly, I was flying out of LAX. And I hate just about everything there is to hate about LAX.

Exhibit A) American Airlines is located in the international terminal and I couldn't believe my luck when I found a parking spot at the mouth of the bridge that would take me exactly where I needed to be! Except that it wasn't until I reached the other side that I learned the ticket counters and baggage check were DOWNSTAIRS. The only elevator in sight was equipped with a keyhole and not a single button. There were escalators! Except I had to go down a mid sized flight of stairs to reach them. With my very heavy and equally awkward suitcase.

Exhibit B) At the ticket counter there is First Class check in, Priority, some special "I paid too much for my ticket" club, and self-check. The self-checkers make up about 90% of the travelers and not all of them can operate a credit card swipey machine at the grocery store let alone a "print your own ticket" kiosk. So this involves a lot of patience and waiting, and wanting to rip their itinerary out of their hands and JUST DO IT FOR THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE AND TO THE SECURITY CHECK POINT.

Exhibit C) It is the international terminal so I understand that in many cases there is going to be a language barrier. But I imagine that a line looks like a line in just about every country and if you see one that you are pretty sure you need to be in? You go to the end. Not wander to the front and try to be next....I'm looking at you little old Asian woman. And if you weren't about one hundred and twelve years old and look as if you might turn into dust right on the spot from the wind streaming from my lungs as I spoke to you, I might have said something. And because I'd been standing in line for a half an hour and only moved fifteen feet, I was cranky and anxious with nothing but time to think of reasons why you don't recognize a line when you see it and I decided that you use your age an frailty to your advantage and you're just a manipulative old lady. And I don't want to think like that...SEE WHAT LAX DOES TO PEOPLE?

Exhibit D) Finding your gate. Mine was gate 47A. I follow the sign for gates 40 through 49. And I'm walking....Gate 40. And walking...Gate 41...42...43. And walking...Gate 44...45. And walking...Gate 46...and then? Gate 49. W. T. F? Which stopped me dead in my tracks. How could I have fucked this up? Oh. I didn't. There was 47A, tucked away in the far right of the cul de sac at the end of the terminal...like an afterthought.

Exhibit E) People who insist on standing in line to board the plane even if their group number hasn't been called. They stand at the ready. In the line. Except they don't move. Waiting for their number to be announced. And it's a full flight.

Exhibit F) There is always that one person on the plane...or in my case: that one couple. Their seats were not together and none of y'all will mind IF WE JUST SHOUT TO EACH OTHER DO YOU? UNTIL ONE OF Y'ALL CAN'T STAND IT AND GIVE US SOME SEATS TOGETHER? Obnoxious and obvious and the wife even louder than her thundering yeehaw husband. He was enormous and she was a twig. A twig with a beak like nose and exactly zero lips. And dressed in red jeans and a turtle neck, long sleeve t-shirt covered in a pattern of little reindeer. And I would bet my very last dollar that an identical outfit exists in the girls department in a size 6x.

Drinking Game: When You Hear the Word "Vagina" Take a Shot. P.s. You Will be Drunk by the End of this Post

So, I'm getting Girl-Child out of the bath tonight and she asks, how do babies get out of the mommy? It's not the first time she's asked this question but my pat answer of "they come out of the mommy's tummy" was no longer a sufficient explanation. Because she was all, yeah I know THAT but HOWWW? Well, feck. I mean, she's six, so do I struggle with trying to figure out something age appropriate? Or do I just get fer realz on her ass? Frankly, I've just gone through hosting a Thanksgiving dinner-slash-day to fourteen people, not in bed until midnight-ish, up at 4am and at the mall by 5am, movie at the El Capitan in Hollywood at 7pm - followed by a next day dinner and 7pm movie chaser; not to mention the grocery shopping because the leftovers WILL eventually run out, and that mountain of laundry tackled. In other words: my ability to formulate a creative answer was clouded by my extreme exhaustion. I blurt out:

Babies come out of the mommy's vagina.

She seems generally unfazed...and now I know why: What's a vagina? ...she asks.

Oh my god, you guys. I have totally failed this girl. I mean, I know I've done my most bestiest bestest to shield her from all things inappropriate and keep her innocent as long as possible - which is like fighting a losing battle because you can't even watch an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond without the subject of sex coming up and Girl-Child is all, what's sex? And I'm like fuuuuuck you Everybody Loves Raymond, I mean, WTH? Work with me Ray Romano! - but, but, but, my poor daughter doesn't even know what a vagina is or that she has come equipped with one and that some day a baby may come out of it! Mom=fail.

So I do what any mother in my situation would do when her naked daughter fresh out of the bathtub asks what a vagina is. I point at it. [Right?] This seemed to cause some confusion on her part. Because, HOW does it come out of THAT? There's a hole there, I tell her. Still confusing because HOW BIG IS THAT HOLE, which is exactly what she asked.

"It stretches", I say. "So the baby can fit through."

She wonders if that hurts.

Oh God.

The conversation is beginning to spiral out of control and into a territory that I do not believe she is ready to receive. I mean, let's recap: Not even knowing that she has a vagina - to - what, exactly? Giving her THE TALK? That just seems like a lot of information to throw at her all at once, ya know?

So, I lie to her and tell her it only hurts a little bit. Because, what am I supposed to say? That it hurts so bad that at some point during labor you kind of just wish for sweet death? And that some women take that opportunity to tell their husbands exactly what they think of them? [An aside: Not me. I didn't mind that my husband was watching the ...hmmm... Hawks? Steelers? Raiders? Whatever they were wearing black on Monday night football while I was busy with the miracle of life]...I mean, do I even GO into the whole episiotomy thing? No, of course not.

But, "it hurts a little bit" was all she needed to hear. Mommy I don't think I'm gonna get married, she decides. And I ask her why. Because when you get married you have babies and I don't want it to hurt.

Now if she can just hold onto that until she's at least twenty five.

Warning: Does not Work Well With Small Children

This morning, a matter got my dander up. I know I'm a bitcher and moaner from way back. It doesn't take much to get me going. It is what I do. [Ohmygod you should hear me in the car. Everyone in the world is a bad driver except for me. And I will tell you exactly what you're doing wrong from the comfort, safety, and where you can't hear me inside my car.] But when it involves my children -well then- GET OUT OF MY WAY.

My daughter approached me while I was packing up lunches into backpacks. "I want to buy my lunch today", she says. Which is fine, of course, and I say so. But she's anxiously tapping her fingers on one hand against the fingers on the other. And she looks concerned. So I ask her what ever is the matter, dear daughter.

"I forgot my number", she states in a tone as if she'd just told me that she lost a family heirloom that I'd cautioned her not to touch.

You see, I make my kids' lunches everyday, and every once in a while they like to buy cafeteria food. The system at the school is such that each child is assigned a number (almost like a barcode, that is given to them by the cashier, no less) for buying lunch. They get in line, give the cashier their money, state their number, the cashier punches it into a computer and they're free to buy one main entree and various sides and a drink for $2.75.

Apparently this number is very VERY important.

"If you forgot it just tell the lady", I tell her.

Girl-Child looks nervous. Her eyes get a little well-y-uppy. And I get very suspicious. What is vexing my child so? [and why am I speaking as if it is 1865?]

"She told me that if I forgot my number again I would have to go to the end of the line and be the last one to buy lunch".

WTF? I'm sorry. She told you WHAT? Mind you that this is a child who has MAYBE bought her lunch FOUR TIMES EVER IN HER LIFE. And another "mind you"? It took everything I had in me to not drive helter skelter up to the school and have words with said woman.

How hard is this job? Seriously? You sit at a register in an elementary school and collect money from children. That's it. I get that it's boring, and monotonous, and repetitious. But to tell a little six year old girl, who doesn't buy her lunch often enough to have her stupid fucking number memorized, that she will have to wait until ALL THE OTHER CHILDREN buy their lunch before she can. To THREATEN MY CHILD? Because, why? Why? I don't understand how you could be having such a bad day doing this job that you have to intimidate a little girl.

There are many things my child will have to worry about in her adolescent years; like fitting in with her peers, and temptations, and bullies, and cliques, and studying hard enough for and doing well on a test, and if that boy likes her or like-likes her and does she like-like him back, and how I don't know what I'm talking about when I tell her that none of it matters, all of the angsty angst, because after you graduate high school you're likely to never see any of those people ever again and they won't be the most important people in your lives, and how she'll tell me that it's different for her and how I just don't understand because my life is not her life and how she won't listen when I tell her that it's ALL THE SAME SHIT that has been happening for generations but with new improved technology - because that's what kids and teens do. They believe the world revolves around them and that what is happening to them is unique and has never happened before, and...

She shouldn't be standing here in the kitchen freaking out over forgetting the godforsaken magical lunch-buying number. This is not something that should be causing my child any stress whatsoever.

I may just have to join my daughter for lunch.

Obligatory Post-Halloween Mash Up

(Is it just me or does the above pumpkin look a little like a worried and fatigued Charlie Brown?)

(The pumpkins prepare for their night of housing candles and fire. They're not happy)

(Sassy ladybug complete with black tights and leotard to get rid of that hoochie mama look)

(Thirteen year olds wear a tiny Elvis on their head)

(Zombie skeleton...pretty much speaks for itself)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Maybe He's Still Searching for a Heart of Gold. And He's Gettin' Old.

For as long as I can remember my mother has wanted to see Neil Young in concert. Not Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Just Young. There was always one issue or another why that didn't happen. In 2008, Neil Young set off on his tour. Finally! And better yet, he'd be playing in Los Angeles within a week of my mother's birthday! My sisters and I smelled a birthday present made of WIN! I wrote a check and my sister took care of everything.

Then, a day or so before the concert - it happened. In a panicked phone call, my sister explained that she recieved an email informing her that her credit card would be refunded for the tickets. That's it. No explanation. Why the refund? Did she mess up the transaction somehow? WTF, Ticketmaster? Why? Don't you know it's our mother's birthday? Do you KNOW how long she's waited for this? What was the deal? Also - why do you hate my mom?

"Give me five minutes", I told her. Insert Google frenzy here.

And there it was. Oh. No. The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE) union, Local 33, planned to picket Neil Young's show at the Forum.

And Neil? Canceled.

I can appreciate your principles Mr. Young - but - way to harsh my mom's mellow, man. But since you said that you'd reschedule, then we'll see you at the show. Oh, except you never did, so, ya know - kiss my ass, Neil Young.

My mother was looking forward to the possibility of seeing the upcoming Michael Jackson concert. Then. Well. You know...

In 1984, my mother's co-worker had extra tickets to the Michael Jackson Victory Tour at Dodger's Stadium. Best. Concert. Ever. Taking her to see This Is It is the closest to getting Michael Jackson concert tickets for her birthday that I can do. And judging from the movie we saw last night - that concert would have been AM-AZ-ZA-ZING!

Meanwhile Back at the Cake

I'm one of those moms that doesn't let her kids do many things that will get them messy. Because I'm one of those moms that doesn't want to clean it up. If it's sticky or dirty or muddy or soaking wet then it's probably not gonna happen kids, sorry. I loathe hose play, ice cream cones, puddles, muddy mud with mud, and whomever it is that invented cotton candy. Inside the house food and drink are not allowed outside the kitchen. Period. If we're taking a trip to the snow I spend a half an hour prior placing several towels lovingly ALL OVER the inside to prevent disaster; and still wet snow boots are prohibited from entering the vehicle - which means we must all take turns hovering our legs out the car door whilst removing the aforementioned offensive boot. Sometimes the socks too.

Ice cream cones GAH! But because I'm not a complete wretched hag, I allow the occasional cone.

(photographic evidence of my bending of the rules)

There are hard and fast guidelines, however. The ice cream must be vanilla in flavor or some other similar non-staining color. Chocolate is right out! And it has to be eaten immediately in the shop. Cones are not "to go". I prefer the kids eat a scoop in a cup with a spoon OR BETTER? A shake. Oh those glorious shakes with their magnificent containment - the lid that fits beautifully on top - and oh the straw!

So today when I entered our local Baskin Robbins and told the young woman behind the counter that I needed to order a cake for Boy-Child#1's birthday that is coming up this week; we both looked in the direction of The Book. The several inches thick book archiving cake after cake, theme upon theme, decisions decisions decisions - that crazy making how do I ever choose just one -book. And parked in a chair just in front of it like it were a library was a nine-ish year old, pushing 120 pounds or more, fist full of giant waffle cone double scooped ice cream kid thumbing through - browsing, if you will. The chocolate dripping down his arm, all over his shirt, lap, and face AND BOOK WITH EACH TURN OF THE PAGE.

I shuddered a bit.

The shudder did not go undetected by the young woman behind the counter.

She took one look at me and made the correct assumption that I was not the kind of woman that was going to want to FOLLOW THAT PERFORMANCE. She probably wished at that moment that there was a second book. Or gloves.

STICKY! GAH! GAHHHH!!

The young woman behind the counter and I both look to the adults associated with the child like, hellllooooo we're standing here discussing cake ordering and how a cake needs choosing and, like, how we'll just wait a sec while junior over here finishes because hey maybe he's got a birthday coming up and he's picking the winner but oh wait it's obvious now the book is just entertainment to pass the time COULD YOU PLEASE ASK YOUR CHILD TO BACK AWAY FROM THE BOOK FOR LIKE FOUR MINUTES?!

Of course not.

Young woman behind the counter would probably like to simply grab the book and hand it to me except for the fact that it's SCREWED into the stand that holds it on account of all the cake ordering book theft and all. Or something.

So she asks him to please, ya know, git. But real nice-like. Cuz she's not me.

And the parents? *crickets*