Tuesday, November 6, 2007

The One I Used to Carry Like a Sack of Potatoes on My Hip

Polish the "Mom of the Year" medal for me. Last night I took my kids to a chain restaurant, The Yardhouse, in Pasadena, for Monday night football, fried foods and sodas (diet). The beer selection was astonishing but, as per most of Pasadena, the food was designed primarily to create a thirst for liquor. The place was so filled with things that repulse me, like mediocre food, blaring 70's rock, football, large groups of men watching football, large groups of men drinking, and Big Gulp sized servings of beer, that I was stunned into a weird fascination and suddenly I was Margaret Mead in Samoa and amid people of similar bulk. After our healthful repast, we attended a school night showing of American Gangster. Spuds dutifully reported to Daddy that the girls had to be naked when they packed the heroin so they wouldn’t steal it.

I returned home and Himself said that he was writing me an e-mail as I entered the room. Spuds asked why we couldn’t just talk to each other. I explained that there were certain practical matters that Mom and Dad could more efficiently address via e-mail rather than waste our precious time together. "Yeah," he responded, " so Dad can read a book and you can eat and watch Weeds."

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