One thing that's cool and horrifying about my dad is that he likes to joke, mainly in the form of really bad puns. Like groaning is often the only legitimate response to some of the things he says. And my kids have already identified this tendency. Last week I said something corny, and my elder son said, "Mom, that was almost as bad as a Beepa joke." I'm pretty sure my dad would feel some pride in hearing that.
Every now and then, though, the bad pun is actually really, really good. For instance, one thing that's been so great in my life lately is that my sister-in-law had to do a presentation on a microbe for a class (microbiology, quite obviously). She asks me a lot about stuff from this class, because it's kind of my thing. I was relating to my dad how much I'd been enjoying her project, from the beginning where she was trying to remember which bug it was, telling me that it was something that caused a drippy nose (this is English as a second language SIL, she looked it up on her translator), and then I found out she was talking about gonorrhea which is more like a drippy penis, to the middle where everything I edited for her I sent back to her with the heading, "Lulu has gonorrhea", to the end where we spent about an hour on the phone working on pronunciation of "vagina", "rectum", and "anus" (that was a tricky one--she wanted to start with a long "e"--eeenus).
So my dad, after listening to all this, asked my sister in law how the presentation went. She told him it was fine, not too bad. He gave it a moment for effect, then, "Did they clap?" Ba-dum-bum.
It took him a while to recover from that one. And I'll admit, I laughed pretty hard myself.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
She's A Maniac
I am homicidal. Livid. Irate.
Registering for spring semester, I see in my requirements doodad that English is not fulfilled. Oh fuck, no, I say to myself. I email my advisor, one of the many recipients of the Great English Exemption Epistle of '09 , to say, hey I think there's a mistake, can you check on this obnoxious dingleberry of an English requirement that's been hounding me forever? Maybe get the computer to accept that I DON'T NEED ENGLISH? She emails back that even though the English department, the dean of my college, and the fucking president of the United States exempted me from English, the nursing requirements state that I must have this class as part of my "Nursing GPA". No exceptions, that's it.
So then I emailed her back, barely containing my rage, the rage that is capable of felling redwoods the size and girth heretofore only seen in ancient forests, that a good time to mention that might have been this fall when I emailed her to state that I was dropping the class after all the exempting took place. I attached a copy of said email, and her response, which was that I should be sure to file that paper with the main nursing office and some other shit. Which I diligently did, riding the high of my excellent triumph of heated letter writing. She responded that she must have been mistaken, and some other vague non-useful statements.
She is an ass clown, a wart-headed cornworm, and a speckled nippledemon. I am taking this to the Supreme Court, the one in my head, the one that passes down thunderous and decisive judgments on who is a dipshit and who is not. She not only qualifies as a dipshit but as an agent of confusion and pain.
Registering for spring semester, I see in my requirements doodad that English is not fulfilled. Oh fuck, no, I say to myself. I email my advisor, one of the many recipients of the Great English Exemption Epistle of '09 , to say, hey I think there's a mistake, can you check on this obnoxious dingleberry of an English requirement that's been hounding me forever? Maybe get the computer to accept that I DON'T NEED ENGLISH? She emails back that even though the English department, the dean of my college, and the fucking president of the United States exempted me from English, the nursing requirements state that I must have this class as part of my "Nursing GPA". No exceptions, that's it.
So then I emailed her back, barely containing my rage, the rage that is capable of felling redwoods the size and girth heretofore only seen in ancient forests, that a good time to mention that might have been this fall when I emailed her to state that I was dropping the class after all the exempting took place. I attached a copy of said email, and her response, which was that I should be sure to file that paper with the main nursing office and some other shit. Which I diligently did, riding the high of my excellent triumph of heated letter writing. She responded that she must have been mistaken, and some other vague non-useful statements.
She is an ass clown, a wart-headed cornworm, and a speckled nippledemon. I am taking this to the Supreme Court, the one in my head, the one that passes down thunderous and decisive judgments on who is a dipshit and who is not. She not only qualifies as a dipshit but as an agent of confusion and pain.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Hi Ho Silverware
So my parents do Thanksgiving at their house, quite a big one, taken over from me. Originally we always did it at my house, mainly because I was the center point between my family and a large coalition of Syrians. Now that my parents are closer they get to be the Grandparents of Holiday Hosting. This is actually important to the story at hand, not just me rambling. And if it was rambling, that's fine too because it's my blog and I can ramble whenever I want.
Anyway, the other day I was talking to my mom about which desserts she was making. I noticed right away the conspicuous absence of pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. I was all, "Mom, it's not actually Thanksgiving for me without pumpkin bars. But it's up to you, of course! I mean, you don't have to make them or anything." And she said, "Actually I was going to make Indian pudding, you know, in the crock pot." She asked if I have ever had it, which is what she always asks every time Indian pudding comes up, which is more often than you might expect because I think my parents are obsessed with it. She re-informed me that it is cornmeal and molasses and maybe some other stuff in the crock pot, then you put ice cream on top of it. And that it's delicious. Right away I had the same reaction I have every time--it sounds really fucking gross, like a polenta disaster. I mean, cornmeal sludge sweetened with molasses? Molasses is sweet in that it's not sour, bitter, or salty, but it also tastes like total shit, except in the excellent eponymous cookie. We are talking the absolute most wide and far stretch of the definition of dessert ever. Brown playdough, with ice cream on top.
But this time my mom was telling me that it was a big hit at some of our joint Syrian/Minnesotan Thanksgiving extravaganzas. Having been at, and actually orchestrated, all said extravaganzas, I said that I had never seen nor had Indian pudding. Benign disagreement ensued. It is a weird feeling when someone insists that something happened, when it actually did not. Still, I kind of love those moments with my mom, they spice life up a little. A sliver of doubt entered my mind regarding the pudding, or maybe more like a shard of doubt because it was really small.
So then I talked to my big sis. I told her the Indian pudding story, very elegantly describing the pudding as cornmeal slurry, looking for confirmation or denial of the existence of said pudding at former Thanksgivings. When I first described it she said, "It sounds like vomit." Sisterly giggling ensued. She then confirmed my memory. No pudding, at any Thanksgiving we've been to, which is all of them. Of course I used that to segue into my dad's insistence on making mincemeat pie every winter holiday, regardless of the fact that no one, probably not even in the whole world, likes it but him. And his mild huffiness, every single year, when I point out that I think pie with beef in it is all kinds of fucked up. There is no beef in mincemeat pie, he says, every time. Historically there was, I say. And now there's tallow, I say. It's the Mincemeat Pie Impasse, played out annually.
Anyway, the other day I was talking to my mom about which desserts she was making. I noticed right away the conspicuous absence of pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. I was all, "Mom, it's not actually Thanksgiving for me without pumpkin bars. But it's up to you, of course! I mean, you don't have to make them or anything." And she said, "Actually I was going to make Indian pudding, you know, in the crock pot." She asked if I have ever had it, which is what she always asks every time Indian pudding comes up, which is more often than you might expect because I think my parents are obsessed with it. She re-informed me that it is cornmeal and molasses and maybe some other stuff in the crock pot, then you put ice cream on top of it. And that it's delicious. Right away I had the same reaction I have every time--it sounds really fucking gross, like a polenta disaster. I mean, cornmeal sludge sweetened with molasses? Molasses is sweet in that it's not sour, bitter, or salty, but it also tastes like total shit, except in the excellent eponymous cookie. We are talking the absolute most wide and far stretch of the definition of dessert ever. Brown playdough, with ice cream on top.
But this time my mom was telling me that it was a big hit at some of our joint Syrian/Minnesotan Thanksgiving extravaganzas. Having been at, and actually orchestrated, all said extravaganzas, I said that I had never seen nor had Indian pudding. Benign disagreement ensued. It is a weird feeling when someone insists that something happened, when it actually did not. Still, I kind of love those moments with my mom, they spice life up a little. A sliver of doubt entered my mind regarding the pudding, or maybe more like a shard of doubt because it was really small.
So then I talked to my big sis. I told her the Indian pudding story, very elegantly describing the pudding as cornmeal slurry, looking for confirmation or denial of the existence of said pudding at former Thanksgivings. When I first described it she said, "It sounds like vomit." Sisterly giggling ensued. She then confirmed my memory. No pudding, at any Thanksgiving we've been to, which is all of them. Of course I used that to segue into my dad's insistence on making mincemeat pie every winter holiday, regardless of the fact that no one, probably not even in the whole world, likes it but him. And his mild huffiness, every single year, when I point out that I think pie with beef in it is all kinds of fucked up. There is no beef in mincemeat pie, he says, every time. Historically there was, I say. And now there's tallow, I say. It's the Mincemeat Pie Impasse, played out annually.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Wall
For the love of all that is holy, why can I not seem to keep the things inside my head that should stay there? Is there any reason at all that a person would say the things that I say? Gah! I shouldn't need a social story to remind me that it is not fun conversation to tell someone that you can't stop thinking about hydronium ions.
Or maybe I do, because I may or may not have had that conversation just this morning. Musing on the pH scale (negative log of the molar concentration of hydronium ions)--snappy repartee for sure.
Or maybe I do, because I may or may not have had that conversation just this morning. Musing on the pH scale (negative log of the molar concentration of hydronium ions)--snappy repartee for sure.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Big Hairy Deal
I dropped my son off at early childcare this morning, because of my extremely important cultural diversity class, and walked into a lineup of teachers with chopsticks picking through all the kids' hair. Now, being the bright and observant person that I am, I immediately picked up on the reason for it. I kissed the little guy and handed him off to the teacher, who started attacking him with sticks. I said, "Cootie outbreak, huh?" She looked at me with a kind of mixed look, maybe perplexed plus frustrated, I don't really know exactly because I'm not so good with that. I realized that what I said was unprofessional. I cleared my throat and modified. "Small-scale cootie epidemic, I mean?"
She said yeah, some kids were sent home yesterday with lice. Oops. I guess we do not talk about the cooties, we say lice. I actually thought I was being friendly and casual with the cootie thing, otherwise I probably would have busted out a Pediculus humanus capitus. She can suck it.
She said yeah, some kids were sent home yesterday with lice. Oops. I guess we do not talk about the cooties, we say lice. I actually thought I was being friendly and casual with the cootie thing, otherwise I probably would have busted out a Pediculus humanus capitus. She can suck it.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Assassin
Listen, fucker who threw the peanut through my sister's window:
I have learned of your newest missile, the graham cracker. I feel it shows personal growth and a commitment to repentance for the deadly peanut throwing you engaged in earlier. A graham cracker is not only benign, it is friendly and wholesome. Thank you, thrower of foods into windows, for becoming a better kinder version of yourself.
It is no longer on, and I will no longer be planning to annihilate your skeleton into many small bits with the force of my major karate moves. I will miss you as a foe, though, fucker.
I have learned of your newest missile, the graham cracker. I feel it shows personal growth and a commitment to repentance for the deadly peanut throwing you engaged in earlier. A graham cracker is not only benign, it is friendly and wholesome. Thank you, thrower of foods into windows, for becoming a better kinder version of yourself.
It is no longer on, and I will no longer be planning to annihilate your skeleton into many small bits with the force of my major karate moves. I will miss you as a foe, though, fucker.
Ooo-ooo Child
So yesterday was a rare day for me, rare because I mostly don't categorize my days into good and bad. They're just days, usually with some component of each. But yesterday, it sucked pretty consistently from start to finish, well except for a few good things. All right, if you added all events together the sum would probably be zero. But still, it felt like a bad day and I scowled for a while about it.
First I had this conversation, the kind where the person tells you some things straight up that you don't necessarily want to hear. I felt like that person sucked. That's not true, though. But I did send poison dart thoughts through the phone.
Then my biochem lab TA went super pissy on me. I asked if she could email out everyone else's lab values for an experiment we were running, because my lab partner and I finished about 1 hr before the end of class. She said very snottily that class was scheduled until 12:50 and we could just wait. Now keep in mind that this is someone with whom I've hung out a bit, and think is very cool. To be fair, she then sighed and apologized because she was having a really shitty day. And also to be fair, she was right but all those douches take so long and it feels like being punished for efficiency. Still it was an encounter that I did not like. It's part of the tally of badness.
Then I had to do a few things that I just did not want to do, like dreading not wanting to do. And I didn't do them as well as I had wanted to. You can just deal with the vagueness here, this is not a blog where I bare my soul. Actually there's pretty much no venue in the world where I do that. The soul, it is not a nudist.
Then I grappled with this guy who clearly thinks that it is very important to pin a 140 lb woman to the mat and hold her there. He muscled me around like crazy, and at one point I thought he was going to tear off my arm. I fucking hate when guys do that--just use strength and weight instead of technique. I ended up telling him that neither of us would get anything out of him demonstrating that he can hold me in one position for five minutes, there's no technique to be had there. Outweighing me by 60 pounds does not make you awesome.
Then I was reminded once again that some people are really self-centered.
Then I my salsa was too spicy.
Then I didn't get to see someone I wanted to see.
That was a pretty bad day. Full of manifestations of evil! Tainted by the nefarious principles of darkness! Drawn to the shadows by harbingers of doom! Spiraling downward in a tight circle of accursedness! Rife with the diabolical!
Well that pretty much cheered me up, going all apeshit on sinister sentence fragments.
First I had this conversation, the kind where the person tells you some things straight up that you don't necessarily want to hear. I felt like that person sucked. That's not true, though. But I did send poison dart thoughts through the phone.
Then my biochem lab TA went super pissy on me. I asked if she could email out everyone else's lab values for an experiment we were running, because my lab partner and I finished about 1 hr before the end of class. She said very snottily that class was scheduled until 12:50 and we could just wait. Now keep in mind that this is someone with whom I've hung out a bit, and think is very cool. To be fair, she then sighed and apologized because she was having a really shitty day. And also to be fair, she was right but all those douches take so long and it feels like being punished for efficiency. Still it was an encounter that I did not like. It's part of the tally of badness.
Then I had to do a few things that I just did not want to do, like dreading not wanting to do. And I didn't do them as well as I had wanted to. You can just deal with the vagueness here, this is not a blog where I bare my soul. Actually there's pretty much no venue in the world where I do that. The soul, it is not a nudist.
Then I grappled with this guy who clearly thinks that it is very important to pin a 140 lb woman to the mat and hold her there. He muscled me around like crazy, and at one point I thought he was going to tear off my arm. I fucking hate when guys do that--just use strength and weight instead of technique. I ended up telling him that neither of us would get anything out of him demonstrating that he can hold me in one position for five minutes, there's no technique to be had there. Outweighing me by 60 pounds does not make you awesome.
Then I was reminded once again that some people are really self-centered.
Then I my salsa was too spicy.
Then I didn't get to see someone I wanted to see.
That was a pretty bad day. Full of manifestations of evil! Tainted by the nefarious principles of darkness! Drawn to the shadows by harbingers of doom! Spiraling downward in a tight circle of accursedness! Rife with the diabolical!
Well that pretty much cheered me up, going all apeshit on sinister sentence fragments.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Early Bird
Today my older son tested for his second level junior black belt and passed, which meant that we had to go to Red Robin to celebrate. He is a cheeseburger aficionado and that is one place you can find a wild variety of them. So he stole my usual, which is the teriyaki cheeseburger with grilled pineapple on it, which is so good it actually makes kittens look ugly. Since I hate duplicate ordering I got the chicken bruschetta sandwich which was also quite good. Little guy ordered off the kids' menu and grossed us all out as usual with that shit.
So then His Black Beltedness wanted a shake for dessert. I said fine, why not? It's a big day. He ordered a butter toffee shake which actually had toffee bits in it. It was initially alarming to suck crunchies through a straw but then became satisfying as the adrenaline wore off. Littler son hated it so he ordered the tiramisu shake. I felt it would taste like ass and I was right. It was like coffee smooshed with old cookies or something. So then we ordered the gingerbread shake, whereupon the heavens parted and angels rained down deliciousness upon us. They put graham cracker crumbs into the shake, so it was slightly textured but not at all like pulpy fucking orange juice. It was like light delicate morselets of ex-crunchiness that had softened in the gingerbready goodness. I feel bad about doubting the graham cracker as a successful adjunct to a shake, because I admit it, I was skeptical. That won't happen again--I see now the graham cracker's versatility and rare ability to enhance all encounters with other foods. Cheesecake crust should have been enough for me to know that, or even the seven-layer bar, but it was not. Let it be said now that I will not ever again doubt the graham cracker in any form.
So then His Black Beltedness wanted a shake for dessert. I said fine, why not? It's a big day. He ordered a butter toffee shake which actually had toffee bits in it. It was initially alarming to suck crunchies through a straw but then became satisfying as the adrenaline wore off. Littler son hated it so he ordered the tiramisu shake. I felt it would taste like ass and I was right. It was like coffee smooshed with old cookies or something. So then we ordered the gingerbread shake, whereupon the heavens parted and angels rained down deliciousness upon us. They put graham cracker crumbs into the shake, so it was slightly textured but not at all like pulpy fucking orange juice. It was like light delicate morselets of ex-crunchiness that had softened in the gingerbready goodness. I feel bad about doubting the graham cracker as a successful adjunct to a shake, because I admit it, I was skeptical. That won't happen again--I see now the graham cracker's versatility and rare ability to enhance all encounters with other foods. Cheesecake crust should have been enough for me to know that, or even the seven-layer bar, but it was not. Let it be said now that I will not ever again doubt the graham cracker in any form.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Equator
In A&P lecture the other day, which I sometimes enjoy attending because of the remote control quiz show aspect of the class wherein the prof posts questions on the screen and we all frantically click the answers in with our little devices, which satisfies my need for competitive academics and trivia, the prof was discussing memory and mentioned that short term memory does not last, which is why nobody remembers the quadratic equation. Um, what? Why would we not remember that? It was among my first major equations, exciting on the same level as discovering boys. It was so perfect, so....leading to answers. I'll go so far as to say it was a spiritual experience for me, which in a small school in a small town was hard to come by, academically speaking.
So then I spent the rest of the lecture lost in thought, musing on favorite equations. There are so many I really like, even love, that it would be hard to choose only one. It's like elements of the periodic table, or your children, or sandwiches---hard to choose a favorite and depends on the day. Though most days for me it's carbon, both/neither, and hot: Reuben; cold: veggie bagel sandwich from Fulbeli Deli. I mean, carbon--it's so versatile. Sigh. I mean, what else can be used for dating ancient materials, organizing societies into bloody and brutal hierarchies with its compressed form, fuel industry, and take the truncated icosahedral shape of buckminsterfullerene ? And nobody ever talks about boron-based life forms, or neoniferous materials (all due respect to the inert gases, yo).
I may have just gone a little off topic there. I have no small amount of passion for the periodic table of elements. This would be a good place for me to admit that I am planning to have my cousin to paint a portrait of the PT of E for me, to hang on my wall. Way more satisfying than pastoral scene shit.
Back to my favorite equation. As I mentioned before, the quadratic equation holds a special place in my heart, and then of course there's Bernoulli's principle , which I've always taken a moment to appreciate when traveling. Schr⦱dinger's ideas and I go way back, and then there's always a little love for the universal gas law and its sidekick, partial pressures. It's hard not to shout out to the classic E=mc², but that's overused to the point of being precious, even though I doubt somehow that most people really appreciate the elegance in relating an object's mass to its energy, with all the attendant nods to electromagnetic force and gravity and the potential bending of time and space. Rock on.
With equations come constants, and my favorites of those are probably Planck's constant (life-changing constant for me in 1996) and the speed of light. And of course no discussion of constants would be complete without pi, my favorite irrational number of all time.
So then I spent the rest of the lecture lost in thought, musing on favorite equations. There are so many I really like, even love, that it would be hard to choose only one. It's like elements of the periodic table, or your children, or sandwiches---hard to choose a favorite and depends on the day. Though most days for me it's carbon, both/neither, and hot: Reuben; cold: veggie bagel sandwich from Fulbeli Deli. I mean, carbon--it's so versatile. Sigh. I mean, what else can be used for dating ancient materials, organizing societies into bloody and brutal hierarchies with its compressed form, fuel industry, and take the truncated icosahedral shape of buckminsterfullerene ? And nobody ever talks about boron-based life forms, or neoniferous materials (all due respect to the inert gases, yo).
I may have just gone a little off topic there. I have no small amount of passion for the periodic table of elements. This would be a good place for me to admit that I am planning to have my cousin to paint a portrait of the PT of E for me, to hang on my wall. Way more satisfying than pastoral scene shit.
Back to my favorite equation. As I mentioned before, the quadratic equation holds a special place in my heart, and then of course there's Bernoulli's principle , which I've always taken a moment to appreciate when traveling. Schr⦱dinger's ideas and I go way back, and then there's always a little love for the universal gas law and its sidekick, partial pressures. It's hard not to shout out to the classic E=mc², but that's overused to the point of being precious, even though I doubt somehow that most people really appreciate the elegance in relating an object's mass to its energy, with all the attendant nods to electromagnetic force and gravity and the potential bending of time and space. Rock on.
With equations come constants, and my favorites of those are probably Planck's constant (life-changing constant for me in 1996) and the speed of light. And of course no discussion of constants would be complete without pi, my favorite irrational number of all time.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Cue The Zombies!
I forgot to post about Halloween! Mainly because nothing special happened, and I have no personal attachment to any holidays. I was on call, which was potentially cool (exciting calls, like someone stuffing a jack-o-lantern up their ass or something) but also a bummer (no partaking of the neighborhood's special Adult Hot Cider stops). I did end up getting called out, but for the absolute most non-Halloweeny thing ever--chest pain, in an older woman. Ho hum. The ass-o-lantern would have been so much better.
Anyway, now of course we are dealing with the aftermath of Halloween, the Candy Glut. My policy is to go nuts on the candy right when you finish trick or treating, because what is Halloween if not a yearly opportunity for candy-focused gluttony? And stomach pain? Another policy I have regarding the candy is that I get to have some of it. Now, I'm not much for candy in general, and actually hate most non-chocolate things like skittles and all that shit, with the exception of a nice fresh classic twizzler of course, but Halloween just brings out some love for tiny candy bars.
In order of excellence, twix, reese's pbcs (these would totally be number one if they were the pb eggs we get around the spring equinox, because those have a greater pb/chocolate ratio and are fucking awesome), milky way, three musketeers, take 5 (a new discovery this year--really good in spite of me hating pretzels with the white hot heat of a thousand suns), and kit kats which are so middling that I often just ignore them. Peanut M&Ms are in there, too, but cannot rightly be called a candy bar because they are small individual units of chocolate and peanut not in a bar shape. Way, way down on the list is the snickers, which I do not eat unless I am in a nuclear fallout shelter, and even further on the list, so far as to not actually be on it, is the scourge of the candy bar world. I hate everything about it, from the ugly ass wrapper to the turd-like appearance of the bar. It's the Baby Ruth, of course. The shittiest candy bar ever. I think it should only be used as a television prop for simulating turds floating in swimming pools and on weird unfriendly birthday cakes. Ruth was one fucking ugly baby, I'll tell you that much.
And so passes another Hallowe'en.
Anyway, now of course we are dealing with the aftermath of Halloween, the Candy Glut. My policy is to go nuts on the candy right when you finish trick or treating, because what is Halloween if not a yearly opportunity for candy-focused gluttony? And stomach pain? Another policy I have regarding the candy is that I get to have some of it. Now, I'm not much for candy in general, and actually hate most non-chocolate things like skittles and all that shit, with the exception of a nice fresh classic twizzler of course, but Halloween just brings out some love for tiny candy bars.
In order of excellence, twix, reese's pbcs (these would totally be number one if they were the pb eggs we get around the spring equinox, because those have a greater pb/chocolate ratio and are fucking awesome), milky way, three musketeers, take 5 (a new discovery this year--really good in spite of me hating pretzels with the white hot heat of a thousand suns), and kit kats which are so middling that I often just ignore them. Peanut M&Ms are in there, too, but cannot rightly be called a candy bar because they are small individual units of chocolate and peanut not in a bar shape. Way, way down on the list is the snickers, which I do not eat unless I am in a nuclear fallout shelter, and even further on the list, so far as to not actually be on it, is the scourge of the candy bar world. I hate everything about it, from the ugly ass wrapper to the turd-like appearance of the bar. It's the Baby Ruth, of course. The shittiest candy bar ever. I think it should only be used as a television prop for simulating turds floating in swimming pools and on weird unfriendly birthday cakes. Ruth was one fucking ugly baby, I'll tell you that much.
And so passes another Hallowe'en.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Baked Giggles
So we went to a bakery this morning, an Italian bakery known for its huge variety of excellent cookies. We met the ex there so he could hang with the boys for a bit before leaving for a trip. We had taken a number and were waiting in line. I was checking out the cookies, trying to decide which ones I wanted because I love cookies so much that it's important to choose wisely, when I saw in the line of biscotti the anise toast. Now, I do realize that the spice anise is not pronounced the same as the bunghole anus but still if you just go with it that says anus toast. And since my ex is not a native speaker of English and can also be incredibly juvenile, I pointed it out to him through my knee-buckling giggles. He, too, cracked up, maybe even more because to him, it truly was toast of the anus. I moved on to my nine year old son. "Dude, do you want one of those?" I said, pointing. He studied it for just a moment, then turned away smirking and acting embarrassed. "Mo-ommmm!" he said, in what can only be described as a pre-teen tone of voice. I was still laughing. It actually took me a while to stop. And really, I'm not done yet because every time I say anus toast quietly in my head I crack up.
I think my son's new nickname might have to be A.T.
I think my son's new nickname might have to be A.T.
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