So we have a few bags of Halloween candy left over, namely Peanut M&M's. I open up the microscopic bag and two (2) M&M's roll out. Are you kidding me? Two? That't it?
I take a closer look at the packaging and sure enough, right on the label it clearly says, "FUN SIZE". Huh. There is nothing fun (to me) about a them forgetting to put the other 19 M&M's in the bag. Two M&M's is, frankly, insulting. I decide to look up the word "fun" in the dictionary in an effort to obtain more insight into The Mars Corporation naming it thus. There in black and white, I read, "fun: pleasure".
See? I am right: this candy is misnamed. There is no pleasure in eating only two M&M's.
Then I read further: "make fun of: to ridicule".
Oh. I guess they named it right after all.
MOV
Friday, November 12, 2010
203. My 6-Year-Old Explains Basic English
So we’re sitting at the dinner table and Tall takes it upon himself to explain to us how to categorize the letter “Y”.
“Pop,” he begins, innocently enough, “did you know that in a lot of cases, the letter ‘Y’ is considered a valve?”
“A what?” I interrupt, trying hard not to smirk.
“It makes a sound like the ‘I-E’ combination, so therefore it is considered not to be a continent.”
“A continent?” Hand covering face now.
He ignores me. “Pop, do you know what year they declared the letter ‘Y’ to be both a continent and a valve? Was it 1997? I know it was a long time ago.”
The Husband cannot help himself and nearly snorts milk out his nose. He says the first thing he can think of. “Tall, I believe it was longer ago than that.”
“Oh, you’re right. Yeah, yeah, I think it was 1992. Does that sound right?”
I must hear him say these things again. “1992 was the year for what exactly, Tall?”
Heavy sigh. Mom is so stupid. “Moooooooommmmmmm. You KNOW what I was talking about! Why do you do that?! 1992 was the year that the letter ‘Y’ was offensively considered to be both a VALVE and a CONTINENT! I wish you would pay attention and get it right the first time so you wouldn’t have to keep asking me!”
Don’t worry, Tall. I’ll wait until tomorrow to ask you again. I’ll just keep playing it over and over in my brain until then.
MOV
("Magnitude Of Valves")
“Pop,” he begins, innocently enough, “did you know that in a lot of cases, the letter ‘Y’ is considered a valve?”
“A what?” I interrupt, trying hard not to smirk.
“It makes a sound like the ‘I-E’ combination, so therefore it is considered not to be a continent.”
“A continent?” Hand covering face now.
He ignores me. “Pop, do you know what year they declared the letter ‘Y’ to be both a continent and a valve? Was it 1997? I know it was a long time ago.”
The Husband cannot help himself and nearly snorts milk out his nose. He says the first thing he can think of. “Tall, I believe it was longer ago than that.”
“Oh, you’re right. Yeah, yeah, I think it was 1992. Does that sound right?”
I must hear him say these things again. “1992 was the year for what exactly, Tall?”
Heavy sigh. Mom is so stupid. “Moooooooommmmmmm. You KNOW what I was talking about! Why do you do that?! 1992 was the year that the letter ‘Y’ was offensively considered to be both a VALVE and a CONTINENT! I wish you would pay attention and get it right the first time so you wouldn’t have to keep asking me!”
Don’t worry, Tall. I’ll wait until tomorrow to ask you again. I’ll just keep playing it over and over in my brain until then.
MOV
("Magnitude Of Valves")
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
198. What Desperation Looks Like
So Tall’s teacher decided it was good and time for him and his fellow first-graders to learn all about the United States. Little did I know that it would soon be time for ME too to learn all about the United States.
Tall came home with what was probably his 788th Parent Communication & Information Sheet (PCIS) this month. I gingerly placed it in the teetering stack with the other 787 PCIS’s. A week, possibly four weeks, went by, and I decided it might be a good idea to read it. Here’s what it said:
“Dear Parent/ Caregiver,” (editor’s note: never ‘Reluctant and Harried Caregiver’—have they never met me?)
“Here at Crazy Town Elementary, we place great importance on teaching our children about the world in which they live, specifically the United States of America. To that end, we will be sending home worksheets every night (for 50 nights, plus 1 extra for Puerto Rico, which is technically a U.S. territory) for you to help your child with. Please have your child write down one interesting fact about the particular state chosen for that day (ex. Massachusetts became the 6th state in 1788). We will read these fun facts aloud in class!
Thank you in advance for your continued involvement and participation in your child’s future as a bright and shining Star!
Best Regards,
Miss Teacher”
Oh, brother. Here we go again: more homework for Mom.
Okay, MOV, let’s put aside the negative attitude and get involved, just like Miss Teacher already thinks we are.
First, I start going through the recycling bin, as I think the first 20 states or so might have, ahem, inadvertently been thrown in there. No luck. (Damn The Husband, taking out the recycling in a timely and reasonable manner!)
That’s okay, I tell myself, there are still 30 states to go, plus Puerto Rico.
When Tall gets home, I greet him at the door, ready to assist with difficult homework assignments.
“What’s with the goofy grin, Mom?” he sneers.
“Let’s do your state homework!” I say enthusiastically. “Which state did you get today?”
The next three days go, I think, quite well. On the 4th day, Miss Teacher sends a special PCIS not for all the parents, but specifically aimed at me (my name is even scribbled hastily into the “Dear ___________” section at the top of the page).
“Dear MOV ,
I think it is great that you are choosing to actively participate in your child's learning experience. However, I would like to stress the necessity for the State ‘facts’ to, in fact, be factual. Although I appreciate your helping your child with this section of the homework, you might want to just have him Google some facts on the computer. In the meantime, I have taken the liberty of sending home an atlas from our school library for you to peruse. You might want to consider possibly investing in an inexpensive atlas like this, or if that is a financial hardship, I can look into donations from the Scholarship Fund for this purpose.
Thank you, and I look forward to seeing your child do the kind of work that I know he is capable of.
Warm Regards,
Miss Teacher”
Scholarship Fund???? Has she never seen me wear my $249 jacket from Talbot’s?! or Tall use his $43 StarWars backpack from Pottery Barn Kids? We don’t need financial assistance from the Scholarship Fund!
I re-read the letter for the 3rd time. Huh. That is really what she wrote. I go through Tall’s backpack to reacquaint myself with whatever “facts” Tall and I dreamt up for this assignment.
MOV
(“Mom’s On Vacation”)
Tall came home with what was probably his 788th Parent Communication & Information Sheet (PCIS) this month. I gingerly placed it in the teetering stack with the other 787 PCIS’s. A week, possibly four weeks, went by, and I decided it might be a good idea to read it. Here’s what it said:
“Dear Parent/ Caregiver,” (editor’s note: never ‘Reluctant and Harried Caregiver’—have they never met me?)
“Here at Crazy Town Elementary, we place great importance on teaching our children about the world in which they live, specifically the United States of America. To that end, we will be sending home worksheets every night (for 50 nights, plus 1 extra for Puerto Rico, which is technically a U.S. territory) for you to help your child with. Please have your child write down one interesting fact about the particular state chosen for that day (ex. Massachusetts became the 6th state in 1788). We will read these fun facts aloud in class!
Thank you in advance for your continued involvement and participation in your child’s future as a bright and shining Star!
Best Regards,
Miss Teacher”
Oh, brother. Here we go again: more homework for Mom.
Okay, MOV, let’s put aside the negative attitude and get involved, just like Miss Teacher already thinks we are.
First, I start going through the recycling bin, as I think the first 20 states or so might have, ahem, inadvertently been thrown in there. No luck. (Damn The Husband, taking out the recycling in a timely and reasonable manner!)
That’s okay, I tell myself, there are still 30 states to go, plus Puerto Rico.
When Tall gets home, I greet him at the door, ready to assist with difficult homework assignments.
“What’s with the goofy grin, Mom?” he sneers.
“Let’s do your state homework!” I say enthusiastically. “Which state did you get today?”
The next three days go, I think, quite well. On the 4th day, Miss Teacher sends a special PCIS not for all the parents, but specifically aimed at me (my name is even scribbled hastily into the “Dear ___________” section at the top of the page).
“Dear MOV ,
I think it is great that you are choosing to actively participate in your child's learning experience. However, I would like to stress the necessity for the State ‘facts’ to, in fact, be factual. Although I appreciate your helping your child with this section of the homework, you might want to just have him Google some facts on the computer. In the meantime, I have taken the liberty of sending home an atlas from our school library for you to peruse. You might want to consider possibly investing in an inexpensive atlas like this, or if that is a financial hardship, I can look into donations from the Scholarship Fund for this purpose.
Thank you, and I look forward to seeing your child do the kind of work that I know he is capable of.
Warm Regards,
Miss Teacher”
Scholarship Fund???? Has she never seen me wear my $249 jacket from Talbot’s?! or Tall use his $43 StarWars backpack from Pottery Barn Kids? We don’t need financial assistance from the Scholarship Fund!
I re-read the letter for the 3rd time. Huh. That is really what she wrote. I go through Tall’s backpack to reacquaint myself with whatever “facts” Tall and I dreamt up for this assignment.
- “Texas is really really really really Big.” (included is a drawing on a piece of paper, and Texas looks the size of a small mouse)
- “I think Arizona is where the Grande Canyon is lokated.” (I can't remember if he asked me if "Grand" had a letter "e" at the end; surely that can't be my fault?)
- “Alaska is a state that has a lot of snow and cold ice and glaciers, and also my mom wants to go their on a cruz somedaay.”
MOV
(“Mom’s On Vacation”)
Monday, November 8, 2010
197. Why Target Is My BFF
After Our Computer’s near brush with death, it got me thinking: who is important in my life? who do I love and cherish and want to spend more time with? It didn’t take me long to think up an answer: Target.
Target has been my best friend for, oh, about twelve years now. I try to think back to the time before Target was a valuable member of my inner circle of friends, and, honestly, my memory goes all hazy. Was I even alive before I discovered Target? Could you even call that living?
I think not.
My best friend Target has enriched my life in so many ways (and I don’t just mean material ways, although she has always come through for me there too). Target is one of those pals who seems to somehow know just what you are missing in your life (say, a trashy celebrity gossip magazine or a new sports-watch or perhaps a jumbo bag of peanut m&ms) and then provide it.
Who was there for me at 9:55 PM to offer brand new pacifiers when my infant would not stop screaming? Target. Who found me a new soft and fuzzy red cardigan sweater when The Husband ruined my old favorite by tossing it in the dryer? That’s right: Target. Who came through in the end with last-minute school supplies for Tall when we waited until the day before school started to shop? You guessed it! Target.
Like most great friendships, this one did not develop overnight. It began as a sort of innocent crush from afar. One day I happened to pick up House Beautiful magazine, and there on page 132, was a small silver and white birdhouse with three little drawers in it (I know it sounds kooky, but you’ll just have to trust me when I say it was exquisite). The fact that I did not own a bird, nor a yard in which to attempt to capture a potential bird, did not stop me from coveting said birdhouse. In fact, there was no deterrent at all, as the price was listed as a mere $19.95 plus tax.
Having never heard of Target before that day, I immediately asked my elderly landlady if she knew where the closest Target was (she did), and I got directions and drove there.
I decided to use my new birdhouse to put mail in. Junk mail in one drawer, bills in another, and my new subscription to House Beautiful in the third. (Today I admit that the drawers were a little small for this purpose, but like any new infatuation, it seemed like a great idea at the time.)
Flash forward to now. Target and I meet up almost weekly for our special “girl time”. Like that trendy girlfriend she is, Target will helpfully point out special new jeans I might like to try on. Or maybe a new throw pillow for the living room couch. Target has her finger on the pulse of all that is new and hip and fun.
Additionally, my best friend Target is very thoughtful. She sends me things in the mail, like coupons or a $50 "Limited Edition" Buzz Lightyear two days before Christmas even though they were back-ordered. Yep, good ol’ Target comes through once again.
(Friendship, as you know, is a two-way street, and to that end, I have shared with Target too, namely a portion of each and every paycheck.)
The other great thing about Target: she doesn’t judge me. You’ll never once hear her say something like, “Don’t you already own three full sets of dishes?” or “Those purple suede boots don’t match anything in your closet.” No. Target is supportive.
Oh, sure, we’ve had our tiffs over the years, who hasn’t? Like the time I tried to return that navy blue jacket (tags attached) without a receipt. Target took one look at me and rolled her eyes (tough love). You know a receipt is required on all returns, I remember her saying with more than a bit of impatience and condescension in her tone. She ended up giving me a store credit knowing full well that I would use that store credit in about 15 seconds. But that’s the kind of thing that girlfriends go through—we laugh about it now.
The only thing (there’s always one thing, isn’t there?) that annoys me just the teeniest tiniest bit about my best friend Target is: she seems to have other friends besides me. I’m talking A LOT of other friends. She can be a Party Girl; I have to compete with everyone else to get her attention, and I’m just not 100% comfortable with that. We used to have so many good times together, just the two of us. It makes me sad. I wish Target would think back to what a loyal and devoted friend I have been over the years, and, well, maybe Target could make an effort to spend more quality time with just me. Say, open the store an hour early for me to just shop by myself—yes, that would be nice.
Maybe I’ll mention it next time I see Target, but for now, I have some coupons to go through.
MOV
Target has been my best friend for, oh, about twelve years now. I try to think back to the time before Target was a valuable member of my inner circle of friends, and, honestly, my memory goes all hazy. Was I even alive before I discovered Target? Could you even call that living?
I think not.
My best friend Target has enriched my life in so many ways (and I don’t just mean material ways, although she has always come through for me there too). Target is one of those pals who seems to somehow know just what you are missing in your life (say, a trashy celebrity gossip magazine or a new sports-watch or perhaps a jumbo bag of peanut m&ms) and then provide it.
Who was there for me at 9:55 PM to offer brand new pacifiers when my infant would not stop screaming? Target. Who found me a new soft and fuzzy red cardigan sweater when The Husband ruined my old favorite by tossing it in the dryer? That’s right: Target. Who came through in the end with last-minute school supplies for Tall when we waited until the day before school started to shop? You guessed it! Target.
Like most great friendships, this one did not develop overnight. It began as a sort of innocent crush from afar. One day I happened to pick up House Beautiful magazine, and there on page 132, was a small silver and white birdhouse with three little drawers in it (I know it sounds kooky, but you’ll just have to trust me when I say it was exquisite). The fact that I did not own a bird, nor a yard in which to attempt to capture a potential bird, did not stop me from coveting said birdhouse. In fact, there was no deterrent at all, as the price was listed as a mere $19.95 plus tax.
Having never heard of Target before that day, I immediately asked my elderly landlady if she knew where the closest Target was (she did), and I got directions and drove there.
I decided to use my new birdhouse to put mail in. Junk mail in one drawer, bills in another, and my new subscription to House Beautiful in the third. (Today I admit that the drawers were a little small for this purpose, but like any new infatuation, it seemed like a great idea at the time.)
Flash forward to now. Target and I meet up almost weekly for our special “girl time”. Like that trendy girlfriend she is, Target will helpfully point out special new jeans I might like to try on. Or maybe a new throw pillow for the living room couch. Target has her finger on the pulse of all that is new and hip and fun.
Additionally, my best friend Target is very thoughtful. She sends me things in the mail, like coupons or a $50 "Limited Edition" Buzz Lightyear two days before Christmas even though they were back-ordered. Yep, good ol’ Target comes through once again.
(Friendship, as you know, is a two-way street, and to that end, I have shared with Target too, namely a portion of each and every paycheck.)
The other great thing about Target: she doesn’t judge me. You’ll never once hear her say something like, “Don’t you already own three full sets of dishes?” or “Those purple suede boots don’t match anything in your closet.” No. Target is supportive.
Oh, sure, we’ve had our tiffs over the years, who hasn’t? Like the time I tried to return that navy blue jacket (tags attached) without a receipt. Target took one look at me and rolled her eyes (tough love). You know a receipt is required on all returns, I remember her saying with more than a bit of impatience and condescension in her tone. She ended up giving me a store credit knowing full well that I would use that store credit in about 15 seconds. But that’s the kind of thing that girlfriends go through—we laugh about it now.
The only thing (there’s always one thing, isn’t there?) that annoys me just the teeniest tiniest bit about my best friend Target is: she seems to have other friends besides me. I’m talking A LOT of other friends. She can be a Party Girl; I have to compete with everyone else to get her attention, and I’m just not 100% comfortable with that. We used to have so many good times together, just the two of us. It makes me sad. I wish Target would think back to what a loyal and devoted friend I have been over the years, and, well, maybe Target could make an effort to spend more quality time with just me. Say, open the store an hour early for me to just shop by myself—yes, that would be nice.
Maybe I’ll mention it next time I see Target, but for now, I have some coupons to go through.
MOV
196. It's That Time Again
Upstairs:
Late Sunday evening, I spent approximately 48 minutes re-setting all the clocks and watches we own, which begs the question: Daylight Savings Time? Really, Savings? Or is Daylight Losings Time a little more accurate?
MOV
(“Musing On Validity”)
- wall clock in study;
- wall clock in kids’ toy room;
- decorative clock on fireplace mantle in living room;
- thermometer/clock combo on top of TV;
- no less than four (4) clocks in kitchen, including stove, coffee maker, timer, and wall clock;
- master bedroom contains two bedside alarm clocks (one for each of us);
- several wristwatches on dresser (minimum two each);
- each son has his own watch (not that they know how to tell time, but it’s good to own one, don’t you think?);
- clock on dresser;
- plus wall clock in laundry room (why?);
- my car has one dashboard clock as does
- The Husband’s truck.
Late Sunday evening, I spent approximately 48 minutes re-setting all the clocks and watches we own, which begs the question: Daylight Savings Time? Really, Savings? Or is Daylight Losings Time a little more accurate?
MOV
(“Musing On Validity”)
195. When Grief Sneaks Up And Punches You In The Face
Well, it’s been a long time coming, but The Husband and I are having to deal with something that we’ve been avoiding. A beloved and valued member of our family has become very, very ill. Annoyingly so. I’m talking about, of course, Our Computer.
We adopted Our Computer in happier times, when we lived in California. Our life was uncomplicated back then; it was all about an empty (high-capacity) memory waiting to be filled and yes, I admit it, speed-speed-speed. With just a click of a mouse, we could be on virtually any virtual site within milliseconds.
It was not to last. Nine years flies by, and the next thing you know, evil words are being whispered (words like, “replacement” or “something new” or “gotten our money’s worth”). The Husband and I finally sat down and had the much-needed conversation about Our Computer, and it became painfully obvious that we were in different stages of the grieving process. While The Husband oscillated back and forth from the Anger Stage (“I hate Our Computer! I want to toss it out the window!”) to the Depression Stage (“I’m sad. I used to type a simple email and send it in less than seven hours,”), I was clearly stuck in a different stage: Bargaining. I found myself patting Our Computer on its cute little monitor (just like in the old days) and saying, “If you can just find it in your heart to let me finish typing this one short blog, I promise to clean the dust out of your keyboard more often!”
I often blamed myself for ignoring the warning signs of what The Husband and I eventually dubbed Our Computer’s version of Alzheimer’s: Computzheimer’s. We didn’t give much notice when Our Computer would not do simple commands (commands like “Turn On”). We became increasingly alarmed when Our Computer would forget bigger things (things like, “How To Save A Crucial Work Document”or "All Your Tax Records From 2002--Now").
In a valiant effort to save Our Computer, The Husband recommended drastic measures like erasing extraneous data that was apparently clogging the memory tubes of our precious dinosaur. We got to work. First, timidly, we deleted a couple files of blurry photos that we knew we also had on back-up discs. Next, we got rid of four thousand (give or take) emails that we had saved but knew we could most likely live without. Pretty soon, we were on a roll with our purging, and we got Our Computer back down to its binary roots, saving only basic email capacity and Google.
It was still not enough to breathe life back into Our Computer. Strangely, I reverted back to the Denial Stage (“this can’t be happening! anything but this!”), while The Husband pole-vaulted ahead to the Acceptance Stage (“Hon, should we maybe get a Mac this time? did you want a laptop?”). How could he so easily discard Out Computer without so much as a quick trip down (RDRAM 4-magabyte) memory lane? Had all those times ordering new shirts (not available in stores: size XL Tall) through L.L. Bean online meant nothing? How about my (former) eBay addiction? Playing computer solitaire when insomnia strikes at 3 AM? And who can forget the many MANY emails from CBS Fantasy Football Reports?
I feel like somewhat of a traitor as I type this, because I am (yes, still) typing this (through tears, though) on Our Computer. If you are able to read this blog, we are temporarily triumphing over Computzheimer’s for one more day, patiently awaiting The Husband’s Christmas bonus so we can give Our Computer a proper funeral.
MOV
(“Missing Our Vanguard”)
We adopted Our Computer in happier times, when we lived in California. Our life was uncomplicated back then; it was all about an empty (high-capacity) memory waiting to be filled and yes, I admit it, speed-speed-speed. With just a click of a mouse, we could be on virtually any virtual site within milliseconds.
It was not to last. Nine years flies by, and the next thing you know, evil words are being whispered (words like, “replacement” or “something new” or “gotten our money’s worth”). The Husband and I finally sat down and had the much-needed conversation about Our Computer, and it became painfully obvious that we were in different stages of the grieving process. While The Husband oscillated back and forth from the Anger Stage (“I hate Our Computer! I want to toss it out the window!”) to the Depression Stage (“I’m sad. I used to type a simple email and send it in less than seven hours,”), I was clearly stuck in a different stage: Bargaining. I found myself patting Our Computer on its cute little monitor (just like in the old days) and saying, “If you can just find it in your heart to let me finish typing this one short blog, I promise to clean the dust out of your keyboard more often!”
I often blamed myself for ignoring the warning signs of what The Husband and I eventually dubbed Our Computer’s version of Alzheimer’s: Computzheimer’s. We didn’t give much notice when Our Computer would not do simple commands (commands like “Turn On”). We became increasingly alarmed when Our Computer would forget bigger things (things like, “How To Save A Crucial Work Document”or "All Your Tax Records From 2002--Now").
In a valiant effort to save Our Computer, The Husband recommended drastic measures like erasing extraneous data that was apparently clogging the memory tubes of our precious dinosaur. We got to work. First, timidly, we deleted a couple files of blurry photos that we knew we also had on back-up discs. Next, we got rid of four thousand (give or take) emails that we had saved but knew we could most likely live without. Pretty soon, we were on a roll with our purging, and we got Our Computer back down to its binary roots, saving only basic email capacity and Google.
It was still not enough to breathe life back into Our Computer. Strangely, I reverted back to the Denial Stage (“this can’t be happening! anything but this!”), while The Husband pole-vaulted ahead to the Acceptance Stage (“Hon, should we maybe get a Mac this time? did you want a laptop?”). How could he so easily discard Out Computer without so much as a quick trip down (RDRAM 4-magabyte) memory lane? Had all those times ordering new shirts (not available in stores: size XL Tall) through L.L. Bean online meant nothing? How about my (former) eBay addiction? Playing computer solitaire when insomnia strikes at 3 AM? And who can forget the many MANY emails from CBS Fantasy Football Reports?
I feel like somewhat of a traitor as I type this, because I am (yes, still) typing this (through tears, though) on Our Computer. If you are able to read this blog, we are temporarily triumphing over Computzheimer’s for one more day, patiently awaiting The Husband’s Christmas bonus so we can give Our Computer a proper funeral.
MOV
(“Missing Our Vanguard”)
Saturday, November 6, 2010
194. Green-Bean Casserole (The Unpublished Blog)
So I get home from work last night at 10 PM after selling espresso machines and crystal goblets all day and I’m starving. I innocently ask The Husband if there’s any food left over from whatever he made for dinner. He says, "Sure. I made a green-bean casserole." That sounds (ahem) less than appealing, so I ask him what on Earth possessed him to make that and he says that they were sampling it at Trader Joe's. Oh, yeah? Well they are also giving away free puppies and kittens outside the Crazy Town Pet Store right next to Trader Joe's and I don't want those either.
Then, if that’s not bad enough (green bean casserole!!), The Husband adds insult to injury and say, "Honey, I don't think you will like it because," (get ready for this part), "I used canned green-beans." If a Judge Chef were here giving this dish a rating, maybe the concept or idea of green-bean casserole (GBC) would get a 3 on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the best—equivalent rating for, perhaps, lobster thermador), and the 3 rating the Judge Chef would give is for creativity with a little pity mixed in. Since I now know that it is canned green-beans (frozen would be just as bad), the rating drops to a minus 2.
(Author's note: if the fates have smiled upon you and you've had the extremely good fortune to never see nor know what goes into a GBC, besides canned green beans it also has canned mushroom soup. In fact, there are probably some mystery ingredients too, as GBC enjoys the retro 1950's nickname of Casserole Finis which translates roughly to "Whatever's About To Expire In The Pantry" casserole.)
Then, The Husband has the strange idea to say, "You know what, MOV? If I had to make it over...." (oh, God, please don’t!), "I would not have put the cheese on top." Not have put the cheese on top?!? How about not have gotten the can opener out or even bothered to turn on the oven. How about, if I had to do it over again, I would have called Domino's.
The Husband kept emphasizing that he made it from scratch (when, in fact, he should have scratched the whole idea). There are certain items that one should buy from Trader Joe’s, and that list does not (ever) include canned green beans. (Hint: list should include the wide range of foods found in the friendly Chocolate Family and/ or the grape family—think Napa Valley).
(warning: full-color photo of GBC below)
(my sincere apologies to Le Creuset company, as it is obvious that my beautiful French pan is calling out in agony at this unacceptable form of cooking abuse/ torture)
Between you and me, I would rather starve or at least go to bed hungry than put anything even mildly resembling that GBC in my mouth. I think you are pretty much guaranteeing you will have multiple visits to the “facilities” at inconvenient times if that creation touches your tongue and teeth. (I did go to bed hungry, by the way. Please feel sorry for me now. But at least I can still go to the bathroom like a normal person in a normal fashion and not have to spend 6 hours in there.)
I do not have the heart to tell The Husband all this (and/or take the risk that our marriage might indeed be held together by gooey cheddar cheese), so that is why I am telling you. Luckily, The Husband prefers CNN and Sports Center to my blog, so I am hopeful he will not read this. If I see that GBC photo end up on YouTube or your Facebook page, I'm comin' after ya (and oh, yes, I'll have a recipe in my hand).
MOV
(“Melting Only Velveeta”)
PS--thank you to The Husband for making GBC. I had Writer's Block, but now I don't!
Then, if that’s not bad enough (green bean casserole!!), The Husband adds insult to injury and say, "Honey, I don't think you will like it because," (get ready for this part), "I used canned green-beans." If a Judge Chef were here giving this dish a rating, maybe the concept or idea of green-bean casserole (GBC) would get a 3 on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the best—equivalent rating for, perhaps, lobster thermador), and the 3 rating the Judge Chef would give is for creativity with a little pity mixed in. Since I now know that it is canned green-beans (frozen would be just as bad), the rating drops to a minus 2.
(Author's note: if the fates have smiled upon you and you've had the extremely good fortune to never see nor know what goes into a GBC, besides canned green beans it also has canned mushroom soup. In fact, there are probably some mystery ingredients too, as GBC enjoys the retro 1950's nickname of Casserole Finis which translates roughly to "Whatever's About To Expire In The Pantry" casserole.)
Then, The Husband has the strange idea to say, "You know what, MOV? If I had to make it over...." (oh, God, please don’t!), "I would not have put the cheese on top." Not have put the cheese on top?!? How about not have gotten the can opener out or even bothered to turn on the oven. How about, if I had to do it over again, I would have called Domino's.
The Husband kept emphasizing that he made it from scratch (when, in fact, he should have scratched the whole idea). There are certain items that one should buy from Trader Joe’s, and that list does not (ever) include canned green beans. (Hint: list should include the wide range of foods found in the friendly Chocolate Family and/ or the grape family—think Napa Valley).
(warning: full-color photo of GBC below)
Between you and me, I would rather starve or at least go to bed hungry than put anything even mildly resembling that GBC in my mouth. I think you are pretty much guaranteeing you will have multiple visits to the “facilities” at inconvenient times if that creation touches your tongue and teeth. (I did go to bed hungry, by the way. Please feel sorry for me now. But at least I can still go to the bathroom like a normal person in a normal fashion and not have to spend 6 hours in there.)
I do not have the heart to tell The Husband all this (and/or take the risk that our marriage might indeed be held together by gooey cheddar cheese), so that is why I am telling you. Luckily, The Husband prefers CNN and Sports Center to my blog, so I am hopeful he will not read this. If I see that GBC photo end up on YouTube or your Facebook page, I'm comin' after ya (and oh, yes, I'll have a recipe in my hand).
MOV
(“Melting Only Velveeta”)
PS--thank you to The Husband for making GBC. I had Writer's Block, but now I don't!
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