Chuckle #403 | April 28th, 2010
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Forget about the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, the real bonding among women occurs within the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Wives.” Call it estrogen induced dubiety, or simply a group vote of “no confidence”, but when a dad is left alone with his children for an extended period of time, the “sisterhood” deploys a crack team of “watch moms” to ensure that all goes well.
Sometimes three pages of written instructions, cleaning lady back-up, and a nanny cam is not enough. Dad’s sanity, the kids’ welfare, and the traveling mom’s peace of mind are all at stake. The Sisterhood’s prime directive is clear. Observe and report. And if necessary, intervene.
As part of my sisterhood duties, I recently invited one such abandoned dad over for dinner. He had been on his own with his kids for a full week, so a close-up inspection was warranted. And since they just got a dog, and we have a dog; we included the new puppy in the dinner invitation.
The problem with puppies is that they are unreliable. The bigger problem is that they don’t wear diapers. An even bigger problem is that this DAD didn’t know “squat” about dogs. He never wanted one in the first place, and up until now (per paragraph three of the puppy pre-nup), Mom’s been in charge. So when the visiting puppy got over excited – new place, new friends, underdeveloped holding tanks - you get the picture.
The evening started out well. Our friend busied himself steaming up the homemade Chinese “dumplings” that he had brought. They were very delicious. Because he was working so hard, we felt that we should only delicately point out that his dog was in the process of taking a “dump” on our kitchen floor. I give him credit for his quick, but ill conceived response of waving his dumpling spatula in the air and going berserk in an attempt to “stop the drop”. But as all dog owners know (except this one) once this process has begun, it cannot be put on “paws”.
There was a brief moment in which I thought the spatula would be put to use as a pooper scooper, because it was conveniently in hand, and would have been the quickest way to remove the offending pile from sight, but it wasn’t. I don’t blame the dad, he is quite a chef, and it was a very nice spatula. I have a fancy ladle that I would probably not use to drain a clogged toilet, either.
Ultimately the children were called in and unlike their dad, efficiently whisked away both poo and pup. If MOM had been present, the puppy’s signals would not have been missed. “Butt” on the positive side, every time I see my friend I now get to say, “When you said you were bringing “DUMP-lings, I didn’t know you meant canine!” Which for some reason he doesn’t find funny, but nearly every one else does.
Despite the very real "foulness" of indoor canine poop, we assured our friend, “no harm, no foul”. The puppy on the other hand, was traumatized. The mere gleam of a spatula may now be enough to cause a lifetime of involuntary bowel movements, a sad and somewhat unusual side effect of Chinese dumplings, a trip to Greece and being left alone with “dad”. At least it wasn't one of the kids.
So the official “sisterhood” report to my traveling friend was: “Kids fine, Puppy in therapy, Husband apoplectic, You Grounded. Stay in Greece!”
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Copyright 208-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
Catch & Release: Fish Trump Lingerie
CHUCKLE #402 | April 21st, 2010
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If you had a baby that kept hitting itself in the head with a wooden spoon, you would bring it to your doctor and ask, what the heck is wrong with this kid? Or if you were smart, you'd simply take away the spoon.
But if you have a husband who seems to enjoy a similarly futile activity, like golf, or in my case, FISHING, it's not like you can hide his fishing rods. Distraction doesn't work either, I've tried. There is not a single piece of lingerie I own that can keep him off his boat when the mood (to fish) strikes.
My husband is a smart guy. You'd think he would eventually realize that he's not getting any better. He has been enthusiastically fishing for about 10 years and STILL only averages about 1.25 fish per year. The decimal is in the right place. And if you don't count the "branch snags" that he claims were 36 inch lake trout that got away, the average is more like .25 fish per year. There is a troubling lack of fish "caught" per fishing hour invested.
I may be troubled by this statistic, but my husband is not. When he sets out with rod and reel (and whiskey) he's grinning like a fool. The grin gets even wider if one of the kids agrees to go with him, which is only when he redeems an "I'll go fishing with daddy for 2 hours if he promises not to make me fish (or watch him fish) and I can read my book the entire time COUPON".
My coupons clearly state that I will be dropped off at the dock ON DEMAND, and that I cannot be yelled at for steering the trolling motor over his line and losing his favorite lure. (Not sure how he can have "favorites" when none of them seem to catch any fish, but maybe it's based on longevity.)
Rather than think there is something wrong with my spouse (and possibly with all men) I prefer to believe that his fruitless fishing efforts illustrate some of his most excellent traits.
Optimism. Perseverance. Fearlessness.
Yes, fearlessness. Each and every fishing trip comes with a near death tale, as well as "the big one that got away" story. "The day I nearly swamped". "The day the wind came up all of a sudden and smashed the boat on the rocks because both my lines were snagged." "The day I met the nudist in the kayak, and didn't realize at first that he was a nudist."
My husband is the 007 of fishing; danger follows him into every cove. I now make sure he has his survival kit before he heads out. If disaster strikes (or rather, WHEN disaster strikes) he'll at least have his waterproof matches, whistle, and above all, toilet paper.
So if you have a husband who relentlessly pursues an activity with glee but little improvement, AND a giggling baby that repeatedly hits itself in the head with a spoon, at least you know where the baby gets it.
And who am I to define fishing "success" or fishing "failure" simply by the number of fish in the pan? I think the name of my husband's boat says it all. No, it's not "The Dauntless, it's "Fishful Thinking."
There's a lot to be said for optimism in a mate. Sometimes, when you find the right guy, you catch and don't release.
-----------------------------------------------------------
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scroll down to leave a comment
If you had a baby that kept hitting itself in the head with a wooden spoon, you would bring it to your doctor and ask, what the heck is wrong with this kid? Or if you were smart, you'd simply take away the spoon.
But if you have a husband who seems to enjoy a similarly futile activity, like golf, or in my case, FISHING, it's not like you can hide his fishing rods. Distraction doesn't work either, I've tried. There is not a single piece of lingerie I own that can keep him off his boat when the mood (to fish) strikes.
My husband is a smart guy. You'd think he would eventually realize that he's not getting any better. He has been enthusiastically fishing for about 10 years and STILL only averages about 1.25 fish per year. The decimal is in the right place. And if you don't count the "branch snags" that he claims were 36 inch lake trout that got away, the average is more like .25 fish per year. There is a troubling lack of fish "caught" per fishing hour invested.
I may be troubled by this statistic, but my husband is not. When he sets out with rod and reel (and whiskey) he's grinning like a fool. The grin gets even wider if one of the kids agrees to go with him, which is only when he redeems an "I'll go fishing with daddy for 2 hours if he promises not to make me fish (or watch him fish) and I can read my book the entire time COUPON".
My coupons clearly state that I will be dropped off at the dock ON DEMAND, and that I cannot be yelled at for steering the trolling motor over his line and losing his favorite lure. (Not sure how he can have "favorites" when none of them seem to catch any fish, but maybe it's based on longevity.)
Rather than think there is something wrong with my spouse (and possibly with all men) I prefer to believe that his fruitless fishing efforts illustrate some of his most excellent traits.
Optimism. Perseverance. Fearlessness.
Yes, fearlessness. Each and every fishing trip comes with a near death tale, as well as "the big one that got away" story. "The day I nearly swamped". "The day the wind came up all of a sudden and smashed the boat on the rocks because both my lines were snagged." "The day I met the nudist in the kayak, and didn't realize at first that he was a nudist."
My husband is the 007 of fishing; danger follows him into every cove. I now make sure he has his survival kit before he heads out. If disaster strikes (or rather, WHEN disaster strikes) he'll at least have his waterproof matches, whistle, and above all, toilet paper.
So if you have a husband who relentlessly pursues an activity with glee but little improvement, AND a giggling baby that repeatedly hits itself in the head with a spoon, at least you know where the baby gets it.
And who am I to define fishing "success" or fishing "failure" simply by the number of fish in the pan? I think the name of my husband's boat says it all. No, it's not "The Dauntless, it's "Fishful Thinking."
There's a lot to be said for optimism in a mate. Sometimes, when you find the right guy, you catch and don't release.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your "Weekly Chuckle" via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
A Spring “Shout Out” to Julia Child & My Peeps
Chuckle #401 | April 7th, 2010
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Spring has sprung. How do I know? By blooming daffodils, the pungent smell of my neighbor’s manure-laced mulch, and by the PEEPS. Spring is officially “in the house” only when CVS is resplendent with sugar coated marshmallow chicks and bunnies.
The great thing about Peeps is that they aren’t extruded just for Easter any more. Holiday themed Peeps are now available for Valentine’s Day, Halloween and Christmas. Yippee.
The Peep company, aka Just Born Confections of Bethlehem PA (famed for Steel and Peeps) is no Proctor and Gamble. It took management nearly 80 years to figure out that PEEPS could be a year round phenomenon, thereby raising profitability 800%. Kudos. As far as I’m concerned, nothing says I love you (or “you’re too fat for chocolate”) like a pink, heart shaped Peep. Except for maybe those inedible “conversation” hearts that actually say “I ♥ U”.
If you have to ask, “What’s a Peep?” you were probably born to Birkenstock cavorting parents who put real chickens in your Easter Basket (or you don’t do Easter at all.) If Peeps were indeed the forbidden fruit of your childhood, you now have a chance to express some free will. And though I do not appreciate this analogy, like the snake in the Garden of Eden, I will teach you how to enjoy this classic confection.
Most people simply pop a Peep into their mouth, chew, and repeat until nauseated. Studies have shown that the average human stomach can tolerate about three Peeps. (Animal testing is inconclusive because rats refuse to eat them.) But why limit yourself to three when Peeps have only 32 empty calories and zero percent fat? Compared to Girl Scout cookies they’re practically a health food.
My very favorite way to eat a Peep is toasted over an open fire. Any person with basic eye-hand coordination can toast a marshmallow, but it takes the culinary skills of Julia Child to perfectly caramelize the sugar on a Peep into “Peep Brule”. At my house this is called “nirvana on a stick”.
And don’t bother to mourn the Peeps that inevitably drop into the fire. A burning marshmallow bunny has no more feeling than a regular old amorphous marshmallow. (As long as you don’t give them names.)
For parents who are into “teachable moments”, toasting Peeps is a highly recommended activity. The process of turning sugar into caramel makes for an excellent early childhood science experiment. Learning not to touch 350 degree sugar is a life lesson. Providing first aid for the inevitable third degree burns is a life skill. “Peep Toasting” has so many teachable moments that it might someday qualify for college credit.
And since you’ve persevered this far, I now feel compelled to thrill you with some Peep trivia. The rumor that there are Giant Bunny Peeps is true, but sadly my CVS does not carry them. For what its worth, there is a Peep Fan Club. Do NOT put Peeps in the microwave. Because I said so. And finally, they are called Peeps because they are shaped like newly hatched chicks, which are commonly called “Peeps”. You may also call your very best friends Peeps.
Personally, and linguistically speaking, this makes “Peep” the most apropos of names for a very special spring candy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright LOLmom.com, 2008-2010, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
Spring has sprung. How do I know? By blooming daffodils, the pungent smell of my neighbor’s manure-laced mulch, and by the PEEPS. Spring is officially “in the house” only when CVS is resplendent with sugar coated marshmallow chicks and bunnies.
The great thing about Peeps is that they aren’t extruded just for Easter any more. Holiday themed Peeps are now available for Valentine’s Day, Halloween and Christmas. Yippee.
The Peep company, aka Just Born Confections of Bethlehem PA (famed for Steel and Peeps) is no Proctor and Gamble. It took management nearly 80 years to figure out that PEEPS could be a year round phenomenon, thereby raising profitability 800%. Kudos. As far as I’m concerned, nothing says I love you (or “you’re too fat for chocolate”) like a pink, heart shaped Peep. Except for maybe those inedible “conversation” hearts that actually say “I ♥ U”.
If you have to ask, “What’s a Peep?” you were probably born to Birkenstock cavorting parents who put real chickens in your Easter Basket (or you don’t do Easter at all.) If Peeps were indeed the forbidden fruit of your childhood, you now have a chance to express some free will. And though I do not appreciate this analogy, like the snake in the Garden of Eden, I will teach you how to enjoy this classic confection.
Most people simply pop a Peep into their mouth, chew, and repeat until nauseated. Studies have shown that the average human stomach can tolerate about three Peeps. (Animal testing is inconclusive because rats refuse to eat them.) But why limit yourself to three when Peeps have only 32 empty calories and zero percent fat? Compared to Girl Scout cookies they’re practically a health food.
My very favorite way to eat a Peep is toasted over an open fire. Any person with basic eye-hand coordination can toast a marshmallow, but it takes the culinary skills of Julia Child to perfectly caramelize the sugar on a Peep into “Peep Brule”. At my house this is called “nirvana on a stick”.
And don’t bother to mourn the Peeps that inevitably drop into the fire. A burning marshmallow bunny has no more feeling than a regular old amorphous marshmallow. (As long as you don’t give them names.)
For parents who are into “teachable moments”, toasting Peeps is a highly recommended activity. The process of turning sugar into caramel makes for an excellent early childhood science experiment. Learning not to touch 350 degree sugar is a life lesson. Providing first aid for the inevitable third degree burns is a life skill. “Peep Toasting” has so many teachable moments that it might someday qualify for college credit.
And since you’ve persevered this far, I now feel compelled to thrill you with some Peep trivia. The rumor that there are Giant Bunny Peeps is true, but sadly my CVS does not carry them. For what its worth, there is a Peep Fan Club. Do NOT put Peeps in the microwave. Because I said so. And finally, they are called Peeps because they are shaped like newly hatched chicks, which are commonly called “Peeps”. You may also call your very best friends Peeps.
Personally, and linguistically speaking, this makes “Peep” the most apropos of names for a very special spring candy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright LOLmom.com, 2008-2010, Greenwich CT
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