Monthly Archives: March 2012

My Critter love love LOVES the movie How To Train Your Dragon.  I have to admit, I’m pretty enamored with it, myself.  If you haven’t seen it, go, right now, to Netflix, or the library, or wherever, and get it!!  It’s totally worth it.

He can recite nearly every line.  Actually, he AND Varmint can do it together.  They take turns being different characters.  It’s pretty dagnab funny to see them slide into character, and they can, and do, recite it anywhere.  Sitting at the dinner table.  In the car.  At the Doctors office. On the toilet.

I’m fairly sure we could spin them into a profit somehow.  If only Children’s Services weren’t such sticklers.

There is one line of the movie that Critter loves the most.  At least, he says it constantly, and cracks himself up so hard he can barely finish it, so I guess he loves it.

(And I hope the makers of the movie will forgive me if I butcher this…)

The village leader’s son, Hiccup, who is forever getting into scrapes that effect the whole village, has just managed to wreak havoc – yet again- on the village during a dragon raid, and has been sent back to his hut in shame.  He is being ‘escorted’ by the second in command, and blacksmith of the village, Gobber, who is trying to make Hiccup feel better for being so severely reprimanded – yet again – by his very disappointed father.

Hiccup, yelling: “He never listens!”

Gobber, dryly: “It runs in the family.”

Hiccup: “Whenever he looks at me, it’s with a disappointed scowl on is face, like someone skimped on the meat in his sandwich”. (takes on his father’s Scottish brogue) “Excuse me, Barmaid, it appears you brought me the wrong offspring!  I ordered an extra-large boy with big beefy arms with guts and glory on the side.  This here….this is a talking fishbone!”

Gobber, consolingly: “Now see here, you’re looking at this all wrong. It’s not the outside of you that bothers him, its what’s on the inside he can’t stand.”

Hiccup, deadpan: “Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

Now, it’s cute as heck in the movie.  But somehow it gains so much more when watching my very animated little boy do it…with perfect Scottish Brogue and inflection…while cracking up.  It cracks me up, as well as everyone else who is watching him.  It’s infectious as hell.

And then when Varmint gets into it with him… I laugh so hard, I have to hold my belly.  (…partially because of my hernia, and partially ’cause at my weight, when that thing gets a jigglin’, its momentum can be downright dangerous. I don’t like to take chances. Remember, safety never takes a holiday.)

A funny thing about kids:  They are never as cute to other people as they are to their own parents.  My brother Graham once told me, when he came to meet Varmint for the first time, that when his kids were younger he thought they were truly miraculous.  Amazing.  Exceptional.  And then as they got older, he realized that much of what he was seeing was his own love for them.  And that really, they were just regular people.  Like you and me.

So I guess I love the snot out of my kids, because I think they are outstanding.  One way or the other, that is.  Actually, they constantly vacillate between taking my breath away, and pissing me off.

Maybe Graham was right, and they are just normal, everyday kids.  Maybe he is on to something to suppose that it’s our love for them, or the love they create, that makes them so exceptional.

Or maybe mine really are superhumanly amazing.

(His are, too.  Andrew, Maggie, and Kerry,… you guys rock, and I love ya.)

(And I love you, too, Graham.)

My Captain and I were restless last night.   We felt adventurous, but not to the point where we had to actually exert ourselves.  We decided to go to a restaurant we’ve never been to, that was not too far afield, and settled on one in Gaithersburg called Growler’s.

To get there we had to pass Dogfish Head Restaurant, and that is not easy to do.  Their chocolate martinis, their Cajun eggrolls….oh lord don’t get me started.

But we were on an adventure, dag-gum it!  We couldn’t stop!!

We had a hard time finding a parking place when we got to Growlers, which is located on a prominent corner of old town Gaithersburg.  A grand old structure, it had been built in the late 1800’s, right ON the street.  Not a lot of room for error on that one.  Though, admittedly, the street probably was smaller then.  It served as a post office, a community gathering hall, a store…all kinds of things.  It was the biggest structure around for miles.

Apparently, the old hall had burned back in the early part of last century, and had never come back to its original glory, until very recently.  Now it is a very, very cool old historic landmark.

Unfortunately, that was the best part of our dining experience.  (Insert Organ music: Dun Dun DUUUUNNNNNN!!!!)

We started out with cocktails.  Growler’s casks their own beer, and My Captain, being somewhat of a connoisseur, was eager to try something new.

He chose a beer that had been aged in Whisky barrels: Pappy Van Warhammer. (It must be fun to come up with beer names. Often times the names sound like they were created when the brewer was already drunk…)   It came Dark.  He loves Dark.  It was straight from the cask, unrefrigerated, and packed a punch (much like his wife…).

He enjoyed it!

I chose the only non-beer chick drink on the drink menu:  The Pomegranate Cosmo.  It resembled nothing of a cosmo, but it was sounded yummy.  It looked purty when it came, and so very cute in its itsy bitsy, eensy weensie widdle martini cup.  My first impression, “You are charging me HOW much for this kiddie drink???” The Scottish in me hates to be taken like that.

But I still drank it.  And it was good, I’ll give them that.

I don’t care how yummy something is, though, zinging me with a big pricetag….and right out of the starting gate for the meal, tends to leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Pushing that aside, I decided to try their fried pickles.  For six bucks, I figured I’d get a basket of fried pickles, right?

There weren’t even a dozen on this little dental-tool-looking plate.  That’s, what?, more than 50cents a pickle slice?!!  (See how good at math I am?)  My Scottish was SCREAMING at this point.  I mean, 50Cents for a SLICE, not even the whole dag-gum pickle!!! Outrageous.

And they were good, but not 50cents a pickle slice good.  And the sauce that was served with it did not compliment the dill pickle flavor…too much salt all around.

At that point I was so peeved I ordered nothing else.  My Captain, however, had his beer and wanted something to go with it.  So he ordered the Shepherd’s Pie.  It came out hot.  Looked good.  Smelled good.  Was a decent portion…not generous, but fair enough:

As you can see, it came with home-made bread on the side.  A little dry, but that is good for sopping up pie juice, right?

I thought maybe Growler’s could redeem itself with this dish.  But My Captain, a very LOW-Maintenance eater, admitted that the veggies inside were mushy.  WAY over cooked.  And frankly, they looked like they had come from a bag of frozen mixed veggies.  Not fresh and cut large like you might expect from a restaurant that claims it’s all ‘from scratch’.

I am the one in our family who complains the most.  You’d think I would be the one to call over the manager to give him some constructive criticism.  But honestly, I was so disenchanted with the experience that I really just wanted to go.

My Captain was not so easily mollified.  Ever the ‘fixer’, he felt we ought to give them some feedback, and so he talked with the manager about our experience.  The guy came to our table, shirt un-tucked, sucking on a cough drop, looking harassed already.  I felt for him.   We said what we had to say as gently as possible, to which he replied appropriately, and could not leave fast enough.

I feel so traumatized.

I need to go to Alexander’s today to cleanse my palate.   Maybe I’ll be able to sweet-talk My Captain into going there after we visit the ‘tax man’.

If we have 1) any appetite left or 2) any money left.

Wish me luck!

I was alone for far too long tonight.  My kids were at their father’s house.  My Captain was out saving the world.  My cats were napping, and my fish isn’t speaking to me.

I had plenty to keep me busy.  Tremendously fun stuff like dishes, laundry, paperwork, cleaning, scooping the cat box, things like that.

Oddly enough, none of it intrigued me.

And when I get bored like that, my thoughts turn to food.  But no one was here to tell me I wasn’t hungry, merely apathetic….unmoved by the prospect of an evening filled with mundanity.

I wandered around my little cottage a few times, and finally found myself in front of my lover, the cookie jar.

I treasure that thing.

I didn’t hesitate, but with growing excitement lifted the lid….

and was immediately deflated.  My hopes were dashed with one swift glance at the bottom of my love. He echoed apologetically with his emptiness.

I whimpered, and drifted dejectedly to the fridge.

Opened the door.  Saw nothing I wanted.  Closed the door.

Opened the door again.  Tried to lower my standards.  Saw nothing I wanted again, and closed the door.

Opened the door again.  Lowered my standards to that of a college student after a night of binge-drinking, and finally settled on the vegetable drawer.

I hate you, you tasteless bit of barely edible disappointment.  You are nothing but a vehicle to get some kind of fatty dressing into my mouth.  Like cardboard with crunch.  Don’t ever forget it.

And you, don’t just sit there laughing at the Romaine.  You’re actually worse…you have to be peeled and seeded and even still you can be unpleasantly bitter.  At your best, without something salty or sweet on you, you taste like nothing, and you know it.

And YOU. Don’t let your wonderful color fool you into thinking that you are actually a pleasure to eat.  If it weren’t for Ranch Dressing, you wouldn’t even be considered good enough for a Crudite.

You. You make all the stuff above palatable.

But don’t get cocky.  You’re no chocolate chip cookie, that’s for damn sure.

I hate being left alone for too long.  I end up berating produce.

Take that look of concern off your face.  You know you have insulted food out of boredom too.  Don’t act like you haven’t.

My kids have so much energy, it makes me want to cry.  Actually, it does make me cry.  Often.

I don’t cry well.  At least, not like delicate females.  I am the most liquified, mucus-y, red-nosed, bleary-eyed crier ever.  I never understood it when I’d read a story that described a woman who would weep, and then dab her eyes.  Dabbing?  Seriously?

With me there is no dabbing.  Honking, hiccupping, and snorting, yes.  Dabbing, not so much.  When I cry, it requires a half a box of tissues, minimum, to mop up the flood.  We’re not just talking tears.  Ya got yer snot and your saliva to deal with, too.  And probably sweat.

But this post isn’t about me and my secretions.

My Varmint and Critter. Their boundless energy. To say they are full of it is the understatement of the century, second only to the statement ‘Saddam Hussein had issues’.  We’re talking a lot of zip. Pluck.  Zest.  Verve.  Vigor.  Pizzazz.

Are you pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down?

To illustrate, take Critter a few days ago.  My Captain had a load of gravel delivered for the construction project.  He had not used quite all of it up yet, and there was a slight mound of it left in the driveway.  Critter got home from school, saw that some of the pile was still there, made a bee-line for it and in the space of less than a minute:

hurled himself on it, proceeded to run circles around it, ran sprints up the incline, sideways, down at full speed, jumped, leaped and galavanted all over it.

I haven’t galavanted for years.  Lord I miss that.

I asked him what he was doing and he said, “What do you mean?” in a pitying tone that really meant, “Why do you ask such stupid questions, Mother?”

I turned around, went back into the house mumbling, took some Motrin and One-A-Day Energy Vitamins, and laid down for a nap.