Friday, April 19, 2013


So, about Colonial Williamsburg:  Its awesome, you should go there.  I had no real interest in going there, but went because Leila is in the thick of her revolutionary war/colonial times section at school, culminating in Colonial Day, where we parents have to cobble together a colonial costume and watch the kids square dance.  So we went to Colonial Williamsburg because we take our child's education seriously, and we are the world's best parents. 

We started our visit with the Tavern Ghost Walk which describes all the paranormal happenings in the haunted houses of Colonial Williamsburg.  The place does seem kind of haunted.  I did not see any ghosts, but I really wanted to.  Leila was riveted. 

Then we went to Outback Steakhouse, where Leila has been dying to go ever since she started liking steak.  It was on a strip of Regular Williamsburg (as opposed to the Colonial part) with every chain restaurant and hotel currently in existence.  After that, we went to Dairy Queen, (or, The Haunted Dairy Queen) which was right across the street from a Hooters.

I've never actually been to a Hooters, but I know about the scantily clad waitresses and the weird panty-hose.  Leila saw the cartoonish logo and asked, "What's that place?" 

"Hooters." I told her.

"What do they serve there?" asked she, probably looking for a back-up steak place.

"Wings," I said, "Owl Wings."

At first, she didn't believe me, but I made a pretty convincing argument given their owl logo and the name Hoooo-ters.  I told her they were grilled and deep fried, and kept hitting Rob in the leg so he wouldn't ruin the good feminist* thing I had going. (*I realize this feminism was based on lies and aversion therapy, but I'm okay with that.)

Rob gets nervous when she starts to become enraged with the inhumanity of the world, so he tried to soften my story by saying, "They also serve burgers."

Me: "Yeah, owl burgers."

Leila: "Mom!  That's so disgusting!"

Me: "Well, what are they supposed to do with the owl carcass once they cut the wings off? It would be more disgusting if they just wasted it all."

And this is how I have (hopefully) forever associated Hooters with something repugnant and vile in the tender mind of my daughter.  See?  World's best parent. 

Monday, April 15, 2013

Pukey McBarfsalot

Yes, I've been on vacation.  A mad cap tour of the Washington D.C. metro area.  I like to write about these trips backwards, so I'll start with the flight home.

We flew Virgin America, which I loved, but not enough to embrace turbulence.  I hate turbulence and have been known to grip the knees of strangers during bouncy flights.  To prepare for this. I took a leftover xanax from my crown.  Bless my dentist.  Then I had a glass of wine.  The plane bumped, and I took another half xanax.  I was still wide awake, and freaking out.  Rob asked the flight attendant to ask the pilot how long the turbulence would last, which she kindly did, and then she brought me more wine on the house and said she'd keep it coming.  So, if you're counting, that's .75 mgs of xanax, and two good sized glasses of chardonnay. 

The turbulence ends, and I'm feeling better, thought not at all sleepy.  I arrange my head and arms on my tray table and try to sleep, but no dice.  Then Leila starts getting jittery.  She's bored, she can't sleep, she's starting to come out of her skin, she's hungry, etc. etc.  I tell her to eat the peanut butter sandwich I made for her.  She says its gross because the honey has saturated the bread and the whole thing is a sticky mess.  So I tell her to suck it up and try to sleep, and she keeps jittering and whining.  I look over to Rob who is, of course, asleep.  The man can sleep anywhere, any time, and I can hardly sleep in a bed, in the dark, after some ambien. 

Suddenly Leila says. "I'm gonna throw up!  I have to go to the bathroom! I'm gonna throw up!!!" I manage to find the air sickness bag and the poor thing barfs her little guts out into the bag.  I will note, now, that she did not end up eating the gross peanut butter sandwich, so don't start blaming me for her stomach upset.  I woke Rob, and made him get up to let us into the aisle (he didn't want to, he wanted us to climb over him) and I took my poor little baby to the bathroom to wash her face and hands, get some apple juice and fizzy water, and then we sat back down.

She ended up throwing up 4 more times, once in the car on the way home.  I got a pile of air sickness bags from the flight attendant, and Rob said he probably would need one, too.  He felt like crap, and was in no shape to help me deal with a puking 11 year old. One of the bags ripped as I handed it to Leila, and she puked in her lap.  I made use of the airplanes clean-up kit, which includes rubber gloves, bags for puked on clothes, regular wipes, aromatherapy wipes, and a haz mat bag for all your clean up items.  Worked pretty well.

So, its a good thing that all my drugs and the third glass of wine didn't kick in.  I had to get all the luggage and carry everything, and take Leila to the bathroom in the airport to wash her face again, while Rob laid on a bench looking green.  He did not end up throwing up, thank goodness.

We got home at midnight, slept well, and everyone felt fine in the morning, except me, because all those drugs and all that alcohol finally kicked in so I slept all day.  Then I couldn't sleep again during the night. 

I can totally see how people become addicted to prescription drugs.  Its so tempting!

Next, in stark contrast, I'll be telling you all about Colonial Williamsburg.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Golden Girl

I was watching Golden Girls this weekend.  Its part of the new line up on TV Land, and I'm sometimes so desperate to watch TV that I watch bad TV from the 80s. 

Golden Girls is pretty racy.  I started watching it with Leila, and I was all, "Nope, not appropriate for you.  Back to cooking shows.  Or Sex in the City."  That Blanch: What a slut.

But here's the thing about Golden Girls.  I remember this show as one about three older women whose husbands are either dead or divorced out of the picture, living together in Florida, possibly in a retirement community, with an ancient Italian woman.  The episode I watched the other day had Blanch thinking she was pregnant and then finding out she was going through menopause.  MENOPAUSE. 

Think about this for a minute:  This means that the Golden Girls, who were, like, 70 when I was first watching it in prime time in the 80s, were really around 50.  This means that I am almost old enough to be a Golden Girl!  I have friends who would totally qualify to live in that house in Florida!  My mother would be the ancient Italian grandma (only my mom would be German and wouldn't be caught dead in a house coat.) 

These Girls are not Golden!  They are far from it!  Bea Arthur totally could have dyed her hair and not looked 70.  In fact, the woman who played Sofia, Bea Arthur's mother, was younger than Bea Arthur.  What were we thinking in the 80s?  That women in their 50s were dried up old ladies? (Except for Blanch who was anything but dried up.)

I'm not sure why, but I feel insulted by this.  Almost as insulted as I feel when I notice that the Huxtables have 5 children, two full time jobs, and you never see a babysitter or a cleaning lady on any episode. 

I really have to stop watching so much TV...