March 2009

This past Saturday, I went with mr. jolt and the boys to a new cultural event.  Well, new to me anyway.  It was a <imagine thundering announcer voice> MONSTER TRUCK SHOW</end thundering announcer voice>. 


My main concern in attending was ensuring that we were seated far enough from the floor that we weren’t risking imminent death from flying auto parts.  The venue was small, so I’m sure there were stunts we didn’t see because there wasn’t space to perform them, but the flipping motorcycles and massive beater-car flattening action was still impressive.  And loud.  VERY loud.


About halfway through the evening, there was a local race.  Apparently, local monster truck aficionados had brought in their souped-up cars and trucks to compete in time trials over various obstacles in the ring.  The cars ranged from a couple of beat up VW bugs to old police-SUVs, and everything in between. 


It was fun to watch, until some asshole pulled into the ring in his ‘hawt’ pick-up truck, sporting two massive confederate flags on poles sticking out of the back of the truck bed.  It was as if this asshole decided to piss his racism all over what had been a fun family event.  I was dismayed, but not entirely surprised, to hear a few “cheers” in support of this jerk, while the rest of the audience went, to my ears, a little quieter.


The asshole pulled up to the starting line, revved his engine a few times and then at the signal went faaassssttt CRACK on the first obstacle, limped over the second obstacle, and stopped in the middle of the track. It sat there for a few minutes while race personnel went over to consult and an African-American guy about ten rows down from us got up and started cheering.  I joined him and started laughing fit to bust.  A few minutes later a tractor came out and pushed that sorry-ass truck from the floor.  So long, idiot.  I hope you cracked an axle.


Despite my best efforts, BB is a tad acquisitive.  He’s always looking for ways  to accumulate more stuff and making lists of stuff he wants to get.  So, I wasn’t surprised when last night at bedtime he asked me to sit with him for a few minutes while he wrote up a wish list so that if he needed to know how something was spelled, he wouldn’t have to come and find me.


I was surprised to learn, however, that he was writing said wish list in the form of a letter to Santa.  For those of you not near a calendar I will confirm your sanity and state that, yes, it is March.  More than 9 months away from Christmas.  I firmly told BB that he was not permitted to mail the letter to Santa before November.  “Santa doesn’t read letters sent before November,” I explained.  BB was okay with this.


When I balked at sitting beside him for potential consult on a second letter to Santa, he asked me what I wanted.  Thinking about what I wanted at that particular instant I replied that I would like a day on a beach with a good book and someone to bring me drinks and that would require a good babysitter to keep an eye on BB and LB.


BB informed me that my request was too complicated for Santa because a beach couldn’t fit into the sleigh.  I retorted that Santa could simply send me plane tickets and reservations for an appropriate beach resort. 


BB continued, “Well, Santa can’t provide babysitters.”

jolt, “Why not?”

BB, “Besides daddy could stay with us, he probably wouldn’t want to go.”

jolt, “Oh, I think daddy would like a nice day on the beach.”

BB, “Nah,  that sounds like stuff for ladies.”

jolt, totally mystified, “What about beaches is only for ladies?”

BB, “You know, the man servant to bring you the drinks, if the servant is hot.”


I spluttered internally, Hot!?! Hot!?! How the heck does my kid know anything about hotness or people’s desire to gaze upon hotness and, holy cow what is going on in this kid’s head!


jolt, “Do you even know what hot means?”

BB, “Kinda cool, . . ., you know.”


And we dissolved into giggles.


There you have it folks.  Not only does BB now know what I want for Christmas, he thinks I’d prefer it without mr. jolt so that I may freely gaze upon male hotness without mr. jolt’s boredom/indifference to said hotness interfering with my day on the beach.  Oy. 


For those of my fellow cheese loving readers, a friend and fellow cheese-lover who lurks here regularly, sent me the following link to the Pacific Northwest Cheese Project.  It has all sorts of cheese info for your gastronomical pleasure.  Enjoy!

For those of you wondering if I will ever write about cheese again, it depends.  For various reasons, I have not been eating as many new varieties of cheese lately and my love for cheese is, shall we say, not intellectual in that I know what I like, but I’m not a cheese expert or cheese sommelier.   In other words, I felt like some of my cheese posts were a bunch of smoked gouda trying to pass as aged gouda.   But, should I stumble across some fabulous cheese that you MUST find and eat immediately, I assure you I will post on said cheese forthwith.

I’ve decided I need to cultivate that unflappable cool demonstrated so ably by our current President. As I was remarking to a friend the other day, I am highly flappable, whereas it would be far more useful to be Unflappable.

I majorly embarrassed myself today by getting in a swearing fit with my computer (fixing auto-numbering in a legal document created by someone else that has been hodge-podged from about six other documents is a MAJOR pain in the ass). I realized I had been swearing loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the cubes adjoining mine. Now, if I had a REAL office, this would be less of an issue because presumably there would be real walls rather than cube walls that happen to reach the ceiling with little windows at the top. But I don’t have a real office, I’m in a cube with a door (oh, and a glass front).

But that said, I am old enough, aren’t I, to learn how to deal with inanimate objects that refuse to do what I am telling them to do?  How does one develop unflappability? I admire people who have it, but I’ve never figured out how to cultivate it.

Oh, where did my blogging thoughts go?

Did they blow away with the snow?

I swear I had posts in my head

But rather than write I instead

Busy, busy, busy, busy, busy, busy


Oh, where did my short term memory go?

It was lost in the bustle and flow

My thoughts were brilliant but fleeting

The damned snow it just kept on sleeting

Busy, run, busy, run, busy, run


Oh, where did my energy go?

Paperwork is endless you know

I’m a sorter extraordinaire

But these documents are really a bear

Busy, sort, busy, sort, busy, sort


Oh, where did my blogging posts go?

You’re checking and I’ve nothing to show

I promise that shortly

I’ll post more often than quart’ly

Busy, busy, busy, busy, busy, busy

That is all.