Big hit at Easter!
With your favorite cupcakes, frost with cream cheese frosting.
Use orange Starburst candies to roll into an oblong carrot shape. Use green “sour straws” to slice into 1 inch “carrot tops”. Make a small hole in the top of the “carrot”, and insert the green candies for the tops.
Sprinkle brown sugar across the top for dirt. Voila!
Since our daughter (aka The Middle Child) travels for work 4 days a week, our 8 year old grandson E stays with us when his Mom is out of town. It’s a double edged sword: love having the opportunity to spend this kind of time with him; bummed that the situation calls for structure to make things consistent for him, which means I can’t be the Barrels O’ Fun Grandma that he’s become accustomed to all the time. Now we tackle homework, expose him to vegetables that he doesn’t want to be introduced to, and put standard litanies on auto-play: “Please take your plate to the kitchen”, “Hang up your towel”, “Did you brush your teeth?”, “No TV until reading time is done”, and the most frequent phrase “I didn’t hear you flush.”
In the spirit of keeping life consistent for young E, I gave him chores to do on Saturday.
10:00 a.m.
Me: E, it’s time we all get our chores done. You’re going to dust in the living room, and vacuum your bedroom.
E: What do you mean, vacuum? I don’t know how to do that. My Mom does that at our house.
Me: Well, we’ll teach you how to do it.
E: I don’t want to learn.
Me: Well, you can either have fun with it, or not, but you’re going to do it.
E: I don’t think I’m supposed to. How long is all this going to take?
Me: If you get to work, about 30 minutes.
E: 30 minutes? How about 10?
Me: How about more rooms to clean?
E: OK, I’ll dust first.
10:10 a.m.
Hubby: Where’s E?
Me: Huh? I thought he was dusting in the living room?
10:11 a.m., E is discovered laying on the couch, having dusted about 2 square inches of the entertainment center.
Me: What are you doing, buddy?
E: My stomach hurts. I can’t bend.
Me: Really? You’re going to pull the stomach ache routine? Not going to work, buddy.
E: This happens all the time! Once I was running and my stomach started hurting and I had to sit down. You can ask my Mom!
Me: OK. Off to bed with you then. You can finish when you feel better.
10:40 a.m., E stumbles out of his room.
Me: Better?
E: I guess. Do I have to finish?
Me: Of course you have to finish.
E: I don’t want to. It’s Saturday. I want to play with my DS.
Me: Too bad, Monkey. You know, when your Mom was your age, she had more chores to do than this, and she turned out OK.
E: She would have turned out better if she didn’t have to do all this cleaning stuff.
12:30 p.m. – Hubby has finished cleaning the carpets (see previous post about Pickle’s little root beer adventure), I’ve scrubbed the toilets, done E’s laundry, washed windows, and did the Lime Away thing on the faucets and shower heads. E is about halfway through dusting one room.
1:30 p.m. – Finally, E has completed his chores properly. I’m exhausted not from the housework, but from the endless encouragement and guidance. I had forgotten what hard work it is to develop all those highly sought after character traits in little people. I need a freakin’ nap.
Next week, I think I’ll put him on Dog Poop Duty in the yard. That should pretty much guarantee a new enthusiasm for dusting and vacuuming.
There are abundant distinctions between men and women. I’ve known this since I was 11 and checked out a book on reproduction from the public library. Little did I know then that zoozies and tallywhackers were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to differences between the sexes.
Just take anger, for example. Well, intense anger. Loathing, actually, might be a better word. Directed at another. A specific, targeted other. When a man loathes another man, he likely thinks about delivering a good punch to the face, or even running the lowlife’s car off the road.
It’s cute how boys wage war like that.
When I carry venom for another woman, I absolutely rehearse the verbal evisceration I’m going to give the hussy the next time I see her; I may possibly make catty comments when my enemy is within earshot; and, I most certainly will employ my most effective glare at every opportunity. Lame ammunition, you say? I beg to differ. I’ve got a wicked tongue, and a withering gaze! Deadly! I am a sharpshooter with The Look!
That’s not what I *really* want to do, though. Nope. In my perfect fantasy, I shame that hag right off the dance floor.
Yes, you read it correctly. Ever since the dames of the Jets and Sharks faced off at the dance in the gym during West Side Story, and Sandy Olsson bested Cha Cha DiGregorio in the Hand Jive during Grease, women have dreamed about seeing our adversaries crushed by our superior dance moves. High heels clicking, skirts flaring, fingers snapping…. we envision ourselves as Dance Ninjas.
In my head, it’s typically to a classic dance number, something from Michael, his little sister Janet (Ms. Jackson, if you’re nasty), or even Black Eyed Peas. The object of my disgust will of course be gyrating awkwardly, unaware of my presence. Once THE right song comes on, I’ll make my way to the center of the room, and soon people will be standing around in a circle watching my amazing grace. Awed, if you will.
I should point out that during this fantasy, I’m not only as talented as any of the Fly Girls from In Living Color, but I’m also that amazing while flawlessly rocking 6 inch heels. With perfect hair. Oh, and dressed to the hilt in a form fitting size 8 ensemble. Hey, it’s my hallucination, right?
Anyway, after the crowd has been sufficiently mesmerized by my awesomeness, the object of my vitriolic gaze (yes, I’m going to glare too, just for affect) will slink away, knowing she has been publicly bested.
It’s not just me. All women, if they’re honest, will admit to this daydream. I’m sure they will. I can’t possibly be the only one. I’m normal, I swear it.
What I think I look like dancing.
What I really look like dancing.