Yelping

I like Yelp. I like to read reviews of places I'm thinking about gracing with my presence, and I like to share my poorly-written opinions with the world on the interwebs. Especially if I either really love a place or really hate a place. Recently I posted this review about a bakery:

I consumed a brownie from this bakery that tasted like ass. When one eats a brownie, it is customary to expect that the brownie will taste like chocolate. It's an added bonus if it's gooey and gets stuck in between your teeth so you can reward your company with a giant, mottled smile! My first clue here should have been when I noticed that the brownies were beige, but then I plunked down over $3 for one anyway, jammed some in my mouth, and felt an immediate mixture of regret, melancholy, disgust and irritation. I think my sister hated her red velvet cupcake as well, because as we walked out the door, she deposited most of it in the trashcan without uttering a single word.

I felt a little bitchy after I posted it. A little guilty because it's a small, independent bakery, and really I wanted to like it. But the need to whip out an unguarded review won out. I was rewarded with a note from the bakery's owner:

Thank you for your review. I was out of town for a few days and since the bad brownie comments hit all of my locations, it seems a bad batch went out fore sale. I am incredibly sorry for this. Our brownies actually won best of four in the US by Rachael Ray, so we have some high expectations. Our red velvets are also the second most popular cupcake, so it seems like we just let you down all over the place. I am so very sorry and I would be more than happy to replace those items for you, or give you something else you may prefer, on me. Again, I am very sorry, we take alot of pride in our product and our shop and it saddens us greatly to hear such bad comments (even sadder when it is your child telling you they read it first).

At first I felt like a big fat meanie, but then I thought about my annoying need to please everyone, and I felt sort of okay about the review. Then I felt really irritated at the manipulative comment about her child breaking the news to her. I was impressed that she took the time to address an unhappy customer, but I couldn't stop wondering about the child. Was it a poor, bed-ridden waif of a girl, only living to read positive reviews of her mother's bakery? Damn me for dashing those sweet little innocent hopes.

Or maybe I just helped teach her little offspring a valuable life lesson about parents not being perfect. IN any event, I am thinking I should send over a pan of brownies as a sign of good will. MMMMMMM Ghirardelli.

BABYBABYBABYBABYBABY

Since I get to indulge my every whim on this here blog, feast your peepers on many photographs of my BABY. Cute fucking baby. Looks just like his mother.

Duck Nut Wednesday

Sometimes we get doughnuts before school. It's a little thing I like to do to prove my worth as a Step mom, and what says "I love you" like a sugary, fatty treat? Nothing, that's what.



It's become known as "Duck Nut (insert day of the week here)", because one groggy morning I entertained myself by pronouncing 'doughnut' as the sweet lord should have intended it be pronounced. Only I couldn't stop saying it, thus it evolved into it's current moniker.

All I have to do in my role is drive through Dunkin' Donuts, pay for a few Boston Kremes, and hand them out to eager little grubby hands who scarf them down ecstatically. Sometimes particularly winning bites are held up to be admired, specifically those that include a good wad of chocolate, kreme, and donutty bliss. I always decide beforehand that I won't get a donut, but then I cave and order an Apple Fritter. This is the most vile member of the doughnut family, because it has a dollop of "apple" goo in it's center. Apparently I am cursed with some sort of Sisyphus doughnut disorder: I can't seem to remember to not order this item and am therefore repeatedly punished by enduring it's nasty taste. And, no, once you get a doughnut, you can't just throw it out. You must eat the entire thing, because you realize that is doughnut quota for a while.

But, Woah, Nelly! That is not even the best part of this classic Wednesday morning, not by a long shot. The promise of good times began when I woke up and found this note on the counter:


I had an inkling of what I might find when I opened the freezer door, but the reality was so much more beautiful. Please note the words printed on the freezer shelf, and nod your head in remembrance. You know you've done this, too.





mmmmm slushy.

Human Development

I've been spending an awful lot of time with a baby lately, so forgive me if every post for a while is influenced by babiness.

I was thinking how funny it would be if humans grew and aged, but in some ways never progressed beyond three months of age. For instance, if we were hungry, we would begin to gnaw ravenously on whatever was closest to our mouths, be it seat belt strap, coat-corner or fist. Then we could eat lying down and consistently fall asleep mid-meal, our arms falling every which way.

We would fall into an open, trance-like stare at whatever caught our eye, especially anything sparkly, glowy, or black and white striped.

When in public, if we were met with a friendly smile by a stranger, we would wait a beat while watching them, then suddenly open our mouths widely and soundlessly, squinting our eyes in delight.

I think lastly, but definitely the most fun, is that as far as our bodily functions went, we would either fart at full-speed with absolutely no remorse, or cry theatrically while red-faced, our fists balled up, before farting or letting loose with copious amounts of liquipoo that shot up our backs.

Monday photo

Baby Boy as he would look with gorgeous hair:

Good Words/ Bad Words of the day

Good Words:
shanty
lilliputian
nebulous
clavicle
carp

Bad Words:
cuddle
snuggle
bosom
slacks

The Opponent

After feeling alternately crab-assy, depressed, exhausted, anxious and vomitous during pregnancy, it's astonishing to be deep in the throes of new motherhood again. I am so madly in love with this little beast.

And he adores me. I can tell, because he gives me huge gummy smiles. He cries when I put him down, and he saves his most voluminous diapers for me. These are definitely satisfying rewards for going through being woken up every few hours, and having to shoot liquid out of my boobs at a moment's notice.

I've even included a diagram of our sleeping arrangements over the past 3 months, to clearly illustrate the joys of a "family bed":


Lately, though, I've noticed a change in his behavior, which seems to have coincided with his eyesight becoming rather more honed. When I place him on his changing pad, eager to see what he's produced for me, his adoring eyes shift from me to this:


I bought this cheap piece of crap mobile from Ikea, but he's mad about it, specifically, the Panda. At first I thought his drawn-out gazes and attempts at grabbing it were sweet, but then came that first big, open pie hole. I couldn't believe my damn eyes, because he was smiling at that thing. That wretched piece of eye candy that I picked up on a whim was now proving to be a malevolent opponent.



He can lay there for minutes on end, carrying on what is seemingly a conversation in a "secret special language" with this panda. It's maddening. Pandy the fucking tiny panda can't carry him around and pick wax out his ears with a fingernail. I can. And who ever heard of a panda that would agree to limit the amount of caffeine he drank so the precious baby wouldn't be affected?



A mother needs some sort of assurance that her baby's not going to cheat on her. Is it so wrong for me to fantasize about getting rid of the competition? I think not. For now though, don't pity me. I will find a way to persevere. And no need to call me a hero, as all I really want is to get my story out there, to show that every scorned woman can find in her soul the strength to overcome the devastating allure of the Ikea decorative object.