The ‘rents are in town for the weekend.* I’m not going to give you a rundown of the weekend or they crying that commenced whilst (love that word) looking for clothes. Email if you wanna know more. I’m too much of weeny to post why it actually happened.

To bide time, I suggested we take a trip to the mall. So mom, sister, the girls and I hopped in the T&C and rolled off to the tourist shopping central of Orlando – The Florida Mall. Personally, I like the mall, and the masses of people and tourists (not real people) don’t really bother me. I won’t, however, be caught DEAD there between Thanksgiving and New Years, but any other time isn’t a problem for me. But for mom, the masses are a lot to handle, and with two toddlers in tow with no stroller (really, what’s the point?), it can be a little draining.

BTW – mom’s fallen asleep in the recliner as I type. How women over 50 have young children, I have no idea.

One of my main reasons for going to this mall is they have a Ruby Tuesday. And Ruby Tuesday has a salad bar. And their salad bar has pumpernickel croutons. Pumpernickel croutons. I go to the mall and fight off the tourists for pumpernickel croutons.

After taking side trips into the M&M super store (someone PLEASE tell my who out there likes M&Ms enough to need dishes, purses, pajamas, clocks, and giant pens of M&Ms), the tea store, and Ann Taylor Loft (for the sis), we finally made it to the pumpernickel croutons Ruby Tuesday. I had to make the promise of the Disney Store if Anna was a very good girl while we ate. Had to have something to hold over her head.

The first thing I always ask at RT is if I can get the salad bar and share it with the girls. Their comment is always, “Sure! HAHA – they won’t eat that much, so no problem!” Little do they know, my girls can DOWN some fresh veggies, beans, and grapes. (I need my own salad bar at home.)

So I go up to the salad bar, get the girls their little piles of fresh foods, and get to the end of the salad bar. And that’s when I see there are NO PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS. Seriously, I almost had a heart attack. I had to keep control. Hey (nervous laughing) maybe they’re just out of stock and the salad bard stock boy hasn’t re-loaded the carafe of pumpernickel croutons. 1000 reasons are floating through my head as to WHY the carafe would be empty. Surely, (nervous laughing) someone else might love the pumpernickel croutons as much as I. (nervous laughing) So, I calmly tell the hostess that the pumpernickel croutons are (haha) out. She responds with a very reassuring response that she’ll make sure the salad bar filler knows and will replenish the pumpernickel croutons. Whew… Crisis averted! There will be more pumpernickel croutons when I return to fill my plate with my salad bar salad and pumpernickel croutons.

But this was not the case.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, when I returned with my sister to load my plate with my salad bar salad, I made my way down the salad bar all the while in the back of my head thinking, “They better have replenished the pumpernickel croutons carafe with more pumpernickel croutons” but, alas, THERE WERE NO PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS.

Double heart attack. I stopped in my tracks with my salad bar salad in hand looking in vain for more pumpernickel croutons. I had to stop a waiter in his tracks to ask where the pumpernickel croutons were and to please find them for me. While he walked slowly (he obviously didn’t understand the necessity of locating my pumpernickel croutons and that I had travelled miles out of my way for said croutons) into the kitchen to locate my pumpernickel croutons, I asked the hostess once again where the pumpernickel croutons where and could I get some. That’s when she laid it on me. THEY WERE OUT OF PUMPERNICKEL CROUTONS FOR THE NIGHT. Triple heart attack.

Seriously people. I come to the RT FOR the pumpernickel croutons. *Open statement to Ruby Tuesday: Without pumpernickel croutons, you are just another mall restaurant with regular food, regular decor, and regular service. But, because you have the pumpernickel croutons, I go out of my way, walk through the food court (an Olympic sport with two toddlers), and weave through 1000s of tourists buying scalp massagers and crappy luggage to get to your pumpernickel croutons.

So, with my heart broken and my head hung low, I load my salad with sesame seeds. Joy.

I head back to the table where my girls are joyfully inhaling edamame, grapes, garbanzo beans, and carrots, and start to eat my regular salad bar salad. Joy. My sis kept a keen eye on the salad bar JUST IN CASE there would be more pumpernickel croutons to make their way out of someone’s ass to the salad bar. (That doesn’t sound appealing, and I almost took that out, but things that just appear come out of someone’s ass, so it stays.) She spied the salad bar boy coming out, so she made a mad dash up to the salad bar to check on the status of the pumpernickel croutons. SURELY, the could not be totally out for the night. I mean, (nervous laughter) they are Ruby Tuesday, and why would anyone go (nervous laughter) if they didn’t have the pumpernickel croutons.

While the sis was off fighting the good fight, our slow-ass waiter makes it around to check on us, and I let him know with all the sadness I can exude, that I was told there were no more pumpernickel croutons.

That’s when it came. Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter let me know that yes, the cook was at that moment, preparing MY pumpernickel croutons.

What? What’s that you say? OH HAPPY DAY!!! HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY! HALLELUJAH!

I immediately did a little happy dance and started making out with Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter Man let him know that we needed an entire vat just for our table. Seriously, Mr. Slow-Ass Waiter Man. LOAD US UP.

Not only did we get one huge plateful of pumpernickel croutons, we received TWO huge mounds of pumpernickel croutons delivered to our table!

That just goes to prove, never give up on your dreams. Positive directional thinking will get you everything you want in life. Even pumpernickel croutons.

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*This post was originally published in September 2007 before I made my “I Only Write Short-Posts” rule. Obviously.

It’s also much better than 1/2 of what I write today, because way back then in the beginning, I didn’t think too much about what I was writing. I think it’s better that way, and it inspires me to quit thinking and just write.

photo courtesy

It’s pretty much the second best feeling ever to become an aunt. I can imagine only becoming a grandmother could succeed it, but for now, and the next 20+ years, I won’t know that feeling. (I better not. *shifts strict mom eyes to little girls*)

Today, Valentine’s Day, I became an aunt to my first niece. Unfortunately, my sister-in-law lives 9 hours away, so visiting Ellie will have to wait until we take a road trip next month up to visit.

But, right here in my city, my childhood best friend had her baby yesterday. Austin was born at 9 lbs, 7 ounces with NO MEDS and NO ASSISTANCE other than major pushing & grunting & I’m sure major cursing. I’ll be snugging up on him this week which reminds me that I haven’t held a newborn baby since my nephew, Nolan, was born in Oct 08. That is FAR too long for my ovaries to NOT be next to an infant.

OK, so what if they both look like little aliens straight out of Mars Attacks!. Just you wait until they’re a week old and are almost the cutest kids on the internet. THEN you’ll be oooing and awwwing.

I’m going to preface this by saying my sister and I can sometimes revert back to our 12-year-old selves when we get around our mother. It doesn’t happen when we’re together without her, but add our mom into the familial equation, then you’ve got a clusterfuck of teenage hormones.

A few Christmases ago, I was 3 months pregnant with my oldest daughter. I felt enormous. Little did I know, I’d double in size and stay that way for the next five and a half years. I felt like I needed at least a queen-size bed to share with my baby daddy. Anything smaller would kill the baby, obviously.

My sister and I along w/ my baby daddy were coming home to my parent’s for Christmas, and since we got there first, I claimed the room with the queen-size bed. You know. For the baby’s life. FOR THE SAKE OF THE BABY.

Can you guess what happened next?

My sister came into my parent’s house, marched into the room with the big bed, AND ROLLED OUR LUGGAGE TO THE SPARE BEDROOM WITH THE FULL-SIZE BED.

oh yes she did

And oh yes, I moved them back.

AND OH YES SHE MOVED THEM BACK BACK.

There was a cacophony of tears, yelling, insults. My dad was stuck in the middle. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. He lives in his own little version of paradise. He felt the need to appease both his daughters. To make it even. Make it fair. What all fathers do for their fighting daughters.

He sided with his youngest daughter.

My sister won the battle. She got the big bed.

that bitch

But this is what I remember. This is how we make our memories. By insult-throwing, luggage moving, teenage-style tantrums.

Happy Merry Everything

Do you still fight with your siblings? Or are we the only ones who see the world through our 12-year-old Coke-bottle-sized lenses?

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I’m live and in colorish over at Aiming Low today (well, December 15th)! Show me some loves, won’t you? Won’t you?

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My homegirl, Meghan, is hosting the Second Annual Great Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. I posted the card back in November, but because I listen to Meghan cause that girl can cut a bitch, here’s the card again.

My girls are WAY too cute.

I’m teaching them to cut a bitch like Aunty Meghan.