Delicate Sensibilities
Poor J had a rough weekend. First he had to spend his morning on Saturday going to Quincy to get his car from the shop. Not that the damage from the Great IPod Heist of 2005 is fixed, mind you, but he'd been planning on using my unreliable piece of crap to get to his soccer game, and my car lived up to its name by not starting. So, after retrieving his car, he went off to play soccer in the snow. Incidentally, I could not believe it was snowing. I feel like it is a personal screw you from the weather gods to be snowing this early. The leaves haven't even turned yet for jeebussake, don't you know that's the official "ok, go ahead and snow" signal, you overexcited nasty little nor'easter, you? You can see how traumatized I was, and I wasn't even the one playing soccer in the snow.
J got home from the game, which they lost, 0-5, and promptly threw his mud and ice encrusted clothes in the wash. Unfortunately he also erroneously included his cell phone in the pile. I think that's for the best, however, since he couldn't really get out more than monosyllabic grunts of hate for the world at that point - anyone who had called would have just found themselves involved in a rather scatological conversation, and really, who do we know that enjoys those? Oh, right, EVERYBODY!
Regardless, I pried Justin out of his metaphorical pajamas Saturday night, and we went to see the Dresden Dolls show, which was fantastic. Of course the music was killer, but the best part for me was making fun of all the unintentionally-conformist-while-trying-for-ironic-individuality teenagers and college kids. Note: that comment only applies to the legions of goth kids wearing stripey socks and corsets, NOT to the nubile young man who had painted his butt with stripes and was wearing a butt-tastic thong; THAT was unique.I also want to send a shout out to the epileptic ballet dancer on the side stage to our right - Girl, you looked like a cross between a tadpole and a jackhammer, but your toes were nicely pointed the whole time. Kudos!
The concert relaxed J a bit, and what_do_we_know and motospeedfreek are always fun to hang out with, so Sunday was looking to be better. It was sunny out, we were being productive. We had a very tasty brunch at the Paramount with Justin's-Brother's-Ex and Her-New-Boyfriend, the kind of brunch that leaves you wondering whether that final bite was really necessary, and is there any reason you can't go back to bed at 3pm? (The answer being no, of course, unless you have your first bio test the next day, in which case you have to prop your eyelids up with kabob skewers and force your way through photosynthesis YET again, because you are far too STUPID to remember the name of this or that enzyme the first FOUR FUCKING TIMES.)
So yes, this was shaping up to be an Excellent, Wonderful, Nothing Bad, Very Good Day. But I just couldn't let it be. I am simply uncomfortable with happiness and satisfaction, that's the only explanation for what I did next. J and I went grocery shopping, and since J asked me a little while ago to "bake more," I planned to pick up some supplies to do some baking. However, I hesitated, because the past few times I've baked...well, frankly, there have been leftovers. J didn't do his job in the eating my lovingly produced baked goods department. And anyone who knows J knows that this indicates something is wrong with the baked goods, the boy can EAT, and he's proud of that.
With some prodding he finally told me what the problem was - "I don't like things from boxes." Keeping in mind that this is a guy who PREFERS american cheese on his sandwiches, likes Chef Boyardee, eats lipton noodles and sauce, uses frozen pie crusts, likes white bread, and probably wouldn't be above bringing box wine to a party, you can understand my reaction.* It just came out. I told him the truth - everyone uses boxed cakes.
I wouldn't dream of making a pie prefab. Ice cream? Better from scratch, except for Haagen-Dazs. Homemade cookies? SIGN ME UP! But cakes? Well, cakes are sort of like pie crusts and brownies, the technology is there. Our civilization may not be able to end hunger or stop ourselves from killing everything in sight, but I am comfortable saying that we've done a damn good job of providing boxed cake mix. I'm not saying it's The Best Cake Possible, I'm just saying it's good enough that it's probably not worth the trouble to make it from scratch. Especially, Mr. Boxed Cake Hater, when you only have approximately 53 minutes free per week and you want to spend 45 of them baking for your SORRY BOXED-CAKE-HATING ASS! Dammit, I need those extra 8 minutes to pick the lice from my hair and febreze my clothes.
So yeah, that carrot cake Tara brought at Christmas last year? The one you raved about and had for breakfast three days straight? BOXED. The giant ding dong cake of recipe party fame? BOXED. It's true. The look on J's face was priceless. You know the look. It kind of reminded me of when my godfather told me to bend over and touch my toes. I thought I was showing off how flexible I was, until his palm smacked some sense into my right butt cheek. I'd been TRICKED. I can't wait to do that to my kids.
So, no baking for J until he accepts the facts of cake from a box. I'm saving the ugly truth about Santa for the next time he pisses me off.
* Later I'll share the tales of how contradictory these laxities are when you consider his sensitivity to excess coriander and brining as a tenderizing process.
J got home from the game, which they lost, 0-5, and promptly threw his mud and ice encrusted clothes in the wash. Unfortunately he also erroneously included his cell phone in the pile. I think that's for the best, however, since he couldn't really get out more than monosyllabic grunts of hate for the world at that point - anyone who had called would have just found themselves involved in a rather scatological conversation, and really, who do we know that enjoys those? Oh, right, EVERYBODY!
Regardless, I pried Justin out of his metaphorical pajamas Saturday night, and we went to see the Dresden Dolls show, which was fantastic. Of course the music was killer, but the best part for me was making fun of all the unintentionally-conformist-while-trying-for-ironic-individuality teenagers and college kids. Note: that comment only applies to the legions of goth kids wearing stripey socks and corsets, NOT to the nubile young man who had painted his butt with stripes and was wearing a butt-tastic thong; THAT was unique.I also want to send a shout out to the epileptic ballet dancer on the side stage to our right - Girl, you looked like a cross between a tadpole and a jackhammer, but your toes were nicely pointed the whole time. Kudos!
The concert relaxed J a bit, and what_do_we_know and motospeedfreek are always fun to hang out with, so Sunday was looking to be better. It was sunny out, we were being productive. We had a very tasty brunch at the Paramount with Justin's-Brother's-Ex and Her-New-Boyfriend, the kind of brunch that leaves you wondering whether that final bite was really necessary, and is there any reason you can't go back to bed at 3pm? (The answer being no, of course, unless you have your first bio test the next day, in which case you have to prop your eyelids up with kabob skewers and force your way through photosynthesis YET again, because you are far too STUPID to remember the name of this or that enzyme the first FOUR FUCKING TIMES.)
So yes, this was shaping up to be an Excellent, Wonderful, Nothing Bad, Very Good Day. But I just couldn't let it be. I am simply uncomfortable with happiness and satisfaction, that's the only explanation for what I did next. J and I went grocery shopping, and since J asked me a little while ago to "bake more," I planned to pick up some supplies to do some baking. However, I hesitated, because the past few times I've baked...well, frankly, there have been leftovers. J didn't do his job in the eating my lovingly produced baked goods department. And anyone who knows J knows that this indicates something is wrong with the baked goods, the boy can EAT, and he's proud of that.
With some prodding he finally told me what the problem was - "I don't like things from boxes." Keeping in mind that this is a guy who PREFERS american cheese on his sandwiches, likes Chef Boyardee, eats lipton noodles and sauce, uses frozen pie crusts, likes white bread, and probably wouldn't be above bringing box wine to a party, you can understand my reaction.* It just came out. I told him the truth - everyone uses boxed cakes.
I wouldn't dream of making a pie prefab. Ice cream? Better from scratch, except for Haagen-Dazs. Homemade cookies? SIGN ME UP! But cakes? Well, cakes are sort of like pie crusts and brownies, the technology is there. Our civilization may not be able to end hunger or stop ourselves from killing everything in sight, but I am comfortable saying that we've done a damn good job of providing boxed cake mix. I'm not saying it's The Best Cake Possible, I'm just saying it's good enough that it's probably not worth the trouble to make it from scratch. Especially, Mr. Boxed Cake Hater, when you only have approximately 53 minutes free per week and you want to spend 45 of them baking for your SORRY BOXED-CAKE-HATING ASS! Dammit, I need those extra 8 minutes to pick the lice from my hair and febreze my clothes.
So yeah, that carrot cake Tara brought at Christmas last year? The one you raved about and had for breakfast three days straight? BOXED. The giant ding dong cake of recipe party fame? BOXED. It's true. The look on J's face was priceless. You know the look. It kind of reminded me of when my godfather told me to bend over and touch my toes. I thought I was showing off how flexible I was, until his palm smacked some sense into my right butt cheek. I'd been TRICKED. I can't wait to do that to my kids.
So, no baking for J until he accepts the facts of cake from a box. I'm saving the ugly truth about Santa for the next time he pisses me off.
* Later I'll share the tales of how contradictory these laxities are when you consider his sensitivity to excess coriander and brining as a tenderizing process.