June 25, 2007

You guys have me good and whipped, because after reading several comments aggressively demanding kindly requesting some visual evidence of this so-called War Face, I spent my afternoon hovering over Riley with the camera, repeatedly shouting show Mama your war face, sweetie! like a total freakshow pageant mom. Of course, the boy completely refuses to perform on command, so this is the best I could do:


You’ll have to imagine something a little less shocked/dopey (“WHAFUCK?”) and a little more . . . war-facey. On the other hand, that’s a pretty good shot of JB’s war face. If he were an active duty pirate, that is. Yarrr, matey, this toddler’s diaper be smelling like Davey Jones’ locker, arrrrr.

June 24, 2007

For those of you who recommended Beard Papa’s in downtown San Francisco, holy crap, were you ever right. I bought a vanilla cream puff when I was there last week, and the memory of eating it still brings a tear to my eye—and not just because I accidentally inhaled a lungful of powdered sugar off the top of the damn thing and nearly choked to death in my hotel room (but quickly revived in order to lasciviously tongue-probe its gooey, custardy center).

I remember when I was a kid how much I used to love airports. They were so exciting and full of promise, from the swirls of busy people rushing to their departure gates to the stomach-dropping miraculous moment when the plane left the tarmac and began its inexplicable climb into the sky. I used to travel by myself to visit my grandparents in Michigan, and the sight of their eager faces when I walked into the gate, their opened arms and exclamations of delight, was even better than the flight itself. Even better than the thrillingly salty peanuts, or the nose-burning cup of ginger ale, or the blue plastic wings a stewardess would always offer me.

Of course nowadays only ticketed passengers can hang around the terminal, and you don’t get peanuts because someone could go into anaphylactic shock, and any excitement associated with flying has long been replaced by the ever-present feeling of dread and discomfort as you stand in line after line while uniformed men shout aggressively into the crowd about how any liquids need to be in plastic bags or SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES, and the whole time you’re standing there in your bare feet trying not to think about how many other people’s bare feet have touched the exact same section of the floor you’re on. Never mind the flight itself, where you’re so intimately crushed against both the seat in front of you and the stranger on your left, even if anyone did give you peanuts (which they will NOT) the sodium bloat would probably cause permanent injury.

What I’m saying is that I think it’s going to take a lot of convincing to get me to do another business trip anytime soon. The next time I deal with air travel I want a big payoff on the other side, like say for instance a week in Hawaii. I mean, that cream puff was pretty goddamned good, but definitely not worth the hassle of getting there.

In other news, we taught Riley to make a War Face. “Show me your war face!” we cry, and he immediately pulls his brows down and peers at us suspiciously (clarification: even more suspiciously than normal), his little lips pooched out. Then we yell about bullshit, you didn’t convince me, let me see your REAL war face, we’ll PT you until your asshole is sucking buttermilk, we didn’t know they stacked shit that high, and so on, because if you’re going to quote Full Metal Jacket a little, you might as well go whole hog, you know?

Oh, we don’t really. In all seriousness, though, the War Face is completely awesome. I told JB that this is the first party trick that officially elevates Riley above Well-Trained Dog status. Sure, my son might not be able to balance a snack on his nose then toss it in the air and eat it in one gulp, but he can by-god make a war face.

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