Feb
2
Okay, time to study. Studying is reading, right? I love reading! This is going to be so awesome. The kids are in bed, the house is quiet, I’ve got myself all settled on the couch with a highlighter, now all I have to do is crack up chapter one, sit back, and enjoy the—
Oh, ha ha ha. I seem to have scanned a paragraph without fully understanding it. Silly me! I’ll just reread it again and—
Huh. Boy, there sure isn’t much light in here. Maybe I should change the lightbulb. I wonder if we shouldn’t have painted that wall such a dark color, since it seems to—
NEVERMIND. STUDYING. Study study study. Look at me being all studious and shit! I should totally get some of those arty square-framed glasses that make people look smart. I mean, I don’t technically need glasses, but I could get some with just regular glass in the—or I know, how about a Moleskine notebook, people love those things, I could take notes in it or just . . . I’m pretty good at doodling, like I could use it to draw little robots during—
FOCUS.
Reading! Okay. Reading. La la la, reading reading reading . . . okay, I still didn’t get that paragraph, what the hell. Let’s try the old trick of putting a pen under each sentence and just take it kind of slow. All right. All riiiiight. Here we go. Yeah, this is helping. Right on, pen! Way to work! Epistemological . . . positivism . . . macro . . . methodological . . . WHAT? What the fuck is this book talking about?
“CAN YOU STOP THAT NOISE?”
“Um . . . what noise?”
“THAT OBNOXIOUS DISTRACTING NOISE YOU ARE MAKING WITH YOUR NOSE.”
“You mean . . . breathing?’
“YES. STOP IT. I’M TRYING TO STUDY OVER HERE, GOD.”
Okay. Okay okay okayyyyy. Whoooo. Get ahold of yourself, girl, you’ve got this. Just start over and read that paragraph from top to bottom. Epi . . . epistem . . . stemological. Is that like an episiotomy? Goddamn it, I need a dictionary. I can’t believe I need a dictionary. Good thing everything’s on the internet now, right? I’ll just get my laptop and . . .
Hey, I wonder what’s happening on Twitter?
NO. STOP. DICTIONARY DOT COM. GO THERE. TYPE IN THE WORD.
E. P. I. S—you know what I could really go for right now? A sandwich. Mmmmmmm, sandwich. Okay okay. E. P. I. S. T. E—or a cookie. God damn, I could tear into a cookie. Okay. E. P. I—oh man, I’ve got some dough in the—I’ll just—OKAY, fuck, OKAY. Epistemological.
Epistemology is the investigation of what distinguishes justified belief from opinion.
Uh . . . huh. Well. Well, of course! It’s the . . . justified . . . the belief about the investigation of the . . . opinions. Totally obvious.
You know what, I’m going to watch The Soup.
Feb
1
I wouldn’t have guessed it was possible to overdose on bread to the point of needing a full-body detox and possibly a carefully orchestrated therapy session complete with that rabbity-toothed motherfucker from Intervention, but here I am after a weekend of bingeing on baked goods: doughy, puffy, and possibly forming my own yeasty crust.
Oh, is it grossing you out to hear about my personal yeasty crust? Well too bad, because where were YOU when I decided that making pizza, naan, and oat bread in the same 24-hour period would be a good idea? Where were you when I learned that while Indian food is all fine and good, fresh naan with peanut butter and jelly is something akin to a taste receptor orgasm? Where were you when I shoveled half a loaf of bread in my mouth at 11 PM last night, even though I was stuffed beyond reason, reasoning that it was easier to simply eat the slices rather than put them away?
I’m going to die of gluten poisoning—distended and bloated on the side of the road like a decomposing raccoon—and it’s all your fault.
In other food ridiculousness, I engaged in an epic battle with Riley on Sunday morning over a waffle. The same damn waffle he eats every day, except this time I snuck some butter—not margarine, mind you, but delicious, drool-triggering butter—on top of it and a tiny microscopic bit hadn’t melted enough and he was all WHAT IS THIS WHITE STUFF I DON’T LIKE IT. And then he refused to take one more bite of his 100% inoffensive WAFFLE coated in SYRUP and I pretty much lost my shit, because while I am used to his obnoxious pickiness when it comes to food apparently I draw the line at barely visible butter freakouts, and then his father and I did the thing I swore I would never do as a parent: we forced him to sit at the table and finish his breakfast.
Naturally it was wholly unpleasant for all parties and by the time the last bite reluctantly slid down his gripe-hole the morning was pretty much lying in ruins. Everyone was mad at each other with the exception of Dylan, who was oblivious to the drama since he was so busy eating his own waffle and about fifteen maple sausages to boot, what the hell. (“MO SASSAGE PEEZ. MO SASSAGE PEEZE. TANK YOU.”)
It seems I have to re-learn this lesson every now and then: fighting about food isn’t worth it. Not to me, anyway. JB and I don’t put up with a lot of bullshit when it comes to disciplinary issues, but food is generally off the list of things I’m willing to do battle over.
Except for Wafflegate, apparently, and if nothing else that certainly served to remind me that in the grand scheme of things, who cares if the kid won’t eat his Eggo? God knows it’s not like a bread product will ever go to waste in my house.
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