i wish i was in tijuana
I was making dinner tonight when, over the crackling of the cellophane bag wherein were housed the delicious ciabatta bread rolls (oh, they SAID you was high class, but here we thought it was just a lie...) I planned to use to make my special recipe roast beef sandwiches (which are neither special nor exclusively mine), when my youngest son climbed aboard his bar stool at the counter and spied the plate from which I was pulling the beefy ingredients from.
"What's that?" the young man inquired, his voice tinged with the kind of cautious blend of fear and curiosity often found among those in the early frames of horror movies or who typically eat only peanut butter sandwiches on bread far less fancy and dense every day of their lives.
"This?" I responded, holding up a thin slice of perfect roast beef, allowing it to wave gently in the air. "This, my son, is roast beef."
"What part of the chicken does roast beef come from?" he asked.
"Really?" I said.
"What?" he responded.
"Roast beef does not come from a chicken, sweetheart," I replied.
Not willing to be defeated, the young man tried again. "OK, then, what part of the pig does it come from?"
"Oh, my," I sighed.
"You're what?" he replied.
"This roast beef is also not from a pig," I answered.
"I'm stumped, then," my son said, hanging his head just low enough for me to notice that OMG, someone had obviously been playing with the scissors because there's a giant chunk of hair missing from his frontal lobe, but that's apparently a story for a different day because I've yet to get a strait answer out of him. So far all possible (yet entirely illogical) scenarios come out as jagged as the current state of his bangs.
"The answers you seek are in the name, my son," I said. "Listen carefully - roast BEEF."
Silence ensued. Gears screeched to a halt thanks to the ragged follicular road blocks upon his forehead. "What animal is beef?" he finally asked.
Ah, life in the suburbs...
Because dinner was fancy pants roast beef sandwiches, I decided to bring out the assorted accoutrements. A little Grey Poupon, anyone? And when I say a little, I mean just a little, OK, because who do you think I am, anyway? Jenny from the block?
(do you smell that? that's the smell of a really dated pop culture reference! ripe!)
By now, my oldest son had joined us at the kitchen counter, his equally suspicious eyes darting around at these New York City (tired pop culture reference number two!) sandwiches I was preparing before landing upon the squeeze bottle of Gray Poupon.
"Mom, do you know your Gary Poops On has white wine in it?" he asked
"GARY POOPS ON!!!! GARY POOPS ON!!!! GARY POOPS ON!!!!" cried the younger accomplice. "GARY POOPS ON YOUR SANDWICH!!!!"
"I wish..." I sighed. "I really, really wish..."
(did I mention that there's this man who, from time to time, passes through my house, and for whatever reason I wash his socks and underwear, though for the life of me, I don't know why because this strange man, who, if he is who he says he is, pulled a gigantic FAIL on Mother's Day, which is shocking coming off the heels of an earlier birthday disaster the likes of which notations are made in history books that read "...and if we as a society fail to learn from events such as this, we are doomed to repeat them," needs to make it up in the husband department pronto, so yeah, I'm tired and this is rambly. What of it?)
(that sounded harsh, didn't it? sorry. it's not you, it's me. I see we meet again, PMS. word up, single parents! yada, yada, yada. insert all the usual cliches here)
(my wish was also regarding the wine part of that above conversation. I originally hoped I wouldn't have to clarify that, but after reading this again, I felt like perhaps I should)
Moral of the story, Gary Poops On will now be how I forever and always refer to Grey Poupon mustard. You probably will, too. Don't blame me. Blame the kid with the weird haircut over there who apparently doesn't know what a cow is.
The ingredients for my fancy pants dinner sandwiches came after a rousing run through the grocery store after work. All was good until I'd been home a couple hours and I felt my head growing increasingly fuzzy, and my lungs began spewing forth sneeze after sneeze after sneeze.
"Perfect," I sighed, then sneezed. And sneezed again. "This is JUST perfect."
"What's perfect?" my oldest son asked.
"I must have walked through a germ cloud while at the grocery store this afternoon," I said. "I think someone dripping with germs had the cart before me, and now I'm not feeling well. I hope I don't wake up with a cold tomorrow."
"Did you actually SEE the germ cloud?" he asked.
"Have you paid attention AT ALL in your science classes?" I countered.
Then I sneezed again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Then, when I was done, I lifted my right fist to the sky and shook it. With my voice tinged with drama and flair, I looked at my son, shook my fist at the sky again, and growled dramatically, "As God is my witness, THIS! THIS is why I do not like to go grocery shopping!"
Shaking his head slightly, my son sighed, and, before hopping down from his bar stool to dash outdoors to play again, said, "NOW you can understand how I feel about Mexico."
I know. I don't get it, either. But Australia? I feel I should warn you. I saw the kid eyeing a map recently and if I were you, Oz, I'd be a little worried.