Pumpkin Tacos — Not a recipe post.

Tonight I had a breakdown over taco meat.  I wish that were a metaphor for something grand and meaningful like poverty or hunger or world peace.

But, no, it was over taco meat.  Actual taco meat.

It’s possible I’m losing it.  It’s also possible I’ve consumed more than my share of tequila today.

Do you ever have days like this, where the most trivial thing can set you off?

Virginia Slims Man’s family is in town for Thanksgiving.  In preparation for their visit I made a ton of taco meat last week and froze it so that I would have stuff ready to go for meals.

I felt good about myself and my proactiveness, which is very much the opposite of my normal fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-ness.

We sat down to eat tacos tonight and The Good One said, “Why does this taste like pumpkin?”  And with that one sentence I wanted to rip The Good One’s teeth and tongue out of his mouth, wrap his teeth up in his tongue to make a tooth burrito and then shove that dentition-filled burrito so far down his throat that he could feel it in his shoes.

The Good One’s passive-aggressiveness is infuriating.

“Mom, why is my toast so brown?”

“Because I woke up this morning and thought it would be fun to make you burnt toast for breakfast.”

“Mom, why is there so much butter on my waffle?”

“Because I’m trying my darndest to give you coronary artery disease.”

“Mom, why is my sandwich soggy?”

“Because I spritzed the bread with water just for fun.”

This is endless and it’s infuriating.  It’s possible it’s something other than passive-aggressiveness, but I’m too unsober to Google personality defects.

Sadly, it’s probably not much different from what I did to my mom when I was a kid.

I remember walking in the door from school and screaming downstairs into the laundry room where my mother would be folding one of the 4,000 loads of laundry she did that day, “Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Meatloaf.”

“Aw, man. I hate meatloaf.”

Repeat that four times, one for each of my sisters, and you’ve just experienced the joy that was my mother’s life.  I honestly have no idea how my mother didn’t cook us for dinner.  I dream of cooking my children.

Kidding.  I’d never cook my children and I do not condone the cooking of children.  Don’t post a comment that I’m terrible and rude and cruel.  I would never cook my children.

I’d eat them raw.

I’m really cracking myself up tonight.  This is what happens when I type after drinking three margaritas.

Anyway, back to the tacos.

The Good One’s comment about the tacos tasting like pumpkin ticked me off to the point of tears.  So I sat at the dinner table, surrounded by my in-laws and cried into my hands that the hard work that I do to feed my family is completely and totally unappreciated.

Virginia Slims Man sat at the kitchen table and massaged my back and told me it was all good.

Then he took a bite of his taco, looked up at me with a look that said, “My, this is a very seasonally appropriate taco,” and I started crying all over again.

Call me nuts, but VSM’s appropriate reaction to tasting fall flavors in his tacos would have been to shovel those tacos down his gullet like they were the best damn tacos he had ever eaten.

I don’t know why my tacos tasted like pumpkin.  I drank my dinner tonight so I really have no idea what they tasted like.  They very well could have been pumpkiny.

My in-laws ate copious amounts of tacos tonight.  Most likely this was to avoid further emotional breakdowns and the possible consumption of Children Tartare for dinner tomorrow night.  (Last night in my inebriation, I had “Tartare” spelled Tar-Tar, because, well, that’s how it should be spelled.  I’m assuming the French are behind this ridiculous spelling.  Regardless, it is now spelled correctly.  I should know better than to drink and write at the same time.)

I do know that I would like to take a moment to apologize to my mother for every derogatory comment I ever made about all of her hard work in the kitchen.

Mom, you were an amazing cook (still are) and I apologize for every sigh, whine and sneer I ever directed at you regarding dinner.  I appreciate that you fed me every single day for 18 years.

I also appreciate that you didn’t cook me.

Or consume me raw.

Postette about popcorn.

This is The Beast inside his corn drawer.  He’ll sit in there for an hour and just dump corn back and forth between cups.

Out of concern that he would get corn in his ears if he dumped the corn over his head, I told him that if he got corn in his ears, birds would come into the house and peck at his ears.

Not my most proud “Mom” moment.  It is what it is.

After asking me several times if the birds would eat his head, and after being reassured that they would not eat his head, he promptly shoved a corn kernel up his nose.

Touché, you evil genius, touché.

No snappy title. Brain just isn’t in it.

It’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve been on this blog.  In that time I’ve obviously become a 79-year-old woman who uses phrases like “a month of Sundays.”  I’ve also been playing a lot of Mahjong.  I haven’t taken up shuffleboard yet, but that’s really only because I don’t live on a cruise ship.

So, in that month of Sundays, all kinds of crap has happened.  Some good, some bad.  First, my boobs are good.  So that made me happy.

Sadly, my father-in-law was diagnosed with lung cancer and died three weeks and two days after his diagnosis.  That sucked lemons and limes and exhaust pipes and anything else that would be kind of awful to suck on.  (I’m making a horribly inappropriate joke in my head right now.  In addition to being an elderly woman who likes card games, I’m also now a 14-year-old pubescent boy.   You can imagine Virginia Slims Man’s joy at this development.)

Cancer is a raging psyco-bitch.  As is death.

Piece of advice, do not try to explain death to a 3-year-old.  Your conversation will sound like this:

The Beast:  Are we going to Grandpa’s house?

Me: Yes, honey, but Grandpa won’t be there.

The Beast:  Why won’t Grandpa be there?

Me:  Well, baby, Grandpa was very sick and he died.

The Beast:  Grandpa died?  Where is he?

Me: (This question is difficult for me.  Because of my religious upbringing I have great uncertainty about where my Father-in-law’s soul is at this very minute.  I decided to keep it simple.)  He’s in heaven, honey.

The Beast:  I want to go to heaven.

Me:  Me, too, but I don’t want to go there right now.

The Beast:  Let’s go to heaven and see Grandpa.

Me:  Well, we can’t get to heaven right now.

The Beast:  Let’s go drive to the hotel and sleep at the hotel and then drive to heaven.

Me:  We can’t get to heaven in the car.

The Beast:  Let’s get in the airplane and fly to heaven and see Grandpa.  That’ll be a great idea.

Me: Okay.  Well, we can’t get to heaven in an airplane. (Although I’m fairly certain that if I get into an airplane I will be visiting heaven shortly thereafter.)

The Beast:  Grandpa died?

Me:  Yes, honey.  Grandpa died.

After this, we entered my father-in-law’s house to visit with family and make funeral arrangements.  The Beast walked into the house, saw all of the family members sitting around and announced, “Where’s Grandpa?”

So that was fun.

Anyway, I thought I’d let you know that I’ve been sitting in my house, playing Mahjong and eating junk food for about a month.  I have all kinds of things to share about The Beast and school and why I’m looking for a new school and how I almost kicked in the teeth of his school director, but that’ll have to wait for another day.

For now, a recap.  Boobs are good.  Cancer sucks.  Death blows.  And you can’t explain death to a toddler.

Amen.