Speedy Gonzalez

Tonight, right here at the Voodoo Bungalow, we are holding a Seveno de Mayo celebration. As a family of Central European/British/French/German/American immigrants all living in Canada, it's refreshingly quirky of us, don't you think? We couldn't hold it on Cinco de Mayo because of soccer. Which is what I think actually happened at the Battle of Pueblo. The French were playing soccer and weren't paying the slightest bit of attention to General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín and his unlikely band of Mexicans who weren't even a little bit interested in being occupied by the French and their mustachioed Maximilian. Can't say as I blame them. The real reason for us celebrating is that Speedy Gonzalez is a special favorite of mine and my sisters.

Speedy Gonzalez eez a friend of evereebodeez seestor.

As a sidenote, I think I may just have scored straight 10s on the "British/Ukrainian making of Oaxacan mole" portion of the program.

Ole.

Really good story

To switch things up this evening, Kid told me a bedtime story. I was falling asleep and was snuggling Ruffy, the well-loved stuffed terrier. If this were a story by The Bloggess, the terrier would be a real terrier, probably armed with a dictaphone or a tennis racket, but our love of taxidermy as interior decoration has dwindled recently. We're probably not getting enough Vitamin D. That seems to be behind almost every ailment you can think of these days, and I can think of a lot. For instance, the toe I broke a few months ago started inexplicably throbbing this afternoon, and I instantly realized that it was because cancer had gotten into the crack in the toe bone and that if I had only put my foot out the car window when we were driving to the mountains every weekend it would have gotten the right amount of sun and its Vitamin D level would be just fine and now I wouldn't be dying of toe bone crack cancer. And I couldn't even go out to charge it back up again because it has been snowing sideways here for two days.

So the story I was being told--and I was told in "story voice," with that look of measured authority, that this was a true story--was about the Prince of the Golden Entrance. His boat was solid gold, with silver masts and sails made of flower petals. He was not just a prince, but also a magician, the most powerful in his land, and also the man with the best heart. He was the goodest person anyone had ever known. But there was a song that pulled at his heart and he thought that the singer must be one of the mermaids he'd heard so much about, who lived on a misty pillar of granite that emerged from the sea at the edge of the world.

My son is so sensitive and poetic, I smiled happily to myself.

I must have drifted off there for a moment on that blissful thought.

I awoke because my little poet was up on his knees in his bed yelling BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM! and CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP!

What on earth?!?!?

It turns out that an attack helicopter carrying a thermal detonator was overhead. The mermaids had on their gas masks and were lobbing grenades. The prince sustained a major head wound and drownded.

The end.

Questions and answers

Question: WHere is the conference that I am writing about?

Answer: Germany

Question: Do I wish to struggle with German this morning before coffee, or do I wish to use the Google translate button?

Answer: Duh.

Question: So how would one get to this conference?

Answer:

Arriving by car:

Type in your navigation system following address:

Oil resistant lock on the white way

A manor

D-38 271 Baddeckenstedt


Thank you, that clears it up nicely.

(Anyone going to the 2b Ahead Conference in Baddeckenstedt, head here: Schloss Oelber am weißen Wege

Rittergut 1)


The journey time is 30 minutes from Hanover, of Brunswick, 20 minutes.

Momoir

The Bad Moms Club alerted me to this challenge: motherhood in six words or less. It being laundry day here at the voodoo bungalow, I had my response ready:

So many little socks. All singles.


How is this even possible?

"Bleach could not possibly whiten these." (aside: Who told Calvin Klein to make WHITE boy panties? Seriously, what kind of numbnuts makes tighty whities for the under-8 set? I shall say no more on the subject.)

"Lips say NO. Eyes say PINOT."

Piperade

Kid is a great eater. The greatest eater among Kids throughout the ages, perhaps. He is not in the slightest bit fussy, is an adventurous diner (squid, capers, duck, cauliflower, quinoa), and has a man-sized appetite that causes moms to beam. His stomach will surely land him an heiress and I don't much care whether that's because the heiress's mom has pushed her daughter into a marriage just because the potential groom can't get enough of the tuna casserole that the heiress's dad has turned his nose up at for the last 30 years.

However, he balked at this. And I cannot imagine why.

I know. Hard to believe. I explained to him that it was an ancient Spanish dish much beloved by the peasantry. That the olive oil and peppers were aromatic, that the onions were soft and melting, that there was enough garlic in there to kill 400 vampires, and that the eggs came from genuine free-range chickens from a real farm who probably ate worms.

What I heard in return: "Lor, that looks like barf and there is NO WAY ON EARTH I am going to eat it."

You know, looking at the situation honestly, I had to agree with him: it does kind of look like barf. So for the first time in his life he got a different dinner from the rest of us; although I couldn't help pointing out that peanut butter looks kind of like dog poo.

Obviously

Not one of those alpha moms

If anyone can think of way that I can blame this on my mother, chime in.