Best Date Night Ever

Tuesday is often a challenge chez WRH.  But we’re getting the school pick up, other school pick up, dog walk, get changed, ballet, drawing class, soccer practice, dinner routine down.  Yesterday was especially good. 

For the first Tuesday since the dawn of time or at least early September, I managed to get my daughter’s hair into the very rigidly defined “ballet bun” without tears and recrimination.   And it was a good one.



After I picked Ballet Bun up from ballet (that’s an excellent example of synecdoche, by the way,  for those of you playing the “Who’s the Biggest Literatary Terms Geek” game at home), we stopped by the homestead to take a shower to wash the gallons of hair gel required to make the aforementioned hairstyle stay put, check in with the dog, and headed back out again.  Child Masculine the Elder was with His Father at soccer or something sporty and Very Important.



Sorry.  No Dogs Allowed

My girl, all showered and even be-jammied, was presented with the opportunity to select ANYTHING SHE WANTED for dinner.  She picked “The Boathouse,”  a local watering hole with an actual boat in it for a reason I have never fully understood given that we are landlocked here in SE Pennsylvania but whatever.  She love love loves The Boathouse, and her brother does not love love love it at all but rather, if you ask him, hate hate hates it. The fact of her brother’s disdain for all things Boathouse makes her ability to choose The Boathouse extra fabulous and fun.  I totally get that.  I had a brother.  Actually, I still do.



I was thinking that this was going to be a date for just the two of us, but the girl had other ideas.  She brought a friend much to the dismay of the actual dog.



There was a wide array of dinner options…behold, the Specials Board.



But no, she ordered OFF THE MENU, because she has fancy tastes.  And by “fancy tastes” I mean noodles with butter.   Why she loves loves loves The Boathouse is a mystery because last time I checked, I can provide plenty o’noodles with just butter at home and I do every single day, but never mind.



There are, truth be told, other reasons to love Boathouse night with mommy.  For instance, on Boathouse night with mommy, she gets to order root beer.  Don’t tell her brother. 



She also gets sole control of the ipod touch featuring the “Where’s Waldo” game while she waits for her spaghetti.  While Mommy watches her favorite anchorman talk about the two wars we’re fighting for three minutes and figure skaters for 27.

              
coveted ipod touch                                                       tiny Brian Williams

Also, even if she doesn’t finish her noodles and please note the shocking lack of vegetables in this scenario, she gets to have the fancy shmancy Boathouse kids’ dessert.



When we got home and were getting ready for bed, she wrapped her tiny ice cream sandwich covered fingers around my neck and pulled me close.  She whispered in my ear, “I love going to The Boathouse with you mommy.  Thanks.”

Anytime, sweetie.  Anytime.

Rob Guarino Is Predicting A Massive Snowstorm At The End of the Week

That title, by the way,  it totally irrelevant, but I’m really excited about the prospect so I thought I’d just mention it.


(More) Things I don’t understand:



  • eyebrow combs
  • Lady Gaga
  • what happened to the missing “L” in Apolo Ohno’s name
  • why everybody doesn’t think the concept of lap dances from strangers is as gross as I do
  • what teenagers wear to dances
  • fake designer goods
  • physics (somebody just said to me, “Of course you understand physics.  You live with physics.  You totally understand physics.”  No.  I don’t.  I don’t even understand what he just said.)
  • leap year
  • and speaking of calendars, from whence comes that extra “N” in Wednesday?
  • James Patterson
  • Cadillacs
  • the implications of a flat tax
  • the phrase “cheese food”

If it doesn’t snow big, I’m going to be very upset.  I’d written off the possibility of further big weather this year and now underground blogger weather pirates are fanning the weak spark of my big weather love, threatening to turn it into a hope inferno.  Or hope blizzard.  Consider your metaphors good and mixed.

Peace.


My Home and Native Land

If I were Canada, here’s what I’d be saying, “I’m rubber and you’re glue and everything you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”

Of course, Canada is significantly more mature than I am, so instead, Canada has merely turned the other cheek.

Oh, Canada.

The Vox Populi is heaping criticism on the Vancouver Olympics.  True, it’s hard to get off on a hugely positive foot when someone dies before the games have even started, but you can go on ahead and call me heartless and insensitive and crass because I am, but hello?  It’s the luge!  Winter Olympians are mostly very fit, pink-cheeked people trying not to slice their legs open with blades or crack their skulls on packed snow. It’s a miracle it doesn’t happen more often.  I can’t even watch figure skating because it makes me so anxious, and not only as a result of the truly astonishing hideousness of the outfits.  When I tune in, I’m certain I’m about to see devastation and gore.  Have you seen the footage of Shaun White hitting his head at the X Games?  Egads.

And then there was the whole opening ceremony lighting the flame debacle.  I guess they had no way of anticipating that it would look strange.  And we, the viewing audience at home, weren’t quite sure what to think.  I’m talking, of course, about the fact that Wayne Gretzky seems to have had so much plastic surgery that he more resembles an aging, startled Manhattan socialite rather than the greatest hockey player in history.  Also, the flame thingy didn’t work. 

Skiiers complained about how bumpy the downhill course was.  Journalists carped about the lack of snow.  The speed skating track had to be re-worked at the last minute.  There was some kind of hoohaw about a chain link fence around the flame inhibiting tourists’ ability to take photos.

I call sour grapes.  Canada has it so all over the U.S. that we’re all shuddering with delight that the city voted the most livable in the WORLD hasn’t pulled off a perfect 10 in Olympic planning.  Remember Atlanta?  There was an explosion.

Canada’s unemployment rate is lower than ours.  Canada’s citizens have healthcare.  For free.  Canadians’ per capita income is growing at a faster rate than ours and their dollar kicks our dollar’s butt and then laughs at it.  Canada’s air is cleaner, water is more drinkable, and forests are bigger and healthier.  Canada’s crime rate is lower.  Canadians live longer.  Canadians report being happier.  Canada’s economy is stronger, and the fact I found most interesting and surprising is that Canada’s people have something like over 3 times the representation in government than Americans do. 

I looked at the major Canadian newspapers’ op-ed pages and I was dismayed to find a bunch of stuff about what the United States is doing and how Obama is doing and why our Congress is pathetic.  Maybe it’s just that everything is so totally OK in Canada that they have to get their bitching out somehow and we provide the most fodder.

Here’s the thing, and I think it explains why the Olympics isn’t “perfect.”  Canada is just Canada.  It’s not trying to be America – especially the Disneyified version of America that we seem hell-bent on promoting at any of our big-time events.

So, relax, people.  It’s sports, and it’s an opportunity for a little cultural exchange and edification.  If the snafus are upsetting you, just tune in to curling.  If you can’t chill out while watching that, there is something seriously wrong with you.