Like A Phoenix

A few years ago, we started making a chocolate cake when I realized we were out of flour. In my opinion, only a moron runs out of flour. I had to lock myself in the bathroom to escape the howling of my oh-so-emotionally wounded kids, but while I was in there, I had a glorious epiphany:  "fudge does not need flour." Then, like a phoenix from the ashes, this housewife arose triumphant from the bathroom.

I was reminded of that tonight when once again in the bathroom with my head under water to block their complaints, I again had a glorious revelation: "I have bread dough from yesterday in the fridge, I can slap some cinnamon in that bitch, and make cinnamon rolls. That will quell the hunger pains of my kids who apparently have hallow legs."

Two minutes after dinner (chicken flavored with five-spice, honey, soy sauce, spring onions from my garden and egg noodles which is exactly what the young d-bags ordered), one of them said, "What's for dinner? I'm starving?" Seriously? Seriously, little d-bags, where do you put it all?

Well, hopefully, they'll like the cinnamon rolls which would be caramel rolls if I hadn't run out of brown sugar. In my opinion, only a moron runs out of brown sugar. And when we're done eating, we can all go to bed fat  and happy.

PS. Here's the transcript of an old conversation:

Me: There was an old lady who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn't know what to do. So she fed them some broth and some bread, whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed.
Max: How many children did she have?
Me: Three.

Stripped Legs and Spotted Back, Don't be a Hater

I frequently pop into the grocery store between 10 pm and 1 in the morning, and I am enamored by the people who are there at that time. There's a good mixture of  overnight stock boys and stoners with the munchies, and inevitably, there is at least one family with a kid or several in tow. It is these people, the working poor who have no option but to shop for groceries late at night that always garner a friendly nod or a sympathetic look from me.

A few nights ago, I was ready to shoot an empathetic look at the family in the ice cream aisle, but when I turned to look I realized that it was my sworn enemies, the old neighbors who called social services on me and then spent a year bullying my kids before they finally moved away.

I stood in the ice cream aisle pretending like I didn't notice them or their cart full of six bags of cheap sugary cereal, but I really would have liked to say hi to that eleven year-old in the dirty shirt with the ridiculous pink braid attached to his hair. I wasn't so keen to say anything to his nine year-old sister with the constantly smug look and the glasses that never stay up. I could tell in the particular way that he was ignoring me that the eleven year-old would have liked to say hi to me too.

I left with my ice cream and a rather heavy heart, and I was reminded that I don't hate often because it's not an emotion that I'm comfortable with.

As I rode toward home, I spied a medium sized frog on the sidewalk. I would have taken him home cupped in my hand, but the boys were sleeping so I didn't. I just dismounted my bike, and watched my little striped leg and spotted back friend until he hopped away  to the safety of a bush in the landscaping of the bank.

And that's it. I hate to hate, but little frogs sure makes me feel better. I'll just say hi to that kid the next time I see him.