••• Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Knitting on the Half-Shell 

Okay, it's more like 3/4 shell.

As you can see, I'm just a shoulder and a shape from yet another finished garment.

I know. I'm scared too.

And yes Stephanie, I think I was thinking of the Yipes Stripes Beechnut gum.

The Family Poop
I've not yet recovered from the weekend with the family. It was a glorious time, but I'm still kind of worn from the prep, the hostessing, the flush frets and the packing up the post party pooh and dragging it home. ::Not that pooh, although the "tank-full" alarm did go off Saturday night. Nobody died.::

More scoop on the weekend poop in a later post. Maybe.

Could You Put a Sock in it?
So. Last evening at dinner, my husband, The Cakers and I were sitting and eating. Well, two of us were eating. One of us was talking and talking and talking, while creating yet another dinner routine. ::Truthfully, there is nothing routine about this childthing of mine.::

This new routine involves dishing rice from the serving bowl on to to her plate, then transferring the just dished rice from the plate into a bowl that her mother had just fetched upon harsh demand.

The transference of the rice could not take place, however, without the getting up from the table to go to the kitchen to dig through the silverware drawer to search for the perfect rice transferring spoon, which is not at all the same as the perfect rice serving spoon or the perfect rice eating spoon.

My husband and I have long given up on the expectation of any semblance of dinnertime decorum. These days we mostly just keep our eyes downcast; a strategy that has significantly reduced the incidence of dinnertime conflict absurdities.


We were finally all three of us, sitting and eating. Eyes dog down. After about 30 blessed seconds of normal, The Cakers announces "I think I'm going to take off my bra."

With her parents staring in shocked silence, she pulls off her t-shirt to reveal that indeed, she is wearing a bra. A nice one too. Wacoal. 34-D.

One strap drops. Then the other.

And before you can Cross Your Heart and hope to die in the event of any similar events taking place any time in any or all of our respective futures, she spins the clasp to the front, unlatches and whips it off.

"That's better," she says, as she resumes her attack on the rice bowl, using the perfect rice eating spoon. Topless.

My husband then looks at me all accusing and shit, like WTF goes on here all day? And I shrug and make my face all I got the boobs so this is all my fault? Shut-up.

Trying my best to not think about the reality of my four-year old daughter walking her world all day* wearing my precious, premium bra under her soccer camp t-shirt, I say real calm, "You can't sit at the dinner table naked."

To which she quickly replied, in her snootiest I'm-four-years-old-and-just-took-off-a-$60-bra-at-the-dinner-table-and-that's-it-right-there-hanging-on-the-back-of-my-chair voice, "I'm not naked. I'm half naked."

After another non-verbal exchange of fear and amazement, but mostly fear, my husband and I returned to the safety of dog down eyes, and finished our dinner in silence. Meanwhile, the merely half-naked Cakers cleaned her plate and asked to be excused.

After she's gone, my husband says "I hope the kindergarten teacher is getting lots of rest over the summer..."

...Or she'll be doing lots of drinking over the next, I think to myself.

And Lawd, how I know that summertime feeling.

*In her mother's bra, she played at a neighbor's house for two hours, after which we went to the grocery store for some major shopping.
My husband said 'show me your boobs' and I had to pull up my skirt... so it was time to get them done!-Dolly Parton

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