Non-Sticky Tapes

14 06 2011

Of all the things that annoy me about Dora and Diego (believe me, I could write several posts on that topic alone), a really random one keeps cropping up: my boys have developed a propensity for the phrase “sticky tape.”

“Mom, I need some sticky tape!”

Every time I hear that, I mutter, “As opposed to the non-sticky tape?”

Yes, I’m aware there are different types of tape, but really, when kids are involved? It’s scotch or masking tape and they both stick.

Ahem.

Since we’re on the subject of tape, last week I was searching through my junk drawer for my Club Nouveau tape (long story) when I ran across several completely awesome objects of interest.

Item one:

Circa-1980s Cabbage Patch Kid Birth Certificate

Item two:

Circa-1988 Mix Tape List

Items three through fourteen:

Seriously y’all, I just don’t understand why I wasn’t more popular in Jr. High.

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Life + Service = Joy (Supposedly)

14 12 2010
I slept and dreamt that life was joy.
I awoke and saw that life was service.
I acted and behold, service was joy.
~ Rabindranath Tagore

Another in a string of difficult days. This day, however, had a catch—a friend from church had a baby last week, and I promised to take her dinner. So despite the fact that my deepest desire was to curl up in a ball and cry, I gathered up the necessary ingredients (I even made an extra trip to the store!) and went to work. Not a particularly difficult recipe—a low-fat spaghetti carbonara of sorts—but still! I planned in advance! I chopped! I cooked! I tempered eggs! For a woman who has difficulty getting out of bed, this is business of the calendar-marking sort.

I’d told her husband I’d have dinner there at 6:00. I packaged everything up and managed to get over there by 6:08. Epic! Honestly, people. Less than 10 minutes late, with a homemade meal. I wanted a fricking medal.

Except…the lights were off. No car in the driveway.

I knocked tenatively. I waited patiently. After all, there’s a new baby in the house. I don’t want to disturb anyone. But…I have food! Warm breadsticks! Spaghetti carbonara! I knocked again.

Nothing.

They weren’t home. I’d talked to the husband less than 24 hours earlier to arrange the time, and nobody was home.

I drove home, sure that as soon as I got there, I’d receive a frantic phone call: “We’re so sorry! We got stuck in traffic but we’re home now and we feel so terrible!

Nothing.

I walked in the house, told Car we apparently had extra leftovers, and started crying.

And that makes me angrier than anything else. Because I managed to suck it up and make a fabulous meal—enough for them and us—and now I’m such a wreck I can’t even enjoy my part of it. I can’t even bring myself to call them to find out what happened.

So being the mature adult I am, I collapsed in a heap of tears on my bed. Fortunately, I have a husband who gently nudged me toward the kitchen. I even managed to call the new parents.

Not helpful.

I understand people can be absent-minded, especially with a new baby on the scene. That said, let me offer a bit of advice: if you happen to discover you stood up a person who brought you a home-cooked meal, the words “I’m sorry” really do work wonders. Also, the absence of those words kind of convince me you’re an ass. Just something to think about.

I just need to keep telling myself…it’s about the service, right? The intent? The fact that I’m completely awesome? Having the boys eat the same thing for dinner as Car and me? So it can’t be all bad.

Right?