"How long am I supposed to nuke that tamale for?"

Please ignore the poor grammar as I did not write the above sentence. It was sent via Instant Messenger, which means I should not be a judgmental hypocrite.

****

Many of you know I am obsessed with food, eating, and meal planning. So it should come as no surprise that today I was fretting about not having enough food. My options were frozen tamales or beans; we had the beans for dinner last night and I'm sick of them already, so I chose a frozen tamale from Costco!

While reading the microwave instructions for the tamales, I noted it suggested to wrap the tamale in a damp paper towel and then place it inside a plastic bag.

I swallowed hard, pushing that bit of irrational(?) cancer fear deep into my belly so it can coexist with my tamale. I'm not sure if the release of Dioxin is harmful, but today it gave me pause.

I paused so long I forgot to read how long I should microwave my lunch.

Shameless Plug

Pandora is the best innovation in music technology in a very long time.

Become a member. It's cheap.

I'm in love.

If you want to see what I'm listening to, add me as your friend: nylecoj@knownick.net

Is a parking lot age appropriate?

It's not like it happens daily. I certainly don't just open the front door and let my thirteen month daughter run amok. I mean, sure, once in a while when she's been bad I let her run unsupervised near the busy street, but more often than not I am there vigilantly watching as I trudge along, hands in my pockets.

The lady driving the tan Chevy Tahoe certainly didn't approve of my parenting style, what with trying to read the mail and watch Sofie at the same time. And maybe, in reading this post you might think I'm a little lax, especially since my daughter is currently filling our garbage can with water, but hey, those are YOUR standards you're projecting.

Besides, if your kid only napped for twenty minutes today, you might feel differently.

Dear Co-worker who thinks Global Warming is a charade,

For starters, it's not. And no, not all garbage goes to the same place. It's not like your Dr. Pepper can flies away when it dies and floats up to garbage heaven to be reincarnated as a plastic take-out container. Garbage sits in, around, and on our planet slowly decomposing and off-gasing.

Your effort to kill my recycling plan at work is futile; all it does is infuriate me which is not wise on your behalf since our bosses like me better anyway. If you continue to thwart my plan to obey Jack Johnson and reduce, re-use, and recycle, I will have to get you fired. Seriously. If I ever have to pick out your disgusting orange peel from our recycling bin because YOU ARE TOO LAZY to put it in the garbage that is located THIRTEEN VERY FAR INCHES AWAY, I will make it my personal goal to see that you suffer the same miserable fate of the polar bears and any other species that becomes extinct because of STUPID, LAZY, FAT people like yourself.

Yes, I know you aren't fat, YET. Keep it up.

Warmest Regards,

Your co-worker, aka

- A UCSC Alumni who has since become a titty feeding co-sleeping tree-hugging hippy-nazi

P.S. Anyone Jewish who is reading this, don't be offended by the Nazi thing. Some girl labeled me a titty-feeding nazi and since it's basically the truth, it stuck.

Sofie vs. Stock

A reader just sent me a comment and stated he wouldn't trade his child for Google prime stock. I admire him, but I wonder if I feel the same way about Sofia?

I mean, of course, I'd like to *say* I wouldn't trade her, but on the days I want to donate her to the SPCA on the grounds that she's an ill behaved hairless pug, I'm not sure I'd have the willpower.

Hopefully the day I am approached to make a trade for 700 shares of Apple, Google, or other enticing stock options, it will be after a night of sleep so my good judgment will prevent me from saying yes.

With a steady hand and an empty bladder

Nick and I played hooky from work on Tuesday to get in some turns at Sugarbowl. It was exciting, being alone and in the car with my husband, driving toward the snow. That is until I-80 stopped for an hour less than 10 miles from the resort because some idiot decided to drive recklessly in a snow storm and drive off the road.

We waited, watching the white downpour of bliss fall all around us. We waited while the big rigs and 17 Wal*Mart trucks chained up to head over the pass. We waited, listening to NPR discuss polls and the electability of Barack Obama. We waited, making jokes about anything and everything at all, trying to silence the voice inside both of us that said, "SKI NOW! IT IS SNOWING! SKIIIII NOOOOW!"

We waited until our grande lattes had converted to urine and were making it difficult to sit comfortably. Nick vowed he would wait to pee with me, knowing that I was not eager to cop a squat in a snow storm while four lanes of traffic and half of Wal*Mart's distribition line watched.

Three minutes later he hopped outside claiming the pain of his bladder was unbearable and solidarity is for suckers.

He peed so long he melted four inches of snow all the way down to the pavement. Then, as I punched his arm and wailed about my own soon-to-be-bursting bladder, he told me if I peed in my Starbucks water cup, he would dump it in the snow outside.

I decided I could do this. I had cup training throughout my pregnancy, so I'm pretty good at it now. Right as I'm getting started Nick says, "I hope you don't have to pee more than 16oz," which made me scoff, because who can do that anyhow?

I filled up that cup, TWICE, and true to his word, Nick took the cup and dumped it in the snow, trying not to laugh for fear of soiling his clothing.