Evangeline...

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    Thursday, February 24, 2011

    Flirting 101 for Zombies and Married People

    When it comes to flirting, Chunky is the only member of our family who’s got game. He had his first girlfriend in preschool and met his current main squeeze in kindergarten.

    Monkey, on the other hand, calls girls “g-words” and spends inordinate amounts of time plotting their destruction with his schoolyard buddies. That’s why we were a little surprised recently when he asked our waitress if she got a lunch break.

    I did a double take. Was that my nine-year-old?

    The waitress laughed and explained the concept of a shift to Monkey. His eyes glazed over and soon he began studying the table top.

    Kory beamed. “That’s my little future engineer! Throw a pick up line at the pretty girl then avert your gaze.”

    That’s pretty much how it’s done folks. My favorite engineer joke goes something like this:

    “How can you spot an extroverted engineer?”

    “How?”

    “He looks at your feet while you’re talking instead of his own.”

    I’m not much better at the art of flirtation. I never got beyond the often misinterpreted meaningful stare.

    “Excuse me, miss. Are you okay? Miss? How many fingers am I holding up?”

    Yeah, I got skillz.

    I’m just as clueless at 32 as I was at 16.

    The other day I was at the grocery store with my boys. I happened upon a large blond man in the frozen fish section. His size and the fact that he was wearing shorts in February caught my attention. Then I noticed a tiny dog in the crook of his arm. I felt I should share this spectacle with someone. So, under the guise of showing my boys the cute puppy, I called attention to Surfer Dude with Poodle.

    Chunky informed our new friend that he better not let the police catch him with a dog in King Soopers. Surfer Dude—who had an Australian accent to go with his highlights—sheepishly admitted that he never suspected it was against store policy.

    It didn’t occur to me until I was unloading the groceries at home that Surfer Dude with Poodle was trolling for chicks. Oops! There I was wasting his valuable time. I should have directed him to the produce section where all the Pilates Bodies go for their daily celery stick.

    Which brings me to a very serious subject.

    You know that expression—I may be married, but I’m not dead? Well, it worries me a bit. I seem to be both married and dead—a predicament that naturally reminds me of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

    If you haven’t read the book, I’m not spoiling anything by telling you that Charlotte Lucas is tragically bitten and becomes a zombie. No one, not even her husband, Mr. Collins, seems to notice the change until Elizabeth Bennet, zombie ninja extraordinaire, comes along.

    You can see the parallels can’t you?

    So how do I break it to my husband gently that his wife is a zombie? Since I haven’t started losing appendages yet and am satisfying this strange new hunger with large amounts of cauliflower, the only thing I can come up with is this.

    Anyone else have any suggestions?

    Thursday, February 10, 2011

    My Cheesy Valentine

    Valentine’s Day approacheth. I thought I’d blog about something I love in honor of the holiday. No, no. I’ll not be gushing about my husband. He already knows I love him. I tell him every time I buy a pair of boots.

    Instead I thought I’d express my devotion for a certain something I’ve been missing lately. You see, I’ve gone four whole weeks without eating CHEESE.

    I’m pretty sure this is some kind of experiment in sociopathic behavior brought on by food deprivation. I keep expecting to see guys in white coats shadowing me and documenting my every outburst.

    But the torture is almost over. Soon I will be reunited with the object of my affection. As you can see, I’ve made a few preparations for the big day.



    I even wrote a poem.

    Cheese, I love you.
    Cheese, I do.
    I bought a special pill.
    So you won’t go right through.

    Cheese, it seems an eternity,
    That we have been apart.
    My meals are sad without you.
    Holes of Swiss gape in my heart. (Yeah, I wanted to rhyme something else with “apart,” but my mom reads this blog.)

    Oh, Cheese, how I have wished
    That you would come to stay.
    My love, the wait is almost over.
    I’ll devour you on Saturday.

    Good enough for a Hallmark card, don’t you think?

    One of the things I’m excited to make with all my glorious cheese, is a low-carb chocolate almond cheesecake. Let me know if you’d like the recipe and I’ll gladly share it in the comments or by email.

    If anyone out there has a good cheese soup recipe, I’d love to have it. I’ve had trouble finding a good one. I think the next recipe I’ll be trying is Cheesy Chipotle Soup. I sure hope my trusty enzymes and probiotics are ready for that one.

    In case you’re wondering, I’m not lactose intolerant. Apparently, I am “lactose challenged.” I wonder if I can get one of those magnetic ribbons to go on my car so I can raise awareness for the cause. Should I organize a walkathon? Maybe I should go to counseling to learn how to deal with my disability. Or, I could just take my little pill and stop blogging about my indigestion.

    Tuesday, February 1, 2011

    My Eyes! My Eyes!

    February is here! I made green cookies today to celebrate.

    What’s that?

    Green is for March?

    Dang it! I knew something wasn’t right.

    Actually, we’re stuck inside because the temperature is -10. They cancelled school, but I had no intention of taking my kids anyway. As a family, we’re quite dedicated to our one shared hobby, Asthma. Our lungs have been known to seize up if we leave the freezer door open too long.

    The weather guys were saying this would be a big storm, so Kory spent last night on a co-worker's couch. Let me just insert here that I am extremely high maintenance in my need to have my hubby near. I knew at a very early age that I could never be a military wife because functioning alone for months on end was just not acceptable. My inability to make chicken and play the piano ruled out pastor’s wife. And my love of shoes and dislike for the out-of-doors ruled out farmer’s wife.

    Anyhoo, last night I was on my own. I’m not going to lie to you. It was tough.

    My first precaution against accidental death from lack of spouse was to don fleece pajamas. Without hubby to keep me warm I knew I better go one step up from my normal head-to-toe flannel.

    Next I settled in to check out a program I’ve been meaning to watch for research. The novel I’m working on is set in Yorkshire, so I figured All Creatures Great and Small would show me a little of the countryside. It showed me a lot more than that.

    People, do you know about this show? Have you seen it?! Oh, my gosh! I had to cover my eyes. How could something made the year I was born be so graphic?

    Admittedly, I had to admire actor Christopher Timothy’s dedication to the craft. I think if we asked Matthew Fox to stick his hand you-know-where on a cow, he’d sue or something. I don’t see how they could have faked some of the more bovine intrusive scenes.

    Ick!

    Did I mention I wasn’t cut out to be a farmer’s wife?

    Thankfully, the show couples shots of Yorkshire scenery with some lilting instrumentals, so I knew it was safe to peek when I heard the happy music.

    Unfortunately, I wasn’t so successful at understanding all the dialect. I don’t think I had the option of using Closed Captioning with streaming Netflix, and I’m pretty sure it couldn’t keep up with the dialogue anyway. It’d probably look something like this.

    “Mawt goon t’orth fer shoot tha lug soet ma summat doon.”

    Which, roughly translated, means, “My cow is sick and I hope you brought full hazmat gear.”

    In case you’re wondering, there are animals in my book, but they’re all in excellent health. If any of them get sick, well, they’ll just have to die. I’m too traumatized to introduce a vet.

    I’m so glad my husband will be home tonight to keep me from watching British horror shows from the 70s.

    Here's something I bet you've never seen. Don't worry, you won't have to cover your eyes.

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