Monday, May 28, 2012

Memorial Day and A Column

The first picture returned after my search for "Memorial Day 1950s" ...umm, so that's that.
Happy Memorial Day Readers,

    I hope all of you have been up since the crack of dawn like I have ....you haven't? You got to sleep in? You're not even reading this because you don't have kids and probably won't hear your alarm until noon? First off, I hate you. Second, thank you for dreaming about visiting my blog. Third, today I have my latest humor column that ran on May 12th. For some reason, there wasn't a link created to it in the archives, so you're just going to have to trust me that this was in the paper.

....If not, I'll be happy to Xerox a copy, sign it and send it your way. But you have to pay postage because I'm a cheap, cheap woman who doesn't get paid to write the column and just ran out of bargain paper towels. So you can do the math there.

     I hope everyone has a wonderful Memorial Day, and besides remembering all the brave men and women who have and still are fighting for our country, please also remember that I'll be eating an entire bag of smoked cheese that's sitting in my refrigerator. 

Table for four, on pins and needles


Publication - The Olathe News; Date May 12, 2012; Section: Opinions; Page Number 10


For the good of the KC metro area, Husband and I rarely take the twins out to eat. 
It’s not because we don’t love them, but because, traditionally, herding them into a restaurant near you puts everyone at risk for crayon cave paintings on your Louis Vuitton and my daughter’s beautiful voice singing to everyone that she pooped. If that doesn’t ruin your lobster bisque, you’re at home eating Ramen where it’s safe.
“I think we should take them into that restaurant and get some lunch.” Husband motioned towards the California Pizza Kitchen and smiled.
I considered. “Do you want to take our kids or rent someone’s older, better looking ones? Perhaps some that already have their degree?”
“No, ours. I think they’ll be OK.”
“Oh, I see. You want to get them a cookie and let them sit out here until we’re done eating? I’m OK with that, but put them real close to the window so we can see if they’re getting ready to run back down to the toy store. They wanted that tiny piano pretty bad, and it’ll only take the two of them to smuggle it out.”
“I don’t think that’s funny.”
“Theft is never funny, dear.” 
Seeing he was determined, I hitched up my maternity pants, smoothed down my eyebrows, and helped get the twins into the restaurant and buckled into highchairs. Admittedly, it had been quite a while since we’d taken the kids out, and, as we waited quietly for our waiter, I realized that, perhaps, my children had matured somewhat. But that didn’t stop the interrogation when the waiter finally arrived.
“How are you folks today? Anything to drink?”
“Lemonade for the little ones.”
“We can do that.”
“Do you have small cups?”
“Yes.”
“How small? Smaller than a baby lemur fist or a little bigger than a Bing cherry?”
“Pretty small…with straws.”
“Are they sealed?”
“They have lids, yes.”
Making the international sign for Bic lighter, I flicked my thumb in the air. “That’s nice, but if there’s someone back there who could melt the rims and put them in the freezer to cool, that would be ideal, my good man.
“Umm.”
I positioned my belly under the table and stared into his soul. “I don’t mean to be picky, but this is serious business. The future of the carpet depends on the sealant of your cups. Do you have flood insurance?”
“What, ma’am?”
“Now, about this pizza. How big is the small?” My finger tapped the menu.
“Pretty small.”
“Does the sauce wash out of people’s hair pretty easily? And if the cheese were to say... ‘find its way onto those curtains over there’…would we be able to, oh, ‘Shout it out?’”
The waiter retreated to the kitchen as Husband squeezed my hand. “That went well.”
The rest of the meal actually went quite smoothly. As it turns out, the twins can now function passably in a restaurant, and our unborn child behaved the best by resting quietly underneath the table and only ordering what I ordered. Really, the only thing restaurants in the metro area have to fear is one neurotic mother. Another big thank you to California Pizza Kitchen for not kicking me out.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and mixing the perfect gin and tonic at www.paigekellerman.com. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com

Until Next Time, Readers!