Menu plan Monday first!
Monday: Chicken teriyaki, rice, jello with fruit.
Tuesday: some form of Risotto
Wednesday: baked potatoes with cheddar and bacon, steamed green beans
Thursday: breakfast supper: Challah bread french toast with cinnamon, ham steak, fruit
Friday: meatloaf, garlic new potatoes, peas
For more menu ideas- see Laura at orgjunkie.com.
We are a strange little family.
We know this,
and we take a certain amount of perverse pride in it.
We are wacky, goofy and silly.
We believe in fun, crazy games
and nonsensical songs and lyrics.
And lots and lots of tickling,
goosing and noogeying.
So, knowing those things about us,
the following tale will not be surprising...
Last night, we are sitting around the dinner table.
Rob had come in complaining of a headache.
He had been at a farewell party for an associate at his office,
had a beer there
and apparently developed a headache,
presumably from the lone beer.
So, the kids (and I) start making noise
and he grimaces, motioning to his head.
I tell the kids, "Yeah, daddy has a headache."
He told them that he had been to a party
and had had a beer.
I pipe up, from the other end of the table:
The kids look at their father, aghast.
"No, ONE beer," he tells them,
frowning down the table at me.
"8 BEERS!" I proclaim, louder.
Each time he tries to talk,
I pipe up.
Then, I stand up and act it out,
Swill, swill, swill.
The kids are delighted.
They look to their father.
"I have a tear, in my beer.." he begins.
"8 TEARS!" I shout.
I sniffle and snort and wipe my eyes
ONE TEAR! TWO TEARS! THREE TEARS!
The kids eagerly jump into the drama around the table,
mimicking the crying of the tears with great sobs and sniffles.
A competition ensues between Rob and I..
who can be the winner of this rhyming/acting game?
The kids keep up with the acting,
their heads swiveling as though at a tennis game,
as one by one, the new words fly:
8 Dears! (hugging motion)
8 Steers! (bull motion, complete with sound effects)
8 Peers! (complete with faux binoculars)
8 FEARS! (Agh! Agh! Agh!.)
Soon, the stakes are higher
as the obvious words begin to run out.
We begin to stretch,
not wanting to be the loser.
8 SCHMEARS! (enacting the cream cheese shmear on a bagel)
Finally, Rob gets the deciding last word,
which dissolved me into laughter...
8 QUEERS! He shouted, pumping his fist in victory,
before beginning the soft wristed ONE! TWO!
I quickly diverted it to 'queer-strange' and pointed to each of us,
then the dog...
I went to bed, hanging my head in defeat.
This morning, around 9, the phone rings..
It is my husband.
Not content with his victory, apparently,
because when I answered the phone,
all I heard was:
Good one, hon.
But guess what...