A short one today:
I made the boys some fish filets for dinner the other day.
"Is this the fish's guts?" Stewart asked.
"It's a fish and it's delicious," I said, immediately getting defensive, as Stewart is an extremely picky eater and I didn't like where this was headed.
"Yes, but are these the GUTS?" he insisted.
"Yes, I suppose so. But they're good," I replied grumpily.
To my surprise, he was THRILLED. "WHOA! Cool! We get to eat the fish's GUTS!!!" he exclaimed.
I must've had a weird expression on my face, because Owen explained helpfully; "He always wanted to eat the guts out of something."
He has been a little obsessed with "guts" every since we read "Runaway Ralph" and the children sing the song about "greasy, grimy gopher guts." But I had no idea we were dealing with a lifetime ambition, here.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Kyle Robert
Two hilarious Kyle stories:
Kyle swears there's a Room of Requirement, a la Harry Potter, in the Cardinal Hotel (this second-rate establishment he stays at whenever he goes to Palo Alto due to its proximity to Ning headquarters).
When I asked him what that meant, he said it's a room with a mini-fridge and microwave, which none of the other rooms have.
"So why don't you look at the room number and request that one?" I asked.
"I can't. It moves. You never know when you're going to get it. Sometimes it's at one end of the hotel, sometimes at the other. And then when I go back to the same room, it's gone."
I am skeptical at this point, knowing that Kyle's sense of direction isn't exactly accurate. This is, after all, the man who was willing to bet his LIFE that UCLA was west of the 405 (not that he phrased it that way b/c he doesn't usually know which way is east or west- it was more like "I swear it's that way!").
"Well, why don't you look at the room number next time if you like having a fridge," I suggested.
But even as I was saying these words, they sounded wrong to me. Kyle is not a fan of leftovers, even at home, let alone when he is staying in a hotel. I'm cheap and would totally bag my food and 'fridge it. But I knew, without the slightest doubt, that Kyle would NEVER use a fridge or microwave at any hotel, ever. But I asked anyway. "Do you even USE the fridge or microwave?"
"No. But it just puts a little spring into my step, knowing it's there."
Amazing. Kyle Ford, ladies and gentlemen.
The next story is about a candy bag that Kyle swears gained sentience.
After Halloween last year, I let the kids pick out their favorite candies to eat and then put all the rest into a large paper gift bag to dispense on special occasions or to give away.
I never did give away any of that candy because Kyle ate most of it.
Every night, he'd sit down, and shake the bag, then paw around in it, looking for his favorites.
Things went well for about a week- he happily ate all the Snickers, Baby Ruths and Butterfingers.
But by week 2, things were getting bleaker. He had to dig a little harder and a little longer to get to worthwhile treats- the candy that floated to the surface always seemed second-rate- you know, little hard candies, plain caramels, dime-store lollipops, Tootsie rolls of various disgusting non-chocolate flavors- just general second-raters.
His forays into the bag began to last longer and be more frustrating.
"There's nothing but crap in this bag," he'd say frequently, and then dive back into it, scratching and scrambling like a raccoon.
He'd surface several minutes later with a tube of mini M&M's, or a Reese's peanut butter cup and be all pleased with himself. "I swear, this wasn't there before!" he'd say, with wonder and glee.
Finally, it got to the point where he began to flat out state that the bag was "giving" him things. "Let's see what the bag will give me tonight," he'd say, getting it down from its place atop the fridge.
"It's not giving you anything," I'd say. "Dump it out and take what you want and throw the rest away."
"I've done that before and there's nothing good in there. But when I put everything back in, something always appears. Like, last night I dug through this entire bag looking for these," he said, holding up a mini-Snickers. "Weren't there. But tonight, here they are! It depends on its mood. You never know what you'll get."
And the really crazy thing is... he was kind of RIGHT. Like, one night I dumped out the entire bag and ate all the Laffy Taffys out of it. Or so I thought. But it seemed like every time I peered into the bag, for weeks afterward, there would be one or two hovering about. Never enough to satisfy, of course, but enough to keep me peering into the bag, as if it were a crystal ball offering me a tantalizing glimpse of future riches.
I know Kyle felt the same way because one night, near the end of the bag's lifetime, Kyle exclaimed in frustration- "This bag will NEVER give me what I want! Like, say I want just three tootsie rolls. It will give me two. But never three. And if I go back tomorrow the third will be there!"
I wish I could say the bag met a glamorous end- but the sad truth is that we ate every piece of candy in there except the broken lollipops, at which point I finally tossed the mystical bag into the trash.
Kyle swears there's a Room of Requirement, a la Harry Potter, in the Cardinal Hotel (this second-rate establishment he stays at whenever he goes to Palo Alto due to its proximity to Ning headquarters).
When I asked him what that meant, he said it's a room with a mini-fridge and microwave, which none of the other rooms have.
"So why don't you look at the room number and request that one?" I asked.
"I can't. It moves. You never know when you're going to get it. Sometimes it's at one end of the hotel, sometimes at the other. And then when I go back to the same room, it's gone."
I am skeptical at this point, knowing that Kyle's sense of direction isn't exactly accurate. This is, after all, the man who was willing to bet his LIFE that UCLA was west of the 405 (not that he phrased it that way b/c he doesn't usually know which way is east or west- it was more like "I swear it's that way!").
"Well, why don't you look at the room number next time if you like having a fridge," I suggested.
But even as I was saying these words, they sounded wrong to me. Kyle is not a fan of leftovers, even at home, let alone when he is staying in a hotel. I'm cheap and would totally bag my food and 'fridge it. But I knew, without the slightest doubt, that Kyle would NEVER use a fridge or microwave at any hotel, ever. But I asked anyway. "Do you even USE the fridge or microwave?"
"No. But it just puts a little spring into my step, knowing it's there."
Amazing. Kyle Ford, ladies and gentlemen.
The next story is about a candy bag that Kyle swears gained sentience.
After Halloween last year, I let the kids pick out their favorite candies to eat and then put all the rest into a large paper gift bag to dispense on special occasions or to give away.
I never did give away any of that candy because Kyle ate most of it.
Every night, he'd sit down, and shake the bag, then paw around in it, looking for his favorites.
Things went well for about a week- he happily ate all the Snickers, Baby Ruths and Butterfingers.
But by week 2, things were getting bleaker. He had to dig a little harder and a little longer to get to worthwhile treats- the candy that floated to the surface always seemed second-rate- you know, little hard candies, plain caramels, dime-store lollipops, Tootsie rolls of various disgusting non-chocolate flavors- just general second-raters.
His forays into the bag began to last longer and be more frustrating.
"There's nothing but crap in this bag," he'd say frequently, and then dive back into it, scratching and scrambling like a raccoon.
He'd surface several minutes later with a tube of mini M&M's, or a Reese's peanut butter cup and be all pleased with himself. "I swear, this wasn't there before!" he'd say, with wonder and glee.
Finally, it got to the point where he began to flat out state that the bag was "giving" him things. "Let's see what the bag will give me tonight," he'd say, getting it down from its place atop the fridge.
"It's not giving you anything," I'd say. "Dump it out and take what you want and throw the rest away."
"I've done that before and there's nothing good in there. But when I put everything back in, something always appears. Like, last night I dug through this entire bag looking for these," he said, holding up a mini-Snickers. "Weren't there. But tonight, here they are! It depends on its mood. You never know what you'll get."
And the really crazy thing is... he was kind of RIGHT. Like, one night I dumped out the entire bag and ate all the Laffy Taffys out of it. Or so I thought. But it seemed like every time I peered into the bag, for weeks afterward, there would be one or two hovering about. Never enough to satisfy, of course, but enough to keep me peering into the bag, as if it were a crystal ball offering me a tantalizing glimpse of future riches.
I know Kyle felt the same way because one night, near the end of the bag's lifetime, Kyle exclaimed in frustration- "This bag will NEVER give me what I want! Like, say I want just three tootsie rolls. It will give me two. But never three. And if I go back tomorrow the third will be there!"
I wish I could say the bag met a glamorous end- but the sad truth is that we ate every piece of candy in there except the broken lollipops, at which point I finally tossed the mystical bag into the trash.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)