Because Nothing Says Family Fun Like the Cops Surrounding the House

jailDinner time should really be that time of day when the family winds down and shares their day. You sit at the table, tell eachother how school/work/thepark went and calmly and quietly eat and talk.

I’d recommend it NOT be the time of day when an alarm blares loud enough to actually be painful to your ears and sheriff’s deputies, with guns drawn, surround your house and peer through your windows.

I can make this recommendation speaking from experience, because my 6-year old had 3 cops cars at our house the other night...the gangsta.

Raise your hand if you have a junk drawer in your kitchen…. uh huh…I know you do. We do too. In the back of that junk drawer is a little remote control with a panic button.

As my son searched for AAA batteries for his Robot, he found the remote and, being six, pressed the red panic button.

Not the green button. Not the blue one. Not even the yellow one. No…he went straight for the red “holy fuck we’re being attacked’ panic button.

I was upstairs putting away laundry and cleaning screwing around on the computer when I heard





and there was much gnashing of teeth and screaming and crying and chaos.

Flying downstairs thinking the rapture was upon us I found my son screaming “make it stop! make it stop! make it stop!”while my daughter had dive-bombed herself under a blanket.

As calmly as I could I asked my son to show me exactly how this ungodly noise started in our home, realized it was the house alarm, and went to press the code to, in fact,  make it stop.

It seems in the midst of the chaos the alarm company called, we failed to answer (not hearing the phone over the alarm and all) and they immediately called the police.

So while I sat the kids down and had a nice discussion with them about NOT TOUCHING shit they aren’t supposed to touch, my brother exclaims “the cops are here…they have guns…I need my ID…”

I look out my front window to see a very nice sheriff’s deputy, gun drawn, at my front window.

Um…holy shit?

This news prompts the 6-year old to panic and cry, and me to sooth him with “don’t worry you’re not in trouble, the police just want to make sure we’re safe’ tones as I open the door and apologize to the …6 (?) uniformed deputies and plain clothed detectives out front.

Yes, I am fairly certain my son will never push another button again for as long as he lives.

Yes, I am really glad the cops showed up so quickly and were not hauling us all off to jail for screwing up.

Yes, I will- if this ever happens again- try and contact my alarm company a bit faster.

Yes, I cost my city tax payer dollars because I have a messy junk drawer.

and yes, even our quiet dinner times here are never, ever, dull.

No wonder the neighbors love us so much.

A HILL-uva lot of Guilt

Senator Barak Obama was 35 miles from me this week and I got myself a ticket and tried to get there.

Didn’t happen. The rally occurred Queen-less, while I stayed home with two sick children, but I would have liked to have gone and held a sign and showed my support for the senator from Illinois.

That left me feeling guilty. The guilt has been creeping up on me slowly since the smooth talking Obama entered the race and now it’s weighing right on top of my glass-ceiling breaking head.

Have I betrayed my fellow women by supporting Obama? Should I be rallying behind Hillary??? Is this lifelong feminist throwing away the first, legitimate chance at seeing a FEMALE in the white house???

Given the gravity of what is going on the world today, this may seem like a silly and frivolous thought on my part. Just vote for the best candidate, and the hell with everything else. That’s easy to say, but hard to do when you’ve dreamed your entire life of seeing your gender as the leader of the free world.

I not so secretly hope Senator Obama loses the nomination, Senator Clinton wins, and then I can feel as though I supported my beliefs and realized a dream through Hillary.

What a terrible thought, but I am trying to be brutally honest.

Maybe I should just get on the Edwards bandwagon and pretend I’m not affected by dreams of a first African-American or female President. Maybe I should just, once again, find a nice, white, safe male to support.


No. No. I think my best course of action is Clinton/Obama ’08.

A girl can dream, can’t she???

Crossposted at the Huffington Post



I love California. It means sunshine, hippies,

and fresh seafood.

…and by fresh, I mean Houseboy handed me a box of blinking, pinching, wiggling crabs yesterday. For dinner. For me, to kill. For dinner.

I had to kill dinner.

Is this suddenly 1802? Why am I killing the night’s meal?

I like my dinners prepackaged and eye-less. I really like them when they don’t move. But the whole looking at me AND moving thing made me uncomfortable enough to consider pizza.

But, being the carnivore that I am, I knew what had to be done. The crabs had to die.

I had hid them from the children so they didn’t end up named. 6lbs of crab is easier to kill than Pinchy, Reddy, and Pinchy 2.

I should probably take the time to tell you that fresh crab is perhaps my most favorite food on earth. I actually moan when I eat crab. The Kaiser will skillfully crack large portions, hand them to me and say “…because I love you so much.” The man gives ME his big pieces. That is love, people.

I understand they are animals. I understand they are dead animals. But I, personally, have never had to kill anything. And it actually crossed my mind as I took the crabs out of the box and into the pot that this might taint my crab eating. I might actually NOT be able to bring myself to eat them after steaming in beer and spices.

I made sure they were asleep (short time in the freezer to get them all coma-like, thank you Alton Brown) before ending their lives. I made sure it was quick and painless. But I watched that pot for a good 5 minutes feeling pretty damn guilty I had just murdered the creatures inside.

…then my husband handed me a big piece of claw…

Crisis over. I killed dinner, and liked it.

But Karma is a bitch and I do have a nice crab-inflicted gash on my left thumb. My penance. I can live with that. And my new found feeling of being Queen of the animal kingdom. I am Queen of Spain. I will murder and EAT you, lowly being. I am QUEEN!

I’m going back to the kitchen to eat my veggie burrito now.