Trick or treat!

We won’t be home for trick-or-treating this year, as always, but I still like to leave a bowl of candy out.  You all remember my Halloween candy sign from last year, I’m sure:


This year I decided to appeal to a larger religious base:


(I thought about being all cutesy and writing “Karma is a WITCH" but didn’t feel it conveyed the right message.)

Now if only I could figure out how to make a Karma Halloween costume…

Oh, thanks Bratz!  (You’re going to tell me it’s too bitchy, right?)

Talk techy to me, baby

Alternate title: I Hope my Parents Don’t Read my Blog

Here’s part of an IM between me and the hubs yesterday.  I don’t really know what kind of an introduction I could write for it, so you’re on your own.

hey.  how was your day?

good.  yours?

Good.  I’m setting my Secure Store credentials now

that sounds interesting
tell me more

The page had to JIT
It took longer than I wanted it too


It is done now
Now I’m refreshing my external data list


Data is back
Filtering it now


Should I filter at the BCS?

yes!  yes!  YES!


Oh yes!


Tell me I’m your base class baby!


That’s hot
I’m coming home

Bring a cigarette

Happy Sweet 16, Kevin!

QUICKIE: Vincenzo, jumping when the phone rang: “Mommy!  You woke up the phone!”
Hoo-ee, Kevin just got back from a five-day business trip to Vegas, and if anyone wants to know what I feel like after five days alone with the kids, try holding your breath for about 15 minutes.  How you feel afterwards is about how I feel now.  I told that to Kevin and he told me that’s how he’s felt every day since we’ve had two kids.  I told him he should stop holding his breath.

Kevin enjoyed his business trip, though.  He drunk dialed his four-year-old son twice during the week—once from a Huey Lewis concert, of all places.  Vincenzo thinks it’s funny Daddy was talking so loud [sic].

This week we’re celebrating Kevin’s birthday—his sixteenth, according to Vincenzo.  We gave him a toaster.  It was seriously the only thing he wanted. 

And so, in the spirit of toast, here’s a toast to you, my dear:

Hey baby–
what’s up hon?
Not just thirty–
Saw Huey Lewis
(and The News)
look like a monkey,
smell like one too
Vegas was crazy
Now you’re back
wickity wickity
wickity WHACK
Wickity whack
Wickity whack
This is a toast
It’s not a rap
So Happy Fashizzle
And that’s a wrap

(And because you’re probably confused now, I’ll remind you that I’m white.)

Skillet lasagna
Garlic bread
Chocolate peanut butter brownies

Kevin, B.M.: The Final Frontier

This is my last installment of Kevin B.M. because technically he wouldn’t be B.M. at this point—but I wanted to show that our relationship is more than just a series of one-liners and eye rolls.  (Those do make up a large part of it, though.) 

For our second date Kevin and I decided to hit up the science museum in Seattle.  We had lunch together then headed for the museum and had a fabulous time pretending to drive the fire truck, flipping plastic burgers at the plastic fast food restaurant, and helping Mr. Potato head find a hidden treasure.  In fact we had so much fun that it took us two hours to realize we were actually at the Children’s Museum, not the Science Center.

When we finally did make it to the Science Center, we took turns seeing how high we could jump at the jump reach station.  Unhappy with my first jump, I took off my jacket and tried again.  I knew I was starting to like Kevin when he then suggested I take off more clothes to see if I could jump even higher and it came across as funny rather than creepy.  And when I asked him about the Razor Ramon “Oozing Machismo” shirt I saw in the back of his car he said it was his lucky shirt that he put in the car just for tonight’s date, and it came across as charming, not immature.

A few dates later, in his apartment and surrounded by an extensive collection of WWE dolls, I kissed him.  Bruno Spears, it turns out, was just a Frog Prince in a singlet.

Somewhere in our third week together Kevin told me that I was The One for him.  He didn’t even flinch a couple weeks later when I told him I had fallen out of love with him; he simply took me to Denny’s and listened to me come up with reasons I didn’t like him anymore—one for every letter of the alphabet—and at the end, when I asked him what would happen if this was the end and we didn’t see each other again.  He said, “Then I would look back at this past month and know it was the best month of my life.”

So I fell in love with him again.

I know in this day and age we are supposed to be liberated women who have more to strive for than finding Prince Charming.  That we can be happy and fulfilled on our own, and that the happiness comes from within us rather than being given to us by a husband.  I completely believe that’s true.  But I also know that I have felt nothing but liberated since the day I knew I loved Kevin, and that happiness never felt like this before.

Anyone?  Buehler?  Anyone?

Kevin: B.M. Part Cuatro

If you’ve been slacking, here’s your chance to catch up:

Kevin: B.M. Part 1
Kevin: B.M. Part Deux
Kevin: B.M. Part Whatever Comes after Deux

That first date at JJJ was a study in awkwardidity (awkwardness of word intentional to enhance my point).  I have since forgotten all of the conversation except the part when Kevin told me that he worked for Microsoft, and while they hire a lot of smart people, he was the one dumb one they hired.  What a smooth talker–be still my beating heart!

Oh yeah, and he also “let it slip” that not only did he watch WWE but he actually wrestled professionally himself.  He was currently wrestling in Canada under the name Bruno Spears because he decided it wasn’t best practices to wrestle under his original name of Bull Gates in case his boss happened to catch wind of it.  (He seemed very proud of himself for having realized that all on his own.)  I think that’s when I told him I had to leave for a birthday party that I had *technically* already been to that morning.

As he walked me out, Kevin asked, “So did things go well enough that I can ask you to dinner?”  I didn’t answer but told him he could ask in two or three days, reminding him that he’d look desperate if he asked me right then.  I wasn’t that into him, but my dating policy at the time was as long as he’s calling and he’s paying, I’ll go.  Someone later pointed out that this is more or less the same business plan as prostitution, but I was a broke first-year teacher and, frankly, I needed to eat.

Three days later, Kevin called.  I said yes.

Thank God, thank God I did.

Mediterranean beef stew with figs over pasta
Homemade rolls
Salad with roasted onion and sweet potato
Warm pear tart with vanilla ice cream

Kevin B.M.: Part Whatever Comes After Deux

I believe I left you off eight years ago with a very disturbing first phone call between me and Deep Throat, a.k.a. Kevin.  And so the saga continues…

I am not a late person.  I have never been a late person.  (Well okay, so now that I have two kids I am usually a late person, but who asked you anyway?)  I was soooooo not looking forward to meeting this WWF-loving guy with “blue eyes and puffy hair” who I hoped had taken my advice and not worn the ugliest shirt in his closet, however, that I showed up to our first date nearly half an hour late.  I walked all throughout the JJJ cafe, making eye contact with anyone who glanced my way, and also looking for a guy who maybe hadn’t ordered a drink yet.  Nada.  I stationed a chair right in front of the door and sat down in it.  Still nada. 

Had Deep Throat already been and left?  Was he even later than I was?  Was he too intimidated by my blazing hotness to introduce himself to me?

At that point a guy wearing a baseball uniform walked by the cafe, noticed me, and came in with an “I want to hug you” look written all over his body.  “Michelle?  Michelle Popadopalus?!”* he asked.

Okay, now this happens quite often.  I am one of four girls, and though at the time one of us was a classy lawyer, one a ripped boxer, one a ridiculously sexy teacher, and one a pale goth, people always got us confused.  Or they just assumed we were one really well-rounded, buff, weird person.

Anyway, I went through the whole that’s-not-me-that’s-my-sister spiel and then Mr. Baseball explained that had gone to college with my sister.  He wrote his name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to me to give to my sister.

I know, I know.  This did not look good to Deep Throat, who actually was in the cafe and had by then figured out that I was Me, and he had just watched Me get the name and number of somebody who played a real and respected sport (as opposed to a fake one *coughWWFcough*).

I turned around.  A guy with blue eyes (and, I might add, an already finished drink) looked up at me and back down.  He looked up again and we both pointed at each other.

The heavens did not open up.  The birds did not sing.  No rainbows suddenly appeared.  But I swear I could hear the theme song of Seinfeld playing in my head…

Parmesan carrot risotto
Cheddar broccoli soup
Cinnamon roasted butternut squash

*Name has been changed to protect Michelle’s identity and to stir up nostalgic feelings about Webster.

Kevin: B.M. Part Deux

So one day during my first year teaching, an acquaintance brought me a business card of an eligible bachelor named Kevin whom she had met over the weekend.  I was in the middle of my most prolific dating streak ever—three guys whose names all started with J—but this new guy’s name started with a K.  As none of the Js were panning out I figured  it was time to move on with the alphabet.  I took the business card.

A couple weeks later I called Kevin up.  His voice was very deep, and that scared me.  (Most of my previous boyfriends had been soccer players, and for some reason soccer players just don’t have deep voices.)  During our first conversation Kevin mentioned that he loved the WWF and I asked, “Isn’t that the fake wrestling?”  With all the intensity of a kid defending Santa Claus, he said, “It’s not fake!  It’s REAL!”  My college education started yelling, “ABORT!  ABORT!” but my fascination with personality disorders and large-scale disasters kept me on the line.

Then Kevin said, “I’m not so good at this dating thing.  How’s it supposed to work?”  With all the patience of someone who worked with 30 ten-year-olds every day, I answered, “First you ask me to coffee because then we’re only committed to an hour with each other, and either of us can make an excuse to leave at any point.  All that will have been lost is the $1.90 for my Americano.  If you like me you wait two to three days to call me as to not appear desperate, and then you can ask me to dinner.  If I like you back I might say yes.  But I might not.” 

I then asked Kevin what he would wear so I could recognize him.  He said, “I know!  I have this shirt that is so ugly no one in his right mind would wear it.  How ‘bout I wear that and you’ll know who I am the minute you walk through the door?!”

Yeah…how ‘bout not.

But as I didn’t know any Kurts or Kareems or Karls, I resigned myself to meeting Kevin at the coffee house “JJJ”.  Because along with personality disorders and large-scale disasters, I also love irony.

Kevin B.M.

I’ve been blogging for a little over a year now and have pretty much told you everything you know about me, so welcome to a series I call “Kevin: Before MrsMouthy,” or “Kevin: B.M.” for short.

So back in high school Kevin ran for class president with the campaign slogan “His Ears Are Straight.”  His main opponent’s ears were, apparently, not straight.  While the other candidates made promises for improved cafeteria food and longer passing periods between classes, the only campaign promise Kevin made was to grow his hair out for a year.  By campaign speech time, he had already grown a bit of what would turn out to the the nappiest white guy fro’ ever in the history of white guys with fro’s.

At some point during the campaign Kevin was made to remove the “His Ears Are Straight” signs, and also the “Kevin: He’s Not Just Another Pretty Face” ones.

That brings us to the night before the election, when Kevin’s friends who worked at Mrs. Field’s Cookies “accidentally” baked a couple hundred extra cookies.  Being highly sensitive about not wasting food, they brought the cookies to school the next day and passed them out in front of the election boxes.  I believe they also mentioned Kevin’s mafia connection to everyone who took a cookie.

I am sorry to report that Kevin won the election.  I totally would have voted for the guy with the crooked ears over the white guy with a fro.

I should mention now that the same year, back in my own hometown, I lost an election to a guy who jumped into a swimming pool of blue jell-o for his campaign speech. 

I hated that guy.

kevin hs

Perfectly aged potato gnocchi with meat sauce
Perfectly aged glazed carrots
Perfectly aged salad

Someone get him a beret! He’s an artist!

When I picked Vincenzo up from preschool last week I made a big deal of his painting that was hanging up, as he has a huge aversion to art and couldn’t draw a smiley face if his turtle shell depended on it.  Then his teacher came up from behind and said, “You must be used to these beautiful paintings.  Vincenzo is so artistic!”

Dude, are there two Vincenzo’s in his class or something?  You’ve seen my son’s art at its finest:


I don’t know…maybe his teacher is right.  After all, he made this Frankenstein all by himself.  (That’s his “weapon” scaling up the left side of the page.)


And this cat (also shown here with its weapon)


A spyglass, unarmed but for an unfortunate deer and a hungry-looking T-Rex



An “X-Wing Fighter.”  (Awww, look!  I think it’s in love.)


Anyway, if I tell you Vincenzo is left-handed will you say, “Ohhhhhhh,” in a way that makes it sound like that explains a lot?  Because otherwise he seems way too much like the deranged neighbor kid from Toy Story…

Potato gnocchi with meat sauce
Glazed carrots
Salad with pear and goat cheese