Those Dirty Kids You See

Every human does this. You see dirty kids and think raised by wolves, no doubt about it.

You see them at the grocery store. The ones whose faces have concentric circles  of everything they have eaten for the past eight hours radiating outward from their mouths.

You can tell where they have been simply by what is stuck to them. That little boy has been to the mall: he has Build-A-Bear entrails stuck to his back with Cinnabon residue. That little girl has been to the park. There is a live squirrel congealed in pine sap in her hair.

But before your unzip your judgy-judger nuts, hear me out.

Babies slither into the world in a slick of unspeakable gut goo. (Heck, they were FORGED in the midst of substantial stickiness as well, if you were doing it right. If not, I can give you some pointers. Just ask. I'm not shy.) They spend the next five to seven years in an ongoing effort to MAINTAIN that level of grottiness 24-7.

Mine are without question a small herd of the children we are referring to. The raised by wolves types.

"No, Rebecca," you say. "I have seen your children, they seem mostly cleanish."

Well. The only reason this is ever the case is because the twenty-five minutes before I leave the house to go Anywhere in the Continental United States and All Points West (or East for that matter) are spent in the following manner:

• Head-to-toe wardrobe change
• Aggressive, borderline painful washcloth scrubbing of face, hands, what ever else is really offensive at the moment. Usually Buttcrack.
• Non-consensual teeth-brushing
• Clawing at ever-present dreadlocks, collecting riotously-curly blonde hair into elastic hair-containment inventions
• Various threats

This is the only reason my children appear to be clean. Because they are dreadful. They Live to Smear Themselves in All Things Vile.

They are the moist candy stick and the world is their disgusting packet of fun dip.

At the grocery, they will relieve the sample lady of all of her organic maple syrup samples, drizzle themselves sensuously, then barrel-roll majestically down the cat litter aisle while Queen's We Are the Champions plays in the background. (I don't know why.) 

When I arrive at some sort of event with my children, I resist the urge to seize the nearest person and force him or her to look at my children, notice that they are cleanish, and then acknowledge it verbally. And possibly photo-document and/or sign a written statement in the presence of a notary.

Because it ain't gonna last, that shit ain't gonna last.

In fact, I would give them around 45 seconds until...the crash and splatter of some rare vintage...the yowl of a marmot in distress...whatever sound a no-bake cookie makes when hitting a vaulted ceiling...and all is undone.

Listen. I'm not saying I am the best parent in the universe. Necessarily. All I'm saying is that whoever is, their children would shellac themselves in armadillo feces given half a chance, the same as everyone else.

The next time you see those dirty dirty children, do the right thing. Don a medical-grade disposable glove and gingerly pat the sticky child on the head. Then give a hundred dollar bill and a bottle of tequila to each of the parents, just because they tried.

Thank you and goodnight.

Damnit: A Minivan

I may have talked a lot of shit.

Over the years.

I am…whatever the term is for bigoted against people who drive minivans. I subscribe to the stereotypes about minivan owners. I will NOT try to get to know you, to find out how you tick, what your likes and dislikes are. Because in my head, I already know.

• You think Applebees is a good restaurant
• You have a lot of beige in your closet
• There is at least one ribbon-wrapped abomination of eucalyptus twigs and tiny straw hats on your wall (and the eucalyptus isn’t even real, you douche)
• There is at least one Nicholas Sparks novel on your bookshelf (I don’t care what gender you are)

I don’t care at all if you own a minivan and none of these things are true about you. That is the beauty of stereotypes. They save SO MUCH TIME.

I can see inside your skull. I know things about you that you don’t even know.

At some point you ceremoniously removed whatever sexy body parts you had left after you gave birth to the wretched spawn that led you down this dark path to begin with. You put these sexy body parts into a shoe box, alongside your lust for life, your Constitutional Right to see live music, and your ability to talk to persons under 19 without ANNOYING THE SHIT OUT OF THEM.

There it goes, all of that, into the shoebox.

Then you handed that shoebox to your children. They immediately dumped it out in the backyard because the box was perfect for their dead spider collection. Then a squirrel found the pile of your old cool sexiness and ate it.

That’s what you get. I have no sympathy. You did this to yourself.

But the point is, I always said that I would never own a minivan. Swore, really. Ranted, raved. Eyes bulged out. Fists pounded tables. Cocktail glasses were hoisted (for emphasis). Crossbows were loaded and fired recklessly into the air. Again, for emphasis. I postulated. I used all two of the German words that I know. I was like: nope, never, bitches.

Where does your deep bigotry against minivans come from, Rebecca, you amusingly warped individual? Well, like every tale of emotional distress, it begins in middle school.

This may shock you, dear readers, but I was (am?) Terminally Dweeby. So, after a long, stimulating day of being unable to look anyone in the eye, I had the daily joy of watching my mother careen up to the curb to pick me up in a boxy, electric blue Chevrolet Astro Minivan. In the days when my internal monologue read like a Judy Bloom novel, this wasn’t the touch of death, this was the sloppy, graphic, open-mouth FRENCH KISS OF DEATH. You know, like the sloppy, open-mouth French kiss THAT I WOULD NEVER GET in the coat room at the middle school dance that I would NEVER GET ASKED TO because who wants to date a girl whose mom drives an electric blue Chevrolet Astro Minivan?

No one, that’s who.

Anyway, I think you can tell where this little story is headed.

For some reason, my children seem to be thriving. They are getting bigger and bigger and it’s pretty annoying. They are at that irritating stage where they all need giant, clunky, complicated child safety seats.  ALL OF THEM.  They take up so much stupid space.

So me, here, right here right now, I am in a sort of Bermuda triangle of my current financial limitations, my need to keep my kids safe, and karma from all of the terrible things I have done. So many terrible things.

 So I did it. I effing did it. I drank the Kool-aid. I am One Of You Now.

And, to be honest, it isn’t that bad. It has a lot of space for shenanigans. I could safely fit TWO ADDITIONAL humans into that automobile. Think of the mayhem seven people could incite. WILL INCITE.

Then there is the trunk space. Pounds of packing peanuts. Dozens of goat costumes. Probably three beehives. So. Many. Shenanigans.

I guess the point is, I have come to terms with it. I’m not going to join the International Mini-Van Owners Fan Club, but I will also only shudder a little when I walk into a parking lot and spot my new ride.

I think I’ll call it The Adventurepod.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, that sexy squirrel over there has something that belongs to me.

Dinner and a Movie

Life is a labor-intensive, expensive son-of-a-bitch.

It only follows, then, that when one manages to acquire that sparkly sliver of time that all the cool kids are calling a night out, it had better be approximately as delightful as accidentally wandering naked into a fluffer convention.

Having said that: no waitress deserves, when innocently asking what she can bring you tonight, to have the female customer sink her nails into her forearm and hiss, "My carefree youth, please." Then have to watch as she tosses back a flight of regional micro-brews like a frat boy with some Jagermeister. And laughs manically into the delicately-breaded, long-stemmed artichokes.

No one deserves that.


So. Bareburger, Columbus location. We walk in in the middle of a Weezer song, and are greeted (seemingly sincerely) by a well-dressed, patchouli-scented hostess. These are all good things. Clientele are groups of friends, a few families, a few couples-all seem happy to be there. The decor is quite eclectic. The lighting fixtures salvaged/vintage-looking wood and silverware, with old-fashiony incandescent bulbs. There is thick rope wrapped around a pillar and some of the visible ducting near the ceiling. The booths could have been from an elegant hotel lobby. There are some cool bear head sculptures on the walls.

Our (also patchouli-scented) waitress is interesting and friendly, and patient with my incessant questions. She laughs out loud when I order the Fig & Pig cocktail with the pig on the side (bacon garnish, happily taken care of by carnivorous husband). He orders a sarsaparilla so that we can continue our ongoing debate on the differences between that beverage and root beer. We decide to split the Guapo Chop as a starter.

The salad is a winner. Blue corn chips and cold nacho toppings on a bed of romaine. Nom nom.

The cocktail not so much. It features bourbon and the house tomato fig jam. The flavors are muddled and confusing. I recommend against.

Husband orders the Blue Elk burger (with Amish bleu cheese, country bacon, stout-soaked onions, and that mischievous tomato fig jam). He describes it as, "Uhhhh, ohhhhh. Uhhhhhh. Yeah." *Eyes roll back into head*

I devour the sweet potato and rice burger, rolled in collard greens. (Look at the picture at the top of the article. Loooooook at it.) I include Amish bleu, stout onions, spicy pickles, and paprika mayo.  It is everything I have ever wanted out of life. Words fail me. Wait, no they don't. The sweet tater is, well, sweet, the collards are succulent, the bleu has bite, the paprika mayo is zesty. Put. It. In. My Face.

In short, I recommend this restaurant. They have a good selection of vegan, vegetarian, & gluten-free items. All of their meats are free-range, pasture-raised, humanely-raised, and antibiotic and hormone-free. Although if you have an aversion to patchouli, you should probably avoid this place like the plague. For serious.

Then we sashay through the magical night to the movie theater. I'm just going to get right to the point. If you have not already watched Deadpool, fix the problem. If you have already watched it, you probably (like me) are trying to rationalize watching it again.

Change Your Life To Make This Movie Happen To Your Eyeballs.

The introduction credits are funny. By the time the first fight scene is over I have my arms wrapped around my middle out of concern that something is going to rupture. And it just doesn't stop.

The main character does not give a fuck about the fourth wall, and it is gloriously obnoxious. He is immature, crass, violent, arrogant, and....dick jokes. So. Many. Dick. Jokes.

Here are my thoughts on Ryan Reynolds. I am not particularly impressed by Dreamy Ryan Reynolds. Apparently I am in the minority. I much prefer Hilarious, Obnoxious Ryan Reynolds. I have the same theory about Brad Pitt. Brat Pitt a la 12 Monkeys or Burn After Reading over Brad Pitt a la Legends of the Fall, any day. Admittedly, I didn't actually watch Legends of the Fall. I saw a poster, one time, though.

I feel like you are still reading this instead of driving to the nearest movie theater to take in this orgy of razor-sharp, low-brow wit.

Go away. Go eat at Bareburger.