Get Goose

I spied a tooth in my child’s mouth today, which is a huge deal since he’s only seven months. His first tooth. A lower incisor, to be exact. And so, begins the process known as teething…otherwise known as “cranky pants” in our house. This will apparently continue until he’s close to three years old, at which point, all of his baby teeth should be there. Then, at the age of seven, the process starts all over again for the permanent teeth to move in. According to friends, this is when the Tooth Fairy shows up, collecting the teeth and leaving a little treat behind. It used to be a quarter when I was young, but kids today have the Tooth Fairy whipped. She’s leaving the likes of $5 for a small incisor and upwards of $10 for a molar. What does she do with all of those teeth? Sell them on the black market? I need in with the Tooth Fairy…maybe she’s hiring.

In 1988, the movie “Mystic Pizza” hit theaters. For those of you lucky ones who’ve seen it, you’ll recall that in the midst of everything else going on with Daisy, Kat, and JoJo, the fame of the pizza continues to spread. At one point in the movie, a food critic visits the restaurant for a taste test and later reports that it seems to contain something almost…mystic. Hence the movie title. I’ve often thought about what an awesome job that would be. A food critic. All day long, every day, just going from place to place tasting food. If I had my choice, I’d pick milkshakes and mac and cheese. I think I am a milkshake and mac and cheese connoisseur. I had some mac and cheese this weekend at a new restaurant here in town called The Crown and Goose (gotta love the name). It was their Orzo ‘Mac n Cheese’ with Stilton Blue & Broiled Manchego Cheese. “Simply Delicious” is what I would call it. Unlike any mac and cheese I’ve ever tasted, the Manchengo (which comes from Manchega sheep in Spain, by the way) added an exuberant flavor to the dish. See, I’m already talking like a critic. Yum.

A week from today my husband and I are having a garage sale. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I agreed to do this. My split personality must have been in the room at the time. We spent all day today collecting items around our house to put in the sale. There are seven tables set up in the garage piled so high with crap you can hardly move around. Everything from picture frames to fishing gear to duvets to dish ware. This week we’re supposed to price the stuff. What a nightmare. How the heck am I supposed to know how much my old placemats are worth. A dollar? Five dollars? A nickel? I’d rather poke a fork in my eye. Actually, I’d be willing to pay someone to come and take the stuff away. What’s that saying…”One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.” We’ll see. I just hope these “treasures” disappear on Saturday or my husband’s going to be headed to the Good Will.

My brother’s friend is a personal trainer in L.A. He created this thing called The Belly Burner. It’s supposed to heat your core during a workout so that you burn more calories, and eventually lose weight. I had a baby in August last year. About a week after he was born, I wondered if the doctor had overlooked the other baby I was supposed to birth. I still looked pregnant! Even more mortifying is the fact that my child is now seven months old and I still have a ton of weight to lose. I recently started wearing The Belly Burner. I usually wear it when I work out and when I go walking, but I’m considering a 24-hour system. I may even call this friend to see if he can create The Body Burner for me…an entire outfit that I can eat, sleep, and live in.

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So, today, for some insane reason, I decided to total up my yearly spendings at a certain coffee house here in town. Maybe it’s because I just got my American Express bill and am now trying to figure out how to Houdini that cash into my pocket. I frequent this place about five times a week and I get the same thing every time: a grande non-fat chai latte and a piece of blueberry reduced fat coffee cake. The “reduced fat” part makes me feel better about shoving something sweet down my throat first thing in the morning. My bill is always $6.12. Which means, $30.60 a week, or $1,591.20 a year. Hmm, still not enough to pay off the AmEx. Guess I’ll have to come up with some other scheme.

I got a haircut last week. My first visit to this particular salon. The kind where one person washes your hair and a second person does the cutting. When they called my name, I walked over to the wash basin thingie and met Beverly. She sat me down, wrapped me in a towel, and proceeded to scrub. Now, I need to tell you that Bev was a woman with curves. Some southern fried chicken and corn fritters will do that to you. And, about five minutes into the wash—about the time I was getting comfortable and Beverly was getting her groove on—I was smothered by a large fleshy mass. Something was mushed up against the left side of my face and was cutting off my air supply. For a brief moment I panicked, then squirmed, and gasped for air. Attack of the Bev Boobs, ladies and gentleman. Beware.