A conversation from a few months back:

Eugenio: Look at that bitch.

Me: Who?

Eugenio: The bitch, the beeeeeach!

Me: Oh, the BEACH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Really I should have known better than to read from the true crime genre, as the Babysitter Club mystery specials were always a bit too much for me. I told my coworker that I'm going to kill her* for recommending The Stranger Beside Me, by true crime author Ann Rule about Ted Bundy. (Get it? HAHA! Oh lordy, I'm so funny!) Now, in addition to anyone ever, my own husband makes me nervous.

"I don't want to find out too late. Tell me now if you're a serial killer."

"I will only ever be a serial killer of your vagina."

Well that's a cute comeback. I'm sorry for posting, but please show it to the police if ever necessary.

*hyperbole, don't get it twisted. I'm the little lamb here.

Over the weekend three different male customers wished me a happy mother's day. I didn't correct any of them. It happened so fast; I didn't know what to do, even after my inner bully commented on what an awkward idiot I am after the first well wisher walked away.  I just said, "Oh, thanks!" and even, "Thanks, you too!" to one man. I felt guilty about accepting wishes to enjoy a day not intended for me, and now I'm worried that I'll have to keep up that lie if and when someone asks how the kids are doing. "Great! We're all doing great. Really great, actually. And you?"

Remember that time I thought I was pregnant but went into the liquor store anyway to bully the owner into purchasing a certain brand of margarita, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to enjoy it for the next nine months, but then I wasn't pregnant so I went back a few weeks later and was thrilled to see that he took my advice? I joined a bunch of websites that week to prepare myself for motherhood. I still get email messages telling me how my little tadpole is growing. It's kind of like having a baby tamagotchi. I check in once a week to see how he's doing. I have a boy -- the email messages refer to "him," so... He's three months and one week old. He can kind of sit up now but I'm told not to leave him unattended, as "even a seemingly stable pre-sitter can topple over." That's a cute visual.  But I wasn't even thinking of my tomagotchi baby when I accepted those wishes for a happy mother's day. I'm a liar and a bad mother.



Do I look like someone who has expelled children? Wait. Rather, do I give the impression that a child is in my custody? I'd take it as the highest compliment. Definitely unlike when someone mistakes me for being pregnant. Like the time in Houston when the husky tow truck driver offered us a discount because, as he points to my stomach, "You two have enough troubles."  When we were honest about not being with child, as I laughed my head off, the man with the big belly (it was a very pot, kettle kind of moment) was noticably embarrassed and deflected by going on a fifteen minute tangent about his adopted children and his desire for grand kids. We still got the discount. But it's not his fault I ate a big lunch and was wearing my eating dress. I can understand the confusion.

I guess I keep getting credit for something I have no business in accepting. I don't believe in karma, but one day it'll catch up to me. My kids are gonna be the worst. I'll probably gain 100 lbs while the bun is in the oven. There will be no mistake about it.

This day in history: After President Obama finally made a public statement in support of gay marriage -- you know, equality, civil rights -- certain groups got their knickers in a bunch, as they do, uttering the phrase "war on marriage." 

gif source: http://realitytvgifs.tumblr.com/

Okay, I shouldn't laugh. Ignorant masses are known to hold back progress...clearly.

I had an Oprah moment while arguing over cake with Eugenio at Chili's, yesterday's date night location of choice (we fancy). Once a week we go on date night to keep the romance alive. Our romance is silently eating food in each other's presence and then later going home to rub bellies together. As I maneuvered my spoon towards the front of the plate to grab a bite, Eugenio complained,"Bebita! Don't just eat the center part! UGH!" If it were Thanksgiving and family members where around the table, his tone suggested he might add, "I hate you! I hate you all!" while storming off -- with his cake in tow, I imagine. Moments like that are nothing but pure love. FYI, the center was special because this was an Oreo Molten Cake. I'll refrain from describing it because the descriptors are just naughty.

"I'm not! The cake is faced towards you, so I have to reach around to get some of the middle. Gosh!" I replied matching his angst before bursting out in laughter at the scene. Two grown ass adults fighting over cake, shoveling it in our faces as fast as possible. 

We always eat desert with such voracity you'd think we missed the entire preceding dinner along with all the meals ever, but really we're just in a race to make sure the other doesn't unfairly get a bigger slice. Romance, y'all, romance.

So, fighting over a piece of cake, I had an a-ha moment, which is a moment so stupid because you're realizing something so obvious, which you then over analyze with an overwrought explanation and pretend that you're growing wiser. I realized another reason why I love Neno so much is that he is as passionate about sweets as I. Wait, I just said that I love my husband because he is just like me! Sounds about right! Actually, we have very little in common and we disagree on many big, philosophical questions, but we agree on one of the most important: dessert. If I can offer any relationship advice, it's that you really need to find someone whose palate jives with your own. Actually, I didn't intend to write a relationship epiphany here, that just came out of my fingers, so there you have it, a bad maxim on love to add to the mix. If you don't agree on cake, break the fuck up RIGHT NOW.  I only meant to say that I just acknowledged, after three years worth of chocolate molten cake and banana tempura filled date nights, how much we both like to eat refined sugar after a meal and how I enjoy that mutual passion for bodily disrespect, despite the constant clinking of spoons as we draw lines on the battleground of a plate. With Eugenio, there's none of that inward turmoil of hoping that the other says yes to desert.  Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes. Then agreeing, "Oh yeah, waaayy too stuffed! Woo! Desert? Ugh, no thank ya!" when he purports no room for cake.

With Eugenio, dessert is never a question. We pick it first. Sometimes we talk about it the night before. After eating without talking we then discuss how full we are. "Estoy muy llena!" I declare, because meal time is also when I practice Spanish, which entails pretty much reiterating the same phrases every night. Then we stop the waiter as he's on his way to help someone else, because we really can't wait to request the cake.

I've been talking about cake a lot lately. Like anti social kids who do bad things, just blame it on the music. Okay I'm done with this topic forever bye. 

Oh, and PS, Chili's now serves CoronaRitas, so that shit's gone mainstream. I don't know how I feel about that.