Monday, March 28, 2011

Cookie

The political situation in Wisconsin has fallen out of the national news, but let me tell you that here in the land of beer and cheese (oh, and SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONSHIPS, don't want anybody to forget that) things just get weirder and weirder. To catch up: The bill that guts public sector unions in the state has a temporary restraining order prohibiting it from going into effect, at least in the short term. But the Republicans think they found a loophole and have declared the law in effect, although there is far from agreement on that topic.

Let's try an analogy to explain it: It's as if the drunken boyfriend (who in this case would be the Republicans) read the restraining order against him and decided that although it said he was supposed to keep away from the house, it doesn't say anything about the garage, so he shows up and starts mooning to his girlfriend, (who in this case would be, I guess, the bill) "Hey baby, can't we let bygones be bygones, that quorum never meant nothing to me anyhow," and then the cops show up, (who in this case would be, uh, -- boom! That's the sound of this analogy collapsing.)

So we might be having a constitutional crisis in this state, but at least there's always Girl Scout cookies. Or not. I got this email from David after he took the kids to a visit to his folks in Appleton.
My mom sent some Girl Scout cookies home with strict instructions not to let Stella eat them on the way home. They were meant for you. I did not let Stella eat the cookies on the way home. Nonetheless, they are gone.
They were probably Thin Mints, too, which stand head and shoulders above other Girl Scout cookies. The king of cookies, if you will. And they come in handy serving portions, where one sleeve = one serving.

While David and the cubs were gone, I had a whole evening to myself, which hasn't happened in a coon's age (where Stella = coon). I spent that time purging the last vestiges of maternity clothes from my closet. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed at the number of baggy maternity sweaters I was still wearing 11 months (and 40 lbs) later. The problem is, when I choose my clothes for the day, I don't ask myself questions like "What clothes suit my mood today?" or "What fits well?" or even "What has the minimal socially acceptable number of stains?" No, I ask myself "What's on top of the pile?" And also, maybe, "What happens if I am recruited by the CIA and as part of an anti-terrorism effort, I am called upon to smuggle an entire frozen turkey under my shirt into a secure location?" Taking the maternity clothes out of my closet may yet cost me my chance to serve my country. But it will all be David's fault. Really, he should have left me some cookies.

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