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February, 2014

  • Is It Okay To Be a Mom and Slutty?

    Mothering and sexuality seem to be a contradiction in terms.  The Madonna and whore duality is one that culture is obsessed with, and despite modern feminism, prevails – even though Madonna sometimes does slutty things.  Go figure.

    Recently I was talking to my friend about how it bothered her that her cousin always posts sexy picture of herself in her underwear on Facebook… mainly because her cousin is a young mother.  And it is not like my friend is some puritan from the 1800’s who somehow time traveled and got on a computer.  She is hip, and has the sides of her head shaved.  She is also painfully aware of how she knows she shouldn’t feel this way.  That posting pictures of yourself in a bra and panties doesn’t mean you are a skank, and even if it did what is wrong with being a skank anyway?  But still… despite her feminist values and awareness, she is still reacting against her cousin’s selfies.

    This made me think of how I felt when I recently saw Beyoncé’s performance at the Grammy’s.  It was really sexual.  You know, sitting on a chair with her legs at a 180-degree angle – and then gyrating while pumping her pelvis in a humping motion.  At first I was like “I wonder what Jay Z, her husband and the father of her child thinks of all this?” But then Jay-Z came out onto stage, and she proceeded to grind her v on his p as he tapped her ass to the beat.  And I remember thinking “She is a mom! She should not be doing that!”

    Okay… so what the hell is going on here? First, my rational is insane that I immediately went to questioning what the man in Beyoncé’s life would feel, and how he must disapprove of this behavior.  And then the irony that when Jay-Z openly showed that he did condone what she was up to, I saw him more as Beyoncé’s pimp then a progressive man who is liberated in his thinking.

    Even if Beyoncé hadn’t just had a child I still would have thought her dance moves were a little stripper-y, but I wouldn’t have had such a negative visceral reaction to it.  What is up with that? Why did I want Beyoncé to put on more clothes and perform with her knees tied together?  That makes no sense.  And you guys know me! I am vulgar, I have no boundaries, and philosophically I am not like this!  Was I suddenly possessed by a Christian fundamentalist, and if yes, isn’t that against the rules?

    I think all this ties into the breastfeeding argument as well.  I breastfed my kid until she was 3 years old.  I know breastfeeding is NOT a sexual act.  But people are still traumatized by the idea of someone feeding their child from their tit at the same place where they are eating their dinner.  When women’s sexy parts transform from the beauty of their form to the actuality of their function it makes people’s brains melt.  And it all goes back to the commodity of the female body.

    It is often said that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession.  Even if a woman has nothing, she still has her body to sell.  For thousands of years culture not only views the woman’s body as an object, but it actually is one in the world of capitalism. The vagina is seen as the recipient of the sex act – gaping and waiting to be filled.  Because her anatomy is one of passivity that the male member can enter regardless of her mental state, she can be a constant receptacle.   This gives her lady-hole value.  Her sex organs are sexualized because they have a real tangible price.

    But what happens when that same vagina is pushing something out of it? No longer just a socket to be plugged, but the canal for life! Then everything changes.  That vagina has a holy purpose.  It is a maker of miracles as it brings a being into this world.  How can you ever see that vagina the same way ever again?

    Maybe that is because we see sex as somewhat dirty and disgraceful.  Even beyond the religious propaganda, it is kind of raunchy what happens.  In contrast to our everyday lives, sex seems animalistic as we grunt and excrete fluids.  Perhaps our modern mind, which tries so hard to distinguish itself from the primal nature of the animal kingdom, doesn’t know how to reconcile this juxtaposition?

    So when I see Beyoncé working her puss like it is wanting to be penetrated I am like “hey! Wait a minute! Be careful with that thing… it is a special baby making pocket now.  You can’t just wave it around all willy nilly like that.  Take care of it!”

    Another thing I was thinking is that when lady’s display themselves like they are looking to get laid, it gives off the impression that getting plowed is a priority to them.  But what about your children! Aren’t they the one and only priority you should have!?  Obviously that is so untrue, and my kid is just one of many priorities, but that doesn’t mean I don’t impose this standard on other mom’s I see.  I hate to admit that I am indoctrinated to think that once mommy makes baby, mommy lives for baby and baby alone, because I don’t actually believe that. Yet I have this illogical expectation that I intuitively know is bullshit.

    Of course women who have had babies still want to be seen as sexy, especially because as we have established, women are conditioned to believe their sex appeal has an actual price.  Beyoncé not only wants to look like she still fucks, she also needs to still be fuckable in order for her brand not to lose its market value.

    So I guess it is totally okay for moms to be slutty just like it is okay for chicks to be slutty – but at the same time it is totally depressing that anything a woman does that is sexual is immediately seen as slutty just because in todays world you can buy and sell her like she was stock.




    February 28, 2014 • Mommy Body, Mommy Mind, Musings, Women's Business • Views: 2937

  • Sleeping With The Enemy

    I have this idealistic notion that sleeping with my child would be this peaceful event.  I picture The Munch and me snuggling together, wrapped in a blanket of bliss, as we serenely entangle our limbs.  Yet the reality of sharing a bed with a toddler is more like sleeping next to a live wire that is about to electrocute me at any moment.

    For one, she thrashes.  The Munch flails her limbs periodically and unexpectedly throughout the night, and often kicks me in the back and slaps the shit out of my face. These random assaults usually happen when I am in the deepest part of my sleep, and being awoken by her inadvertent violence makes adrenalin flood my system like I am a cadet at army camp – so then it takes an hour to get back to sleep.

    The Munch also talks, yells, moans, and whines in her sleep.  It feels like I am witnessing a performance art piece.  Her vocal capacity seems to exceed the prowess of when she is awake, and the volume of these random cries startle me to the point of making my heart momentarily stop working.

    Then there are the excessive changes of temperature Munch seems to experience.  The hotter and sweatier she gets, the closer Munch wants to get to me.  It is like lying next to a wood-burning stove that is sizzling alive Smokey the Bear.  And of course the extreme warmth makes her flounder even more, continuing the feedback loop of kicking my ass while she slumbers.

    She is the most still in the early morning hours, and that is when Munch snuggles up… which sounds sweet, if she weren’t breathing her morning breath directly into my nose.  One wouldn’t think that such a stank stench could be produced by such a darling little girl, but it is quite impressive.


    February 27, 2014 • 3 years old, Family Drama, Parenting, Sleeping • Views: 1842

  • How Much Time Do You Spend in Front of the Mirror?

    How much time do you spend in front of the mirror? Unless you are the witch in Snow White, do you really need more than a few minutes in the morning? You know, to make sure that you don’t have crusted drool.  But once you have established that there is no embarrassing residue, isn’t time to do something else?  Yet according to this article, the average woman spends an hour a day in front of the mirror!! That adds up to 2-weeks per year, and 5-months every decade of your life!! That is so much time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    “The survey found that women worry about their looks more than anything else — more than money, health, relationships, and their professional success, and that mothers were more likely than non-mothers to feel anxious about their looks (73% of mothers reported appearance anxiety versus 65% of childless women).

    Eight in ten women reported that they’d complained to someone about being fat in the last month; 77% say they worried aloud about being old.”

    When I read this I was blown the fuck away.  This inbreed insecurity about beauty is a pandemic, and there is no way I want to raise my daughter to waste this much time agonizing about her appearance.  So what is the solution?

    One of the catalysts to excessive mirror time is make up.  When you are in the habit of wearing lady-paint every day, you have to watch yourself decorate your face – otherwise things could get kind of funky.  So if you are going to be putting on make up, you are going to be looking at yourself doing it.  And you know what? There is nothing more depressing than studying your face in the mirror.  The human eye is trained to notice details, and any close study of any face will reveal imperfections.  Because we are all humans and we all have slight flaws.  Even models rip themselves apart – well they try, but it is hard with such nimble arms.

    So solution number 1… don’t wear make up! Sure if you are going out for a special occasion maybe, but why is there an expectation that we should wear this shit every day of our lives?  If we all collectively took a break from doing that, then there would be a new standard of what beauty is.  Not one that is smeared with dyes, but one that is just like, “hey, this is my face.”

    But we wear make up to look better, and we feel the need to look better because we look too closely at ourselves in the mirror putting on make up.  Do you see how this is a toxic feedback loop?

    I am 34 years old right now, and I don’t wear make up.  Maybe this is because I am lazy, or maybe because I don’t like to wash my face.  But according to my friends I make too many facial expressions, which is giving me wrinkles. If I were to look in the mirror and make faces at myself I would probably feel insecure because I would notice what they are noticing.  But because I don’t wear make up or make faces at myself in the mirror (because that would be insane), I don’t see that shit.  And I think I am happier for it.  It is not my goddamn problem what people see when they look at me.  In my head I look fine!  And here comes solution number 2.


    Stress and worry ages you.  Stress and worry releases stress hormones in the body.  This taxes your organs and damages their ability to function properly.  You want to do shots from the fountain of youth? Be happier! Release joyful oxytocin hormones in your brain.  Everything will work better inside your body making the outside of your body look better.

    My question is how do I raise my daughter to care more about the impending doom of our environmental destruction than her attractiveness, or how big her thighs are?  Even though I know she is an appealing creature and doesn’t need to feel insecure, there are plenty of pretty people who still have anxiety about their looks.

    Some believe you are never supposed to tell little girls they are beautiful because that makes them identify as that.  But if you never say they are lovely wouldn’t that potentially create a complex as well?  In trying to find a balance I still want to have the freedom to complement The Munch right?

    Toni: Munch, you are such a pretty girl.

    Munch: I know.

    What an interesting answer right? I know.  She knows she is a pretty girl.  Cool. So my challenge is to maintain this acknowledgement with the same level of value as any of the other complements I give her.  Like being a brave girl.  Or being a smart girl. Or a kind girl.  We should be able to acknowledge attributes about ourselves without ranking them to any specific hierarchy.  But as we exist right now, culture dictates that if you are a woman, being attractive is more valuable than anything else.  Which is why we worry about it more than anything else. Yet the only way we are going to stop this is to stop believing it, and to not let our daughters believe it either.

    Even though we can never deny the impact of societal pressures, that doesn’t mean we are helpless in this equation.  That is the thing about socialization and cultural influences… We are culture! And we are socializing our children! We are part of the problem! And even if we have our own hang ups, we don’t have to hang onto them.  We can choose to be different.  We can choose to be happy, we can choose to love ourselves, and we can choose to spend less time in front of the mirror.

    (Maybe I would like in the mirror more if my mirror wasn’t so dirty!)



    February 26, 2014 • 3 years old, Mommy Mind, Musings, Parenting, Talking and Not Talking, Women's Business • Views: 11668

  • Is it Okay To Give Your Kid Sleeping Pills?

    When I was a young kid, my parents often called me “manic,” and at times “bipolar.”  I am pretty sure I was the only kid in the 3rd grade who described themselves as having hyper activity disorder.  I would like to think that my parents’ casual references to psychiatric conditions when referring to me were all in good fun, but it also does give you a little insight into how they felt about my behavior.

    But maybe I was intense, and occasionally annoying.  I can believe it.  And now that I have a child of my own, I know how it can feel at times as if your offspring is your own worst enemy.  That are they are living in your house for the sole purpose to punish you for past misdeeds.  So I have empathy for my mom and dad and how they may have fantasized about removing my voice box.  You know… just a simple operation to take out my larynx… nothing drastic.

    So I guess I can understand what happened Thanksgiving Day circa 1989… although I am not sure if it was legal.

    Here is what happened.  My mom was trying to cook dinner, my brother was busy doing what 12-year old boys do, and my dad was in his study working.  So I guess I was in the kitchen, irritating the shit out of my mom with my demands.  I was also slightly under the weather, so my mom had an idea.  It think it was partly motivated in her wanting me to feel better, and also partly inspired by her wanting me to get the fuck away from her.

    She gave me an Excedrin PM… at 10 in the morning.

    Now I don’t know if you have ever head Excedrin PM…. But that shit is not fucking around.

    So what happened you may ask? I feel asleep.  And slept all day until my brother woke me up at 7 in the evening to eat dinner.

    When I tried to go to bed that night, I couldn’t fall asleep.  Why you might wonder? Ohhhh… because my mom gave me a sleeping pill and I slept all day that is why!!! So I did what any normal kid would do.  I took another.

    And that was the beginning of my 8-month journey of being addicted to sleeping pills.

    (I guess I did have a pretty wild look in my eyes)


    February 25, 2014 • Behavior, Family Drama, Old School Stories, Parenting, Sleeping • Views: 3570

  • The Toilet Paper Incident

    There is nothing quite comparable to fighting with your parents as an adult.  It is not like a normal disagreement that you would get into with a normal person.  When your mom or dad is mad at you, there is a power dynamic that ensues – one where they feel the need to infantilize you.  No matter how old or mature you may be, when you parents are angry with you, they will scold the shit out of you.

    I usually try to avoid the wrath of my mom or dad.  I pretty much know what annoys them, and can circumvent obvious triggers.  But every once in a while, I am a casualty of circumstance, and piss one of them off.  In this case, it was my mom.

    So where I live, I am neighbors with my mom.  But she doesn’t spend all her time here.  She usually is in Boston. Yet she is here during the summers and some specific weekends.  Point is… there are many many many many days where she is not here.

    Last week during snowmageddon, I was snowed the fuck in, and of course, ran out of toilet paper.  Now this is one of those household items that you cannot live without – especially as a female.  Every pee has to be attended to in some manner, because dripping dry takes too long for any sane person to deal with.  And you can’t go around with stinky pee-scented cootch.

    Liliana, Munch’s baby sitter, was going past my mom’s house so I texted her and asked if she could grab some toilet paper.  In my mind she would grab a roll, but the place I told her to look only had an entire package.  When Liliana traversed through the tundra to give me the toilet paper, I realized I hadn’t communicated my one roll only need.

    After thanking Liliana and looking at the full package, I knew there was some serious potential for drama in my future.  Because now I had to remember to restock my mom’s toilet paper before she came back up again – and this is the type of adult behavior that I am really not very good at.

    I knew my mom was coming up the next weekend, so I kept the toilet paper package in an obvious place to help remind me.  Every day I would like and say to myself “ you have to remember to do something about this Toni.”

    I think here is a good place to add that toilet paper is a serious point of contention in my relationship with my mom.  Mainly because of her preferred brand in comparison to mine.  My mom only buys “Scott’s,” where I only buy eco brands.  My mom’s philosophy is Scott’s is very thin, and will last an exponentially longer time than my nature leaves.  But my thinking is that Scott’s feels like wiping your taint with wrapping paper, and my hippy shit-sheets are saving the earth because it comes from recycled paper.

    Now I had assumed that my mom was coming on Friday, but in fact she actually came on THURSDAY!  I think you can see where this is going.

    Toni:  Are you here?

    My Mom: I am here!

    Toni: Nice! How are you?

    My Mom: Well the strangest thing has happened.  Somebody came into my house and took all my toilet paper.

    Toni: Huh… that is strange.

    My Mom:  I mean, what kind of person would take all my toilet paper?

    Toni: Ummmmmmm…..

    My Mom: They took it off the rolls, and took my entire package too.  I think I am going to have to start locking my door.

    Toni: Well…

    My Mom: Was it you? Did you take my toilet paper?

    Toni: I mean it sounds like something I would do… but I didn’t take it off the rolls! That is the work of a crazy person.

    My Mom: Wait, so what are you saying?

    Toni: I mean I may have taken your package of toilet paper.  But I didn’t take rolls off the toilet paper contraption thing in the bathrooms.

    My Mom: What the fuck Toni!!! GET YOUR OWN FUCKING TOILET PAPER!

    Toni: But Mom…. Listen.  It happened last week during the Noreastern from hell.  I was desperate.

    My Mom: Well you should have gone out and gotten your own fucking toilet paper and not taken mine!

    Toni: Mom, you wanted me to risk my life to drive through a storm to get toilet paper?

    My Mom: Yes! Or you should have prepared better.  I mean seriously Toni what is wrong with you?

    Toni: Look I am sorry about the toilet paper.  I honestly thought you were coming on Friday and I was going to get it tomorrow morning.

    My Mom: Well I came up today and now I don’t have any toilet paper.

    Toni: Mom I am sorry.  I will bring you some right now.   In fact I will go to the store right now and get you some as well!

    My Mom: No because you won’t get me the right kind!  You will get your stupid green-bum paper that you go through after wiping your ass 3 times.

    Toni: No I won’t Mom.  I will get you the kind you like.

    My Mom: No you won’t.   You will get me the wrong kind.  And that is why you stole my toilet paper in the first place.  Because your toilet paper sucks.  Seriously Toni.  GET YOUR OWN FUCKING TOILET PAPER.

    (And of course she did NOT let this go… and we argued about it for the next 20 or so hours via text… and I did NOT take her damn Kleenex)



    February 24, 2014 • Family Drama, Pee & Poop, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 6433


    My dad. My dear, sweet dad.  I have to tell another story about you, Dad. It is not your fault—you’re a great person. Simultaneously, these stories are hilarious and your embarrassment is less important than the purity of bringing comedy into the world. Consider this as an act of social justice.

    My dad. Hmmmmm: how to paint the most accurate picture?  One word that comes to mind is neurotic, but in a sweet way.  My dad has a sensitive nature and easily picks up on people’s energy.  He’s very considerate and cares deeply about the feelings of others. But being aware of other people’s emotions can make my Dad anxious at times.  He’s easily agitated by both his projections and the judgments of the outside world.  Yeah so I can say it right? My dad can be a little uptight.

    When my brother was first born, my parents lived in academic housing at Princeton where no children were allowed. They planned on moving, but figured they would leave soon after the baby was born.

    The day my brother came home from the hospital, my mother, her mother, my father, and their newborn baby Laszlo all got on the elevator.  As the doors started to close, a fellow resident of the “childless” building rushed to the elevator and pushed his way in.

    As my parents and grandmother rode in the elevator holding tiny Laszlo, all my dad could think about was how the man was surely condemning them for having a baby in this “baby-free” post-grad student housing.  He didn’t imagine this stranger might feel joy gazing at the sweet soul of a freshly birthed child. No. My dad was certain this man was silently denouncing them for their flagrant neglect of the rules.

    As his inner turmoil grew with each floor the elevator passed, my brother made a noise. Not a cry, mind you. Nothing loud or even particularly piercing –more of an innocent “meh” sound.  This barely perceptible audible assault pushed my dad over the edge and he plummeted deep into the abyss of his angst.

    My Dad: Shut up you little asshole!

    Why my dad said this no one understood. My mom, her mother, and the man all looked at my father with shocked eyes and confused faces.  But hey… at least he took the attention off my brother!



    February 21, 2014 • Family Drama, Old School Stories, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1328

  • What Kind of Twisted Ten Year Old Was I?

    You know how you look through old pictures of yourself and suddenly a memory is sparked that you had suppressed deep in the annals of your psyche? A memory so penetrating it is actually quite painful because of the lack of emotional lubrication needed to make it glide in smoothly.  A remembrance that you are not proud of, so leaving it forgotten was actually better for your self-esteem.

    But then you are faced with your former self and are forced to contemplate what kind of person would do such a thing… and the answer is unequivocally you.  You are that person that would do that kind of thing.  Yeah, so I had one of those moments yesterday and it totally made me question what kind of demented person I was as a 10 year old.

    When I was in the 4th grade one of my closest friends Ashley moved to Spain in the middle of the year.  Now, it is one thing to leave before the summer, because the summer months make everyone forgettable, but it is another thing to leave with a whole half a year of school left! So needless to say I missed Ashley and would look nostalgically at her empty desk.

    Ashley was my first friend that I made at school, and we had a lot in common.  Like we both liked to jump rope and had a real passion for Fruit Rollups.  Life without her was bleak, so my mom suggested I go visit her in Spain for my spring break.

    Now I am not sure what the hell my parents were thinking when they put me on a plane to Europe by myself, but that was exactly what they did.

    Even though I was on vacation, Ashley was not, so I had to go to school with her.  Let me just say that there is nothing quite as lame as going to school on your vacation, but I also wanted to spend as much time with Ashley as I could.

    There was this boy who went to Ashley’s school who decided that he had a crush on me.  There was nothing wrong with this boy.  He was perfectly nice I am sure.  (Well we actually didn’t speak the same language so I don’t really know if he was – but he seemed okay).  Yet I really didn’t like boys, and felt humiliated by his love.  There was something embarrassing about the attention as the whole class learned of Jose’s adoration.  It was as if I was suddenly on display, and a willing participant of his affection.  Like I was asking for it.  When really I just wanted to whisper to Ashley about whether or not we had Nutella sandwiches for lunch.

    The more Jose liked me, the more the other students would make a big deal out of it, and the more I felt like hiding.  He at one point wrote me a love letter and even holding it in my hand felt demoralizing.  I felt oppressed by the little hearts that he drew for me.  Yeah perhaps it is a compliment when someone likes you, but I also didn’t want to feel this pressure that I had to like him in return.  I needed this to end.

    So I did what my ten-year old mind could think of to deflect his fondness for me.  You see… right before I left for Spain I had a wart on my hand, and the doctor put some liquid nitrogen on it to freeze it off.  But basically this procedure created a swollen imploded wart that was taking its sweet time to fall off.  As such, for the majority of my trip, I had an infested growth on my hand that was hanging on by a warty fiber.  But then, it fell off.  So I took said wart, put it in an envelope, and gave it to Jose.


    February 20, 2014 • Old School Stories, Relationships • Views: 1094

  • What Shape is Two Minutes?

    I am obsessed with time.  I have worn a watch since I was 8 years old because of my insatiable need to know what time it is at all times.  If I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, the first thing I do is glance at my wrist.  I just have to know.

    What do I do with this information you ask? I guess I just get stressed out about it.

    Do I have control issues? Does this stem from a fear of mortality?  Like if I am aware of my exact point in the universe then somehow I will stall the inevitable.

    Do I even understand what time is? I am not sure I do.  I live my life at the mercy of the concept of time, but I don’t even really know how to explain it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, there is the transient nature of days, and the perishable seasons.  The earth rotates around its self while it rotates around the sun – but when I try to describe time to The Munch I realize that there is a huge gap in my genuine comprehension.

    Munch: Mamma, what shape is two minutes?

    Toni: Wow, uhhh well two minutes doesn’t have a shape per se.  It just is two minutes because it is 60 seconds 2 times.

    Munch: But what shape is 60 seconds?

    Toni: Well it is not a shape at all.  It is an idea.  A measurement of time.  And time is like the passing of …. Uhhhh…. Time.

    Munch: Well is today tomorrow?

    Toni: No, today is today.

    Munch: NO it isn’t! Because you said I could have a lollipop tomorrow! So today is tomorrow!

    Toni: Ohhhh.  Yeah I guess you are right.  Today is tomorrow if we were in yesterday.  But we are in today.  So today is today.

    Munch: But can I get a lollipop?

    Toni: You can tomorrow.

    I kind of feel like the Mad Hatter after that conversation.


    February 19, 2014 • 3 years old, Musings, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1159

  • Dinner With My Brother

    Last night I went out to dinner with my brother Laszlo.  Everything was going well as we chatted about normal things.  Like music, and how Laszlo envisions that once the planet is overrun by transhumanists, cyborgs and androids will really dig his beats.  He went on to explain how his sound has real robot appeal, and that he sees a feasible market for himself in the future.  You know… the usual meal banter.

    We were getting along as well as siblings can, until I tried to rush the cheese.

    Laszlo: I think we should get some dessert.

    Toni: I am not sure if I will have time. In fact, why don’t we get a doggy bag so you can take some of this stuff home?

    Laszlo: Yeah sure why not. I can take the rest of this bread with me… and these left over mushrooms…. And these 5 fries you didn’t eat… and….

    Toni: Sure and we can pack up that cheese as well and get going.

    Laszlo: What are you talking about? I am not hurrying this cheese. I am not in a rush.

    Toni: I know you are not, but I still have to drive two hours home, and it is already 8:20.

    Laszlo: But you just heard me order a coffee.  You can’t have me rush my cheese and coffee.  That is inhumane.  It is my basic human right to enjoy my cheese and coffee and even have 5 minutes to digest them before I leave.

    Toni: Yeah but I have a two hour drive home with a 3 year old remember?

    Laszlo: Yeah but we are talking about my justices as a person on planet earth.  You can leave me here if you want.  But you cannot rush my cheese and coffee experience.

    Now let me just say, this was actually my brother’s second dinner of the night.  The first was with my parents and The Munch… where he not only got dinner, but also dessert.  But this was no time for logic.  Laszlo already was emotionally violated by my mere suggestion of packing up the cheese.  If I had left, he obviously would have felt pretty insulted. And as much as I was feeling the pressure to go, Laszlo was committed to leisurely enjoying his dairy-stimulant combo.  The tension rose as he placed 1 of the 17 cheese squares left in his mouth.  I didn’t want to ruin our nice time so….

    Toni: Okay.  I won’t rush the coffee and cheese.

    Sometimes as a sister you just have to give in, and let your brother eat a pound of cheese.

    Laszlo: Okay.  Now I am ready.  That was a good compromise. I got to be a civilized person who consumes at a reasonable rate, but I didn’t make you get dessert.


    February 18, 2014 • Adventures, Eating, Family Drama, Talking and Not Talking • Views: 1673