Normally when one eats peanut butter pie, one does not make such a face.  But when one looks over and sees another doing this because he knows his picture is being taken and can’t seem to shut that dainty piehole of his:

one makes this disgruntled face.  Because the *appropriate* face to make when eating peanut butter pie is this face:

Which one has learned over his many many spins around the earth (but it would be rude to share what monthly edition he would be entering, plus I can’t add that high this late at night, especially as I’m trying to drown out the presidental debate/town hall/snl fodder in the background).

This is also a good and appropriate response:

Note the look in his eye:  seriously?  Is this legal?  You, mama of the no-sugar-added, are letting me sit next to you and eat chocolate cookie crust with cream cheese and cool whip and sugar and peanut butter filling with shaved ghiradelli chocolate on top?  I wonder how long it will take until I wear you down with my request for guns, lots of guns . . .

Even better yet, the one whow is least dizzy from twirling around the mass of incandescent gas, A gigantic nuclear furnace, Where hydrogen is built into helium, At a temperature of millions of degrees (name that tune:  anybody?  anybody?  Bueller?) responded best at what to do when eating peanut butter pie.

Observe Object.

Don’t Look In Case It Hurts But Open Wide In Case It’s Good.

Safeguard:  Because This Has Sugar And They Might Realize Their Mistake At Any Minute

Remove Briefly To Allow For Breathing

Act Cool As The Wonderfulness Begins to Sink In

Be Thorough

Be Responsible:  Leave No Trace

Even though a smaller tyke did steal the show, the Birthday Boy was bestowed with happiness and yumminess, despite the face (which is not in reaction to the pie but in reaction to his sainted wife who had to document the occassion lest one moment of their lives in not available for blog fodder).

Thanks for spinning with me, Hubby.  Happy belated birthday.

~Wifey

“We should get up and walk to the new bakery down the street! Hubby and JJ can get donuts, and a few hours later Little A can enjoy the fresh baked whole grain bread I will consume. Fun!”

See, as a kid, we had a Saturday morning tradition of Dad driving a mile down the road to the Donut Shop (I think it’s called just that: “The Donut Shop” – how ingenious) and loading up with the biggest, yummiest donuts *ever*. The bars were the size of your forearm, and the fritters were so big that the middle was usually still doughy – mmmm. Uncle Bubba and I would load up on sugary goodness while watching our allotted two hours of Saturday Morning Drivel, and then I’m sure we’d start bouncing off the walls while my folks never really made the connection between our sugar high and increasing levels of annoyance. Or maybe they didn’t care, cause the donuts were *that* good.

Since moving to the ‘dee, I’ve had many discontented thoughts about living in the burbs. I think about living in the city and having “shops” – the flower shop, the meat shop, the little corner market. And a bakery: how I wished I had a nearby bakery.

But now I do! It’s nothing over-the-top, but the baked goods are yummy and it’s close. Of course, we’re all betting on when it will fold: businesses in this town seldom do well. So I’m spreading the word: go eat at the bakery!

So: Saturday morning. I didn’t share my thought with the Hubby: I was fairly incoherent and not really sure of the time or the state I reside in. I fell back asleep around 7am after Hubby took the Yowly One. All of a sudden I sat up: what time was it? What was going on? Where was I? And why was Hubby dressed and wearing the Ergo?

It was 8:30.

“What are you doing?”
“Wearing Little A.”
“Why?”
“We went for a walk.”
“Where did you go?”
“To the bakery. I bought some donuts, and I hope you don’t mind, but I bought one for JJ as well.”

[Frequent readers will know that JJ's sugar intake is limited for the sake of the safety of the world: we're caring citizens.]

“Aw: you did just what I wanted to do! I guess my mental telepathy is working, even though the thoughts don’t make it out of my head.”
“I guess.”

Yay for Donut Saturday!

• While looking at a Fry’s ad: “Ooooh, that’s a great price for [enter something that entails plastic and electronic bits and flashy lights and little beeps].”
• While advising a co-worker: “No, your mother-in-law is wrong: your husband *can* buy an eel-skin wallet, and it will *not* demagnetize his credit cards. Didn’t they watch that episode of Mythbusters?”
• While explaining why his computer doesn’t work again: “Well, I was install a new Linux package again. Yeah, it didn’t work last time. Nope, still not working again. But I’m hopeful that this update will take care of it . . .” (aw: hope springs eternal).

Today I came across a great post regarding the Top Ten Reasons Geeks Make Good Fathers: I heartily say Amen! and would like to voice my own personal additions to the list:

11. They understand and defend the sacredness of “Mama’s Computer,” deflecting goobered pounding toddler hands at all costs.

12. Methodicalness. Example: bathtime. Every bit and piece gets soaked, lathered, and dried. Manual and air drying takes place so that chafing does not ensue. Diaper is secured loosely for optimal absorbancy while Bladder of Enormous Holdings relieves itself during the night.

13. Appreciation for the good things at life begins at any age. Example: ESPN March Madness. A friend invited us to participate in his group, and my Hubby discovered that he could make a bracket for the Little One. He’s going to give him paper and let him choose his picks: oh, when sports geek gets cute.

14. Information about the Little Man is available courtesy of the Hubby and the World Wide Web. Want to see a picture? Easy! There was even a chart of weights/heights and percentages online for a while. Thus making the grand’rents appeased, and the Mama doesn’t have to feel (too) guilty about not scrapbooking.

So, bake some yummy cookies for the Geek Dada in your life: you won’t be sorry.