Day One of The Phillipses Eat a God Damn Vegetable Every Now and Then

I made dinner: mushroomed meatballs, rice, and asparagus. The Red-Headed Kid said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had good asparagus before.”

I said, “And it will make your pee stink!”

So, you know, victory is mine.

“Temper My Hatred with Peace, Weave My Disgust into Fame”

Today I wrote about Pussy Riot for Think Progress.

Tomorrow is Skarsgards!

Things, Glorious Things

–I’m guest-blogging again at Think Progress. Just today and tomorrow. Today’s post is a little nerdy. Tomorrow’s post is better, I think. Still, I found today’s post interesting, so hopefully others will, too.

–I’ll link to it when it’s up.

–We went to a birthday party for a family friend this weekend. I laughed when the Butcher said, “It starts at five but [family friend] says we should come at three.” Is there any clearer message that you’re needed to help cook?

–I was right, and while we were cooking, I announce that I would gladly cook at our house if someone else did the dishes.

–Someone else enthusiastically did the dishes yesterday.

–But someone else’s idea of “doing the dishes” does not seem to involve throwing things away, recycling things that need to be recycled, or wiping down the counters.

–So, someone else is going to have to learn those things, I think.

–Our family friend’s six-five three hundred pound dad walked through the party a couple of times trying to get everyone to sing a song he’d made up called “Kill Whitey,” which was also, after “I’m Gonna” 50% of the words of the song. The first time, everyone at the party just stared uncomfortably at each other, as if no one was sure how seriously to take him or whether they’d be asked to join in. And then, from the porch, when he realized what was going on, came the Butcher’s loud laugh. I believe this laugh is the basis for the Butcher’s pleasant acquaintanceship with our family friend’s dad.

–Later on, the dad and I were talking about the Butcher and I said that one of the things the Butcher does so easily is that he gets along with everyone and I have tried really hard to learn that from him, how to be at ease with anyone in any situation (which is not my natural way), and the dad said, “I’m that same way, too. I can get along with anyone,” and I said, “Really? I would have thought a man who walked around singing ‘I’m gonna kill whitey,’ might have problems making friends.” And he looked at me, just for a long second, and then he tilted his head back and laughed so beautifully that I believed him–everyone who meets him, who has heard that laugh once, must want him to laugh like that again, over and over.