Fuck, blogger's back up -- I thought I was going to get a free night. Oh well.
So, it was Miss O's birthday today -- the big fiverino. It was a strange day. We let her open two presents before school and saved the rest for after. But Wednesdays are the days when their sitter comes to watch them for a couple of hours before dinner so the old lady and I can get a little work done. So I picked them up, brought them home and then watched her open the rest of her presents while the babysitter stood around making money for nuttin'.
Miss O's fave gifts were the new "Groovy Girl" (her name is 'Trini,' but she looks EXACTLY like 'Josie' and 'Bindi' and 'Oki' and 'Ee-ee') and the Groovy Girl car. Apparently, microscopic "Polly Pockets" are out and giant, stuffed, hydrocephalic dolls with yarn-hair are in. Guess I missed the memo.
Then we went to "The International Traveler's Club and Tuba Museum" for a "special" birthday dinner. That's the one place we can go that's not T.G.I. McBennifuck's -- the food is not horrible and it has wacky, stinky, dreadlocked college kids for waitstaff. Mr. Z hates it but it was Miss O's choice, so what can you do? She got the chicken stir-fry. At one point she looked up, a wad of chicken in her mouth, and said, "This chicken is chewier than a Gummi Bear! It's like chicken gum!" And she was excited about it, no less. There you go, all you confectionary entrepeneurs out there -- five year olds LOVE chicken gum! Get on it!
Mr. Z told us that he and his chum B were feeling wacky at lunch and sat... AT THE GIRLS' TABLE!!!! What a fucking stud, that boy is. Fourth grade and he's already lunchin' with the ladies. He's starting to figure the whole thing out -- sit with the boys and talk about soccer, video games and boogers OR sit with the girls, talk about soccer, video games and boogers AND get hugs. He's either gonna be quite the ladies man... or he's gay. Doesn't really matter to me -- I'm just glad he's hanging with the Fridas. The boys in his class are fucking psycho.
Ah, that's enough for now. My heart's just not in it tonight. Besides, I gotta go crap out some hippie food. No wonder they call it the "Tuba Museum" -- the food blows and, after you eat it, you've really gotta empty your spit valve.