Molarball: The Return; or Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Eat SpaghettiOs Again
Also known as Friday, the day Noah had a coughing/choking/hacking-lung fit right after lunch and projectile vomited a plate of pasta, half a cheddar cheese stick and an entire sippy cup of juice. And if you think this stuff looks gross coming from the bottle, just wait until you see it come BACK UP. Exorcist remakes, take note.
We've got incoming molars, people. And we are just fucking THRILLED about it.
Birthday Party: Part Two: The Planninging; or Take Your Fucking Theme And Shove It Up Your Fucking Ass
Also known as Saturday, the day it occurred to me that Noah's birthday party was exactly one week away and my extremely laid-back, jebus-lord-he's-only-two approach to planning the stupid thing meant that THERE HAS BEEN NO STUPID PLANNING. Half the guests are vegetarian, the other half are extremely picker eaters and/or children, yet another half (shut up, the math works in my head at least) are Jason's gourmet foodie friends and when I suggested burgers on the grill and a couple boxes of veggie burgers Jason's show-offy dinner-party-loving head exploded, sort of like when I told a friend that no, Noah's birthday party doesn't have a theme. Am I supposed to have a theme?
I did break down and order a cake. I was planning to make one myself, but in this world-gone-mad-for-televised-fondant-competitions, I started to get a little stressed out over how I would decorate the cake, knowing that my nerves would get the better of me at the exact wrong second and I would end up with a cake that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAOH!
So I went to a bakery -- the kind of bakery that sells cakes shaped like handbags and baby carriages and my God, did I want to go in and request some boobs -- and ordered a damn cake.
"What's your theme?"
I finally remembered that the eVite I sent out had monkeys on it, so...monkeys! Our theme is monkeys. Everybody will get a banana when they leave, and this way I don't have to worry about all the dog poop in the backyard.
BLOOD OMFG BLOOD
(This portion of our entry is dedicated to mah betches over at MamaPopTalk, who helped me ruthlessly ridicule Big Gay Top Chef Dale for being unable to operate a mandoline. The irony, it buuuurns. And has stubby thumbs.)
We had friends over for dinner Saturday night, so I decided to try out a new potato recipe. I was having issues with our mandoline, to say it nicely, and managed to nick the hell out of my finger. Jason sighed the sigh of the martyred saints and offered to take over the slicing duties.
I told him I also needed some onion slices.
Our onions were too big for the safety holder part. I told him I would just use a knife.
He started slicing the onion on the mandoline anyway.
My brain twitched.
STOP SLOW DOWN STOP STOP STOP FINGER FINGER
Anyway. That's how part of Jason's thumb ended up on our kitchen counter and why we spent the rest of afternoon at the emergency room. On the drive there (which seemed to take FOREVER, what with all the old people driving 15 mph and OMFG THIS IS A HOSPITAL ROUTE ASSHOLES, SOMEONE COULD BE IN LABOR) I tried to brainstorm other, dumber injuries (anything that involves a toilet, nudity, or something stuck up your ass) to make Jason feel better, or at least distract everybody from the Monty-Python-like fountain of blood gushing from his hand.
I did not put his thumbtip on ice or anything (I actually just stood there and screamed at it until Jason tossed it down the garbage disposal), and eventually I left him at the hospital so I could go home and finish my potato and onion gratin (it needed to bake for an hour!).
They gave him a tetanus shot and he took a cab home. Our dinner guests enjoyed the gratin.
My personal mandoline injury, made infinitely less cool by a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid.