I let him have a bologna sandwich for dinner tonight. Just calm down; I’m not taking him to Biscuitville and ordering the fried bologna (which, rumor has it, is back). Still, it’s one more thing that I would have to hide in the back of the organic greens drawer of the fridge if I lived in the suburbs. I’ve been meaning to try the Tofu-logna; I have. But man, the bologna deals at the deli counter are seductive. AND there is a chance that I will get to hear someone order it using the “Buh-loan-uh” pronunciation—basically the funniest thing you could hear at the deli counter; weird, Americanized Eye-talian city talk.
Feel free to call me out on the carpet for feeding my kid such un-healthy, un-local, un-slow food. I am pretty sure that he will grow out of it (uh, unless he takes after his dad, who somehow consumes half of the bologna supply in the house). Also, I Googled “bologna related diseases” and it was less scary than Googling “my leg hurts.” My leg does hurt, and I don’t eat bologna. Besides, my kid eats bowls full of blueberries, which my research reveals acts as a veritable suit of armor against bologna-borne yucky things. He’s also skinny and has the metabolism of a hummingbird, so I figure I should get some kind of awesome parenting award for not trying to raise him on red-dyed sugar water (which in my day was known as Hawaiian Punch–complete with stereotypical Hawaiian-ish guy strolling around punching people–way too much like my classroom for me to dwell too long on that memory). The Awesome Parenting nominations are probably clogging up my inbox right now. I’m guessing.
For those of you with organic toddlers, your time will come. One day, you will be dog-tired and your now age-wizened darling will loudly present a bologna manifesto in the grocery store, at which point you will do anything to shut Mussolini up. You know what’s next. Welcome to Biscuitville.
News flash from my classroom today: “It’s hot!” Not like the kind of hot that means cool or sexy. The kind of whiny, extended short o comment that implies that, as a teacher, I should be able to distribute ice packs and personal fans to each and every smelly tween that occupies the rice cooker that was my classroom today. Barring that, I should at the very least allow the whiniest and most obnoxious student a coveted chair in front of the rattling box fan while everyone else drips in silence.
I was at our friendly neighborhood mega mulch mart a couple of weeks ago, and it appeared as though I had somehow missed some universal homeowner memo requiring the purchase of multiple bags of mulch. Do Homeowner Associations mandate this sort of thing? Are the color options limited? One can only hope that the red stuff is a violation.
Something happened while I was out teaching America’s underprivileged youth.
Turn it up or turn it off.
I am not a member of the National Rifle Association, and I have been known to make fun of hunting apparel and hunting accessories and hunting guys. However, I did reap the benefits of having a gun-toting neighbor not long ago. He was my downstairs neighbor, Pete (of course not really), and he would, on occasion, ring my doorbell to share things like a freshly deadened turkey, or some newly acquired harpoon–just anything that he thought might brighten my day. Since I knew that he was a gun collector, I thought it best to receive these visits with good cheer.
Yup! My Citi Thank You card has been compromised! Gasp! A hundred and fifty bucks on iTunes. Thank You indeed! You’re welcome!
peachyteachy 
