Snack orders

I took Lyla to the doctor yesterday and discovered she has a double ear infection. So the teething theory might have been flawed. Anyway, she's on medicine now and feeling better, though her nostrils frequently spew geysers of ectoplasm. It happened twice in the car today, and the only thing I had that resembled a tissue was my sunglasses bag. Mental note to launder that. Twice.

And on the pregnancy front, every morning for the past, I don't know, seven weeks or so, I have prepared for Julie a breakfast of one egg and one slice of cheddar cheese between two toasted halves of an English muffin. She can't function otherwise.

I remember with the first pregnancy looking forward to the second trimester, when the sickness would dissipate and Julie would become a fully functioning member of the household again. Alas, it never really happened, and come to think of it, I don't think Julie has opened the dishwasher since early 2008. She does other things, of course, at least she did until this latest impregnation. One thing that her sickness hasn't touched is her ability to give orders.

Home from work today because she feels awful, she calls over from the couch. "I need a good snack for the evenings. Any ideas?"

"You don't know your own snack cravings?"

Deep in thought, she comes up with nothing. "Come on, just give me some ideas."

"Fruit roll-ups? Count Chocula?"

"You get one more dumb one."

"Jenga pieces?"

"Okay, you're done. It can't come in a box."

That eliminates Jenga. "No box. You want snacks in a sack? A snack pack in a sack? A snack sack?"

"It has to be real food."

"Snacky packy sacky?"

"I am going to murder you."

"I'd make a bad snack."

"Ooh! I want a baked potato! A baked potato, mutha-fucka!"

"Oh my goodness. That was awkward."

She doesn't even hear me. "Ooh, and sour cream in a squeezable bottle!"

"As opposed to a box."

"Go to Target, monkey boy. Fly! Fly!"