Mr. Dog and IHOP - keys to happiness

I love IHOP.

It's always had a special place in our lives.

I know; like you, I've heard the roach stories, but I never leave IHOP without a moment of profundity.

In 1982, it was the first place we ate after we got off the plane at Lambert Field after a three-day coming-home trip from overseas. I remember the chocolate chip pancakes and, even at 10, proud to be an American. I loved Eurasian food, still remember it fondly, but...pancakes. With chocolate chips. Milk directly from cows and not some processed stuff from powder because the military feared giving their families local fare...although the oils used in such weren't much better in the long run.

IHOP with my kids throughout the years has brought on some profound chit-chat. What I love most is that if we're all together, having a good time, people look at us with smiles on their faces. We love each other, and we love to have a good time without invading the space/hearing of others.

I took Sunny to IHOP once to celebrate a good report card. She ordered a salad. When brought, she asked, "What are these little round red things? I love them on the salads at school, but I don't know what they're called." Um, Mom has tomato prejudice, darling. If you like them, I'll buy them. I think she was 6.

Last night, my three kids, my two sisters, my mother, and I made an impromptu stop at IHOP. We ordered four regular meals and a dessert.

This is where the fun begins, and I wonder who else does this? I worked in the restaurant biz for 6 years combined, and my sister for 6 months in a country restaurant, and we're sure there's no one quite like us. Forget the little 60th anniversary soup-and-sandwich couples and their penchant for splitting. We take it to a whole new level.

Plates got passed around. "Can I have a bite of that?" "Oh, this is good. Have a bite." "Sis, can I have a french fry? Junior? Is that omelet good? Hey, thanks! This is good." "Want some bacon, Dude? Sunny? Dude has an extra pancake..." "Mom, hand me your plate. I have too many crepes, here."

IHOP is the place to do it, too. You don't have to ask for extra plates because the big ones are muy grande and the pancakes come on their own little plates.

"You have room on that plate now, Junior. Put your pancakes on it."

"I'll take one. Does someone want the other?"

This is our ritual. It can be observed with three or more of our clan. The bonus? Ketchup on noses, syrup on sleeves, "can we have another two forks, please?" and extra napkins requested as soon as we're seated. There is no "mine" at the table. Even Dude gets it. Everybody looks at what everyone else has and starts to barter, bite for a bite.

And we all know what the others enjoyed about the meal, because we got a little taste. We also know that we might try that the next time, too, but...it will just get passed around again.

It just seems that this family doesn't have a selfish trend. I guess if you can share food, you can split inheritances without a disagreement. I remember when my aunt cleaned out (or attempted to) my grandmother's home, all ten grandkids, spouses, and children met together, which is about as frequent as planetary alignment. I'd never heard my aunt yell. And she didn't yell about our behavior...

She yelled because we were too busy yapping to get started.

We frustrated her for two hours. "I've always like this, but I remember you have this...does it go better with that or with..." "Who wants the yellow quilt? I remember you being wrapped in it 20 years ago. Did you have good memories of that?"

I took the angel food pan, the angel food platter, but my cousin got the Coke bottle Grandma used to turn the pan upside down on.

"Would you people just make up your mind? Send an e-mail, Kiran. She'll 'e' you back, I promise!" my aunt hollered. She held up a green pitcher with all its massing glassware. "Does someone want this? It's going to auction if it's not claimed in 10...9...8..."

She's under 5' and isn't very loud, docile in every sense of the word.

When it comes time for my grandfather's belonging and finances to be divided, I expect a little friction from my aunt. My mother, who will represent my deceased father, has been his primary caretaker and my aunt hasn't been home much at all since my grandmother passed on. After her funeral, she went around with Post-It notes and claimed things. Um, my grandfather still lived there.

It will be interesting to see, but I think if you can share food at IHOP, you've got a pretty good grasp on family and life in general. I've never eaten at IHOP with that particular aunt, come to think of it.

So, we have two definite keys to my happiness: Mr. Dog and IHOP.

I rant and eat crow in the same post...

10:00 p.m., 05/18/08

Junior's mad at me.

First, I had the audacity to ask him what the main point of his essay was supposed to be. When he didn't know, I gave him the introductory paragraph with four questions to answer. That's a three-page paper, including beefing up the intro and putting a conclusion on it. Google, my son. Google. The instructor didn't assign a font limit. Courier 12 or 14? Shoot, that's a blog entry.
He can't research, according to him. It's a battle we've fought all year. He knows if he waits to exactly the last moment, Momma will freak out (200 points is a big deal, you know) and will be his personal slave.

He's been bucking it for weeks. I understand having one computer that does all the cool stuff. I can make pie charts and nifty stuff like that. At least have the common decency to keep me company while I do your work, Bud.

That was last week. I explicitly set my demands after trying to help, and, behind my back, he made the "blah, blah" motion with his hand.

I work nights. On weekends, my computer tends to be free until late afternoon. Why? I get up, I cook, I do some cleaning. On weekends, I really have no desire to be anywhere close to this damn CPU, unless I'm writing. I volunteered for extra duty again this weekend, but it still left the computer open until 6 last night and 8 again tonight.

He did look, I'll give him that. However, he couldn't pull the facts off the page.

Now...NOW he tells me "it's supposed to be about =========."

You didn't tell me that.

I told him last week I wouldn't be doing his homework for him. I will not. I won't do it. I won't. I did my sophomore year. In talking with my mother, she said, "I know I didn't write papers for you." I wouldn't have asked her. She had five kids. I relied on my own intelligence. I was arrogant enough to believe that I was smarter than she was.

Huh? She never did our homework. Who's smarter?

Everyone in this house, however, thinks because I type, I can do it all.

Here's his final offer: If I write it out, will you let me dictate?

My response? Fine, but for every minute of typing, I own you for that many minutes.

He's not happy. I don't care anymore.

Want additional suspicion? He won't tell me when it's due. I keep asking; he keeps telling me he just wants it done.

I think it's overdue, at this point.

Dude? Couldn't get him to do anything. He's got a mean streak, too, so I'm kind of wondering if he'll ever decide he's bigger than me (now that he is) and get out of control. I had enough and sent him to his room, and he slammed his door and banged on it. It's scaring me a bit.

Sunny won't go to bed. She knows the rule. Once the husband goes to bed, no kids in the room. She's been in here five times since 9:45 to report the status of her dry feet and hands and that none of my ideas are working. Of course, it's my fault that her hands and feet are so dry and my fault that she can't find her socks and my fault that she needs to wash her feet before the lotion - why didn't I explain that - and it's my fault she should have waited before getting in bed before doing the lotion for her feet.

That, and I made tons of french toast, two quiches, and BBQ pork today. For the last hour, while the pork was cooking, we had french toast and quiche to eat on. The husband kept wondering when the food was ready. He didn't want to eat anything I'd cooked already.

I feel I've been insulted, disregarded, dissed, and all other ways disrespected and subjected to ingratitude. I'll get over it, but I've got a headache. I never get headaches. When I get one, I'm past my limit on good graces. Did I mention that they said I'm no fun anymore? Indiana Jones was on the TV. I sat for an hour and watched it, begging, pleading, and then taking away privileges from Dude to get an area cleaned up that Junior already swept out. Ancient deal...Dude pitches a fit and we unfairly decide on peace and make the other two do it. Not today. He fought for every bit of paper. I explained later, when I could do it without yelling, that, had he done it all during the first commercial break, it was one of my favorite movies and I would have loved to watch it with him. Of course, he can't do that. He's waiting until we get pissed and send him away so we don't have to deal with it. I know we all do it as parents, but it's not fair. I was the appliance for my family. I know better. Bill Cosby said (I paraphrase), "Parents don't care about justice. We just want peace!" He's right. We do. But it ain't fair, and rectifying it after you've let him get away with it just isn't a good thing to do.

So here I sit, on my 20th Tums of the evening, hating this headache, and my eyelid is twitching.

I think I'll go write a decadent rub-a-dub tub scene.

#

10:00 p.m. 05/19/08

He's still not done! It's the next day, and I'm sitting here transcribing and suggesting stuff to get it to three pages. "Look it up?" he asked a few times. "Write it down and go get me some beef," I've said a few times.

Junior's a sophomore, folks. He had no clue how to do a bibliography, although I know we've done that before. He was, however, able to pull up a link about it and then say "huh" through the entire thing.

I want my mommy. I told Sunny I wanted to run away from home. She said, "Good. We can go to..."

I said, "Nothin' doing. I'm running away with me and nobody under the age of 117."

Shit fuzzy fuck. You know what I just realized?

My little girl made dinner for me. I didn't have to cook when I woke up.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DIDN'T DO???

I totally forgot to thank the child who made my life a little easier.

I'll have to rectify that in the morning. Yeah, here I am ranting about being subjected to ingratitude, and I didn't bother to verbally compliment my girl's attempt to help me out.
This rant is over. I'm still going to post it, though, because I made a big goof. I will admit it. I goofed.

God baby, I'm so sorry. I get into myself and stay there.

5:13 a.m., 05/20/08

I still feel like the worst mom in the world. What it is they say about pointing fingers and having some point back at you?

6:45, a.m. I told her thank you. She said no problem, but her eyes said, "somebody noticed." The paper is done. I doubt it's what the teacher wants, because I saw the syllabus in brief and didn't even bother. Dinner's actually ready, sitting out, and I'll pre-set the oven to start cooking it for when hub gets home. It's an adventure meal. I do those well.

Now, I need a hot soak in the tub. Once I do that, I can call doctors to make appointments for the kids, who need physicals for the upcoming school year, and all need dental appointments. While I'm doing that, the hot water will refill and I can do dishes.

I think. I'll forget something, I just know it.