My mom called this afternoon to concede defeat in the Great Mason Lake Bake-Off ’05. I played it cool because the real victory in my mind was not in which pie received the most accolades but in bringing passive-aggressive anti-pie comments to the fore – like, are we gonna have a rumble or not, bitch? Anyway, as my husband said yesterday as my extended family dug into the spoils of our competition: “We’re all winners, because we all get to eat pie.”
My daughter continues on with her photography habit, becoming increasingly devious and/or wise-ass in her choice of opportune moments. This is me after staying up until 2:30 AM watching Sin City (excellent fim, by the way).
In a slighly wacky coda to our weekend, this evening we took Sophie along to an amazing dinner at our friends’ house – he a chef, no less – and while we were there our babysitter called with a very calm, collected report that our FUCKING SIXTEEN-MONTH OLD CHILD HAD MANAGED TO GET INTO THE RUBBING ALCOHOL. Of course, if this kind of thing is going to happen it’s probably best to get a calm voice mail about it, indicating a call to poison control (Ralph jokes, “Hey, that’s more than we would have done!”) and a report of no signs of poisoning. Nels is a tuff li’l bastid – tough on himself, his parents, babysitters, and anyone that tries to reel him in.