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This Weekend: Gourmet Kibbles, Ogre Milk, and CIA Tequila

The crushing guilt I've felt since learning our dog, Truman, has epilepsy has resulted in him becoming the most pampered dog this side of the Mississippi. My response to learning anything scary is to try to defeat the fear with obscene amounts of research. In my latest round of research on dog health, I learned that commercial dog foods are made with preservatives with known links to cancer and other major health problems. Cancer has absolutely nothing to do with Truman's seizures, but I've switched his dog food anyway - to a brand made with organic chicken, oatmeal, and raspberries. Uh, I think that's better than the food WE eat. Spare no expense for my poor epileptic dog!! I've also started feeding him twice a day, and supplementing his organic food with eggs and vegetables, to vary his diet of course. The kids can eat chicken nuggets with crushed beaks and bone meal every day, but Truman has seizures! And therefore he must eat only the best.

Friday afternoon, John and I took the kids to find a new bed and some new toys for the dog, too. (It's good to introduce your kids to the manipulation of guilt from a very early age.) They were oblivious though, and spent the entire time making the Wal-Mart patrons think they were sweet, happy children while they stood mesmerized in front of the mechanical 4-foot dancing (writhing) and singing Santa. People kept walking up to me going, "are they yours? They are so adorable." I told them they're only like that when we stay on top of their valium doses. And within about 15 minutes, Quinn proved to the ENTIRE Super Wal-Mart that I had indeed not stayed on top, because he flipped his demon switch and decided he needed milk THAT VERY SECOND. "We don't have any milk, Quinn, we'll get some at home." Volume: Ear-shattering. Intensity: Aneurism. He was so enraged that he couldn't even keep up with himself: "YOU!.....STOP!.....THAT!....NOW!...WANT!....MILK!.....AAAAA! AAAAAAAA!!! AAAAA!!!!" Bryce tried to "help" by furthering Quinn's rage. "What do you want, Quinn? Milk? Do you want chocolate milk or regular milk?" "AAAAAA!!!! OGRE MILK!! I WANT OGRE MILK!!! NO! DON'T TALK TO ME! WANT.... OGRE!....MILK!.....NOW!...AAAAAA!!!" The people that thought Quinn was so "adorable" while he was mesmerized by the Santa, who would have said, "oh how cute, he pronounces 'regular' like 'ogre'...I've never see anything cuter!" now clutched their innocents to their chests, avoided eye contact, and ran far, far away. But really, milk for the ogre was exactly what we needed. And once we procured the ogre milk, everything was just fine. Fair weather friends. They suck.

On Saturday, to let John get some work done, the kids and I went to a craft fair with my mom. Bryce insisted on pushing his stroller the whole way, so I spent the majority of my time there hissing things like, "you can't run into peo - WATCH OUT!" and "I'm warning you, if you come close to anyone again, I'm going to - WATCH OUT!" and "this is your last chance, Bry -- WATCH OUT!" My mom bought some big items, so I carried them out while she pushed Quinn and Bryce pushed my purse in his stroller. As soon as we got to the parking lot, Bryce non-chalantly stopped, walked around to the front of the stroller, moved my purse, sat down, and looked at me, with a huge chair under one arm and a huge old farm window under the other. Yep, he had me by the balls. I tried a new tactic. "Hey Bryce, I really need your help. Could you please keep pushing the stroller until we get to Megama's car? I can't push it since I'm holding all this stuff, see? What do you think, could you help me?" Give me a big pat on the back, I didn't huff and puff or go straight to the usual tense, loud voice. I just knew this was going to work. Please oh please oh please oh please oh please let this work. Bryce didn't move. He looked at me calmly, but his voice wasn't calm. This kid was enjoying himself. "Mom! I can't!! I can't!! My hands are too tired to push this thing!" My mom was halfway across the parking lot, and then Bryce took off to follow her. OH...My...God. My kid just screwed me BIG TIME. Look at me! I'm a big dork who just got dumped by a four-year-old! Here I am, stupidly holding all this crap, standing next to an empty stroller, like a big dumb idiot! YES!

Luckily the next stop was our favorite Mexican restaurant, where we were meeting John for dinner and margaritas. I should have really said our favorite margarita restaurant, because that's really the reason we go there. My usual large margarita was emptied only halfway through my meal - as I'm sure you can understand given the craft fair parking lot abandonment and humiliation I was still internally kicking myself over. My mom and stepdad noticed, and offered to order another one: "you don't have the kids tonight since they're coming home with us, why not?" Why not, indeed? Another round, Forhay (that's how Quinn pronounces the name of our favorite waiter there - Jorge)! I only recently discovered that I actually LIKE margaritas; I've never been much of a drinker because I either haven't had the time for it, or (I think this next theory might make more sense) I had never been driven to the point of insanity on a daily basis before having kids and therefore never felt the need to "drown my sorrows" - and in fact, I never actually understood that term before my kids were born. All that said, I never have time to order more than one at a time, and at this particular restaurant, you really don't NEED to, because their special concoctions are the perfect blend of..um, effective and tasty - and I'm picky, so that's saying a LOT. After I finished my second one, I noticed that John still had a long way to go on his second, and the following conversation transpired:

Kristen: See, I told you I think I have a freakish tolerance. You have 50% more body weight and 17 more years of alcohol exposure and you're having trouble finishing that one. And here I am, talking away, you can't even tell I've had any alcohol. It's weird!

John: Yeah. Really friggin' amazing. Finish your chips.

Kristen: Seriously. How do I sound? I'm perfectly clear and I could still win a debate! I could work for the CIA! They need people who can appear perfectly normal and logical even while under the influence of toxins and mental stress.

John: [muffling laughter, but not very well] Oh yeah!? You're going to work for the CIA now? You drank two margaritas and you're CIA material.

Kristen: Laugh all you want, but it's a good point.

John: I admit that you don't appear to be drunk at all. And your words aren't slurred either. It is a little strange.

Twenty-five minutes later, in the movie theater,while we waited for the movie to start, those stupid margaritas really kicked my little CIA wannabe ass. We were sitting there talking and it was all I could do to keep the room from spinning out of control - didn't these FOOLS eating popcorn and sipping their cokes know that something was dreadfully wrong in the universe? Was no one wondering why the dimly lit room was tilting, tilting, tilting to the right? Or was it to the left? How is it that I'm the only white-knuckled one here clutching the arms of my chair? John is chatting away next to me. He asks me something, I have no recollection of what, because all I remember is my response, and then his:

"Look, all I'm able to focus on right now is not throwing up."

"OH!! 'Look at me, I'm a CIA agent! Oops, could you excuse me? I need to throw up!'"

So, we've learned that Kristen is a well-spoken, but very naive, and let's not forget - COCKY drunk. Forhay, why didn't you warn me?