Stream of Consciousness

I had dinner tonight with some of my Friends for Life or Longer from the Mayor's office. We laughed and drank and ate crepes.

I haven't had crepes since 2006, in this hole-in-the-wall "crepe bar" in Georgetown, where you go in and pick your filling and they make you a crepe and sprinkle it with powdered sugar. I filled mine with mint chocolate chips.

I had a cheeseboard for supper tonight. Shut your face. It's protein.

These days all my protein comes in the form of chicken. If I ever tire of chicken in this life, I'm so f*cked.

I shared a crepe covered with ice cream and chocolate sauce with my peeps for dessert.

At the end the plate was covered with melted ice cream and swirls of whipped cream. Landen would have shit his pants and licked the plate.

My therapist strongly believes that I have some unresolved anger issues surfacing and we need to work on that. I can't wait. Sarcasm.

Mental health professionals are telling me that when your children tell you they hate you, it means you're doing a good job. It makes me angry. See above.

I tell Landen that I am not here to make him happy all the time. I'm here to love him, make him polite, keep him healthy and make sure he learns. He does not care for this.

Landen picks his toenails and fingernails like his dad. Jake does not. He does not particularly enjoy having them cut, though.

Nor does he like to wash his hair, brush his teeth or get a haircut. I see us having trouble impressing upon this boy the importance of hygiene later in life. I can't live with Pigpen. He has a sweet face, especially with a whole milk mustache.

I have concluded that the impulse to lick your finger to wipe your kid's mouth is instinctual.

I have OCD. I am not telling you what kind. You can read all about it here and guess. Famous people have OCD: Donald Trump, Cameron Diaz, Katy Perry, David Beckham, Dan Ackroyd, Rosie O'Donnell and Leonardo DiCaprio.

I always wish that I could break things when I am angry. But somebody has to clean up the mess, and that someone would likely be me. I threw a cup of grape Kool-Aid in Corey's face years ago, during Round One. He deserved it. He thinks it's funny now. I didn't clean it up.

I would like to pour grape Kool-Aid down the tuba of the brass band playing below my window at the corner of Bourbon and Canal at this hour for the second night in a row. I won't, though, because I am all about artists making that money. They're really good too.

In 2003 when I started working for Rodney Alexander, the trade paper did a spotlight on the staffs of all the new Congressman. They asked us five questions about ourselves, the last one being "what is something people would be surprised to learn about you?" I said that I played the French horn for six years in junior high and high school. It was published as "In her spare time, Wilson plays the French horn." I have never been able to live this down.

I was at best mediocre at the French horn. I did not like to practice. Or walk and play at the same time. I liked band boys and bus rides.

My first kiss was on a bus ride home from a ball game my freshman year. The earth did not move.

The first words Corey ever said to me were "if this pizza sucks we'll kick your ass." He was totally flirting with me.

Our favorite pizza in the world is at the local pizza parlor in Jena. It's amazing when it's cold.

Corey wants to eat steak when he comes home. I told him we could have Ruth's Chris one night, or moderately-priced steak two nights. He chose moderately-priced for two nights. I wish he would've chosen Ruth's.

I'm still washing Corey's random socks.

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