We got dry ice packed in with a shipment at work today.

Apparently I'm rather odd, in that as soon as I saw it, I claimed it. "Oh, I am taking that home!" My coworker looked at me oddly. "You know, you can freeze fruit, shatter it. You can make a spooky cauldron. You can even make root beer!" He gave me that look; you know the one. It says, Okay, sweetie. I'm glad you're excited. You're weird for it, but hey, I'm happy that you're happy.

This is the same reaction I got from a second coworker.

Then, as I was walking out of the building, I passed Kevin. I do so adore Kevin. He gave me the curious look: You have a box. That's not one of our normal boxes. The box has frost on it. Tell me about the box!

I had just the slightest hesitation before telling him about it. Twice bitten, whatnot. But this was Kevin! He did not let me down.

"Ohmygod, dry ice is. so. cool! You can do so many things with it! Like a spooky cauldron. Do we get this in a lot? Where can you even buy dry ice?*"

I love Kevin. But he was not getting my dry ice. He can have the next batch, though, I swear.

I'm gonna stand on this side of the normal line, with Kevin. Life's always more fun over here.

Me, enjoying one of those cool things you can do with dry ice. This is kind of in real time because Sam is taking this photo while I'm writing this post. Also, my husband is a kick-ass bartender.

See the fog? See the frozen lemons? See the tequila?

*Dear those closer to the west coast (okay, mostly Utah). You cannot buy dry ice in supermarkets in the east. I know, this is odd to you. It is, nonetheless, a fact.

I did the friendly thing and did not post this without giving them ample opportunity to respond.

A copy of an email I sent to a company:

Dear Martin's,

What the heck.

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

And they did nothing! That's it, Martin's! I'm calling you out, for the entire internet to see! For shame! Writhe in the muck that shall now be your reputation!

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

When is the last time you got excited by mail delivery?

The answer is "not since bills started arriving with my name on them". Who gets excited by mail, past age 13? I'll tell you who- this girl, that's who.

I present to you what I got from one of my fabulous readers (my mom!):

That's right. An entire case of Spreeeeeees!

Of course, Mom is earning herself a reputation. Substitute "waffle maker" for "Sprees", and you get this post from my sister, Lindsey. We really lucked out with that mom of ours.

I had to eventually throw the roll into the back seat of the car.

I was going on a bit of a drive to pick up the kids- off visiting the grandparents. I don't know how it was when you were growing up, but for me, the drive was all about the snacks. As I have zero self-control when it comes to food that is in my vicinity, I knew I was going to stop at some point and stock up on goodies of some sort, so I went with a preemptive strike and stopped before I left town. I got baked chips and Sprite Zero (which is kinda feh, but so is Sprite, thus it's actually somewhat close to the original flavor and is not nearly as aspartamey as a lot of those "zero" or low cal drinks (I'm looking at you, Ocean Spray Sparkling Cranberry.)).

I also got some SweeTarts. What I really wanted were Sprees, which, when I was a kid, was a competing brand to SweeTarts, but apparently Wonka owns them both now? Either Wonka (which I think of as a "he" instead of an "it" or "they") (and the "he" is Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp) (much as I want to eat him normally) (Depp, not Wilder), is phasing out Sprees, or they are atrociously loathed in my small part of the world. They are not to be found anywhere. So, fine, I bought the SweeTarts. They were my absolute favorite as a child.

I categorically hated them.

I don't think they've changed since I was a child. I think this is my fault. No, wait. I take it back. It's Sam's fault. You see, those SweeTarts tasted oddly similar to those cheap, neon-colored, fruity drinks you get in restaurants that have a "bar". Mind you, I'm not talking about restaurants that have a bar, but a "bar". You know, cute young chick behind the taps who is excellent at twisting a cap off a beer bottle, but you order a martini, and she cocks her head to one side like a confused dog and asks, "Uhm, do you mean an appletini?" No, bitch, I do not.

So then she goes to pull the bartender's guide out from under the bar and you know you're up shit-creek. Here, sweetie, let me teach you an essential life skill. This is a jigger. No, seriously, even if you do find a bottle marked "martini mix", you just leave that where it is.

Now, I admit that there was a short time in my young life when I would have been, "Ooh, yummers! Appletini! Or maybe do you have something pink?"

And then Sam became deeply interested in all things alcohol- including how to mix virtually any cocktail, and stocked our cabinet with thegoodstuff, and now I'm known for returning improperly made margaritas, y'all. Also, there's the possibility that, sometimes, every once in a while, rarely, you might catch me instructing the waiter to have the bartender "taste this" with a sneer on my face.

This takes us back to my car drive and the disturbingly dissatisfying SweeTarts. I taste the first one. Ew, gross. I try a different flavor. Okay, gross, too. Hate blue, skip that. Nope, gross and gross. Okay, lesson learned. I don't like any of the SweeTarts. I know, let me have another one. Yuck. Let's have another. Ohmygod, what is wrong with me? I have no self-control!

Let's have one more.

That's my girl.

For the entirety of their lives, I have given my kids a hard time whenever they try to talk to me through the bathroom door. Sometimes I say, "Not when I'm in the bathroom!", "I'll talk to you when I come out!", or "I'm in the bathroom!" Because, dammit, those two minutes are my me-time, and I deserve it. Generally speaking, they don't need to be reprimanded much anymore: "Mom?" "Bathroom!" "Oh," and little (and now? notsolittle) feet patter away.

This was the conversation this evening:

Connor: Where did Mom go?
Emily: She's going to the bathroom! Is that okay with you?

Ah, grasshopper.

We interrupt this blog for a bit of fiction from Connor (a finish-the-story assignment):

Suddenly, he tripped and the men were on top of him, hitting him repeatedly. When he was bruised and bloodied, they dragged him back to the cottage. They tied him to a stake in the front yard by his hands and feet so tight he could not move an inch.
The old woman came out and cackled madly. "In the morning, boy, in the morning," spittle going down her chin and her eyes wide and quite mad. The boy stared at her for a moment, fear in his eyes, before he drifted into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was being dragged away by the men. By now he was barely conscious and when they dropped him, he could barely move at all, let alone get away. They looked at him for a moment, then, grinning evilly, they said, "Good bye, boy." They pushed him down, and soon he was suffocating on dirt.
He struggled for a second, then he lived no more.

No Beer This Time

Sam is testing Ethan on spelling. "Curl."
Ethan responds, "c-u-r-l."
Next Sam says, "Bitch."
Beat.
Beat.
I look at him, befuddled. Ethan starts giggling.
"Huh?" Sam says as if it had come from someone else. He rechecks the paper. "Oh. Birth."
I think Sam's cold meds are slowing his brain down a bit.