Game!

In honor of yesterday's game (GO COCKS!!), I'm going to tell you a story, a story that I believe will give you a real feel for what it means to be a Gamecock.

A few years ago, I was glamorously employed as a background person in a series of exercise videos. It was actually a lot of fun. I've never had an actual job*, so it was pretty cool to be the returning hero for a couple of weeks; I was the one the kids were excited to see at the end of the day, not boring old Daddy. And, I must admit, it was pretty relaxing to hang out with grownups for eight to ten hours a day. The catering was another perk (and so Hollywood!) We were exercising all day, albeit in short spurts, so I had to eat like crazy to keep from losing too much weight. At one point, I did a rough calculation and realized I was eating about the same amount as a high school athlete - and losing weight - every mother's dream! The taste of peanut M&M's, shoveled into the mouth by the handful between takes, I will never forget. But, I digress. The videos were filmed at a studio in an old, not-so-genteel part of town, very near Williams-Brice Stadium, Home of the Fighting Gamecocks. The producers had leased a big warehouse, behind a taxi company, down the street from Sonic and across the street from some actual houses.

As it happened, we were filming on the day of the Gamecocks' first game of the season. On that day, my friend (who was a background drudge like me, but also an assistant to the producer/director and choreographer, so much more important than I) was outside having a cigarette. Yup, plenty of fitness people smoke, including my trainer. How do you think they stay so thin? As it happened, she was out there with a very quiet and shy guy from the film crew. The contrast between the crew and us exercise-y people was fun. They were professionals and we were boring housewives. Did I mention the videos were going to be marketed to the ancient, thirty five and up crowd? No? That's probably because I wanted you to think I was some kind of jock. In fact, I was instructed not to mention my age, as I was not yet thirty five. My age was irrelevant; I was the only one without Botox and/or enhanced tatas, so they all looked younger than I did anyway. The film crew was disappointed; many of them had worked on exercise videos for regular people. According to one of the guys, who I knew from my bar-hopping pre-kids days, he was just disappointed that we were all married. He said we were all good looking enough, just married, with kids. I think he was being kind (Thank you, George!) I think they would have preferred hotter, younger exercise ladies.

The crew was made up of really cool people - the kind of people who make me wonder what might have been if I had grown a pair and tried harder instead of having babies and buying couches all the time. They were a lot of fun, and smart as hell to boot. But. I. Digress.

My friend (picture a glamorous blonde who was mistaken, while in New York City, for Kim Catrall) was outside smoking and was joined by one of the crew members. He was the strong, silent type and very cute, in a scruffy band guy/but smart kind of way. The kind of boy who makes me nostalgic for my misspent youth...and almost immediately happy that it's over. This guy never talked, ever, unlike my friend, who's a talker like me. As she tells it, they smoked in silence for quite a while before he turned, ever so slightly, toward her and said, out of the side of his Cool Alt Boy mouth, "Look across the street. You gotta' look." After she recovered from the shock of hearing him speak, she looked.

Across the street was a house, a bit dilapidated, but definitely a house. In the yard of the house was some stuff. A lot of stuff. With price tags on it. In front of the house was a hand-lettered sign, advertising a (fairly obvious) yard sale. Cool Alt Boy informed my friend that they'd been out there every day, the whole time we were filming. It was not clear to him or anyone else whether they were out there year round or just while we were there. The extended yard sale was not enough, though, to make Cool Alt Boy speak. That sort of thing is not exactly unheard of where I'm from. The thing that forced him to speak, pushed him over the edge, was the person in charge of the till.

She was pregnant, so pregnant that she was ready to pop, by anyone's calculation. She was at the stage of pregnancy where it's no longer risky to ask, "When are you due, honey?" She was wearing cutoff jeans, not abnormal in this part of the country, and a belly-baring halter top, also not abnormal 'round these parts. I'm pretty sure none of these things would have forced Cool Alt Boy to speak. The thing that rendered him incapable of not sharing (his girlfriend would have been jealous!) was the fact that the ripe young lady had the word "COCKS" painted across her belly. As in, I say, "GAME," you say "COCKS!!!!!"

All I'm asking you to do is picture it. I wish I had a photograph, but I don't, because I was inside at the All-You-Can-Eat Peanut M&M bar. It doesn't matter if she was a true Gamecock or just trying to drum up business. Being a Gamecock is all about being proud and showing the love, without shame. When I say, "GAME," you better yell, "COCKS!!!!"

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, it just dawned on me: I once said I never wanted to have a full time job. I'm pretty old and I don't have one yet. Let's see how far I can go with this.

My Kids' School Lunches Are All About Me

A school lunch consists of three things: the Main Thing, The Fruit and the ever challenging Third Thing. Normal people only eat one thing for lunch, a sandwich maybe, or leftovers, perhaps a nice salad or cup of soup. At school, where lunches are judged by teachers and other students, one must also have a piece of fruit and a Third Thing. At home, I rarely reach for an apple after my lunch, nor do I request one in a restaurant. And the Third Thing? Never happens. In my world, the Third Thing is a snack, to be enjoyed hours after the meal. But if you don't want to be known as the mom who starves her kids, you must send a piece of fruit and a Third Thing, every single day. And you must check behind your husband if he makes the lunches because, in this mysogynistic world, you will still be blamed. To be honest, this bit of sexism may be merited. My husband will send the same lunch, every single time:

1. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There's nothing inherently wrong with this one, but my kids don't really like it. If that's all I have to send, I make sure the Third Thing is even worse, so they'll be forced to eat the sandwich or the fruit.
2. He does okay with the fruit. Not perfect. Sometimes, he'll send six grapes in a cup. Or an unsliced apple to a kid with a loose tooth. Or a banana. Bananas are bad because they can't be recycled. Kids often don't eat the fruit. An apple or orange, you can leave in the lunch box and send it again the next day. I once sent the same apple every day for a week. Not the banana.
3. The Third Thing. I admit, this one is tough, even for the best of us. My husband will skip it (the horror!) or send leftover snacks from soccer. I do that too, occasionally, but you have to be careful. There are rules. One rule is that you must buy soccer snacks in line with what the other parents buy. Now is not the time to get up on your soapbox and hand out organic, high fructose corn syrup free spelt crackers and apple slices. Trust me. You can only send that leftover crap for lunch if the main thing is really impressive.
   

And here's how it should be done. If you don't have kids, read on anyway. You might need to pack school lunches some day or you might enjoy a quick and easy lunch yourself. Let's start with the main course, which has become a bit more challenging now that O. is a vegetarian. We used to rely on turkey sandwiches; now I have to think outside the (lunch) box. Main courses we like:

• English muffin pizzas. By now, you should know what I'm going to say next: Buy the English muffins at the Fancy Mart so you can get them without unrecognizable ingredients. Split an English muffin in half. Spread pesto (only if you have some) and pizza sauce (Fancy Mart!) on each side. I add vegetarian "pepperoni," but you can add whatever you like. Sprinkle cheese on top and toast. I like to get the pre-shredded mozzarella because I'm lazy. One of the other moms at school stopped me in the carpool line the other day to ask where I got the pizzas because her kids wanted them and wanted them bad. Made my day.
• Make your kid a dang Quesa-dillah! Take a (sprouted wheat, if you dare) tortilla. On one side, put whatever you have that seems quesadilla-ish. We like black beans (or refried), green onions, salsa, frozen spinach, a little taco seasoning and shredded cheese. Fold it in half and toast it so the cheese melts, which will glue the whole thing together. A slight alteration will turn this into a burrito, which is a great use of leftover rice.
  
• Tuna salad. For some reason, my kids are loving this. You can make the Gingered Tuna Salad or the Classic: canned tuna, chopped celery or apples and a bit of mayo. If you're concerned about the mayo going bad (I'm not), use veganaise. Serve the tuna salad on English muffins or miniature bagels. Kids will eat anything on a miniature bagel. Tip: Thomas' whole wheat mini-bagels have high fructose corn syrup, Pepperidge Farms' do not. The Fancy Mart is too fancy to stock the miniature bagel.
  
• Leftovers: Pasta, crab cakes and party food are big hits with my kids. Although it's kind of tacky and you shouldn't do it on a regular basis, it's fun to send a box of leftover party appetizers, like mini-quiche, cheese puffs, asparagus with tarragon mayonnaise and cheese and crackers. Equally tacky, but guaranteed to delight your children, are restaurant leftovers. Fried rice is a good one.
• Speaking of fried rice, take some leftover rice, throw it in a pan with some soy sauce (or any other sauce you might have: Hoisin, teriyaki or Vietnamese Fish Sauce, to name a few) and whatever frozen or fresh veggies you have (broccoli, corn, red pepper, green onions, carrots). Fry an egg and cut it into pieces; add that to the rice. Voilà! Fried Rice!
  
• Soup. In a thermos, please.
• Nori rolls. My kids will eat anything wrapped in seaweed. In a pinch, you can buy ready made rolls in the deli section at almost any super market. Muss them up a bit and put them in your own container if you want to impress.
  
• Quiche. This is a great one, because it's easy to make and can last for a few lunches. It's good hot or cold. Just make sure the quiche is totally set before you slice it; it'll travel better.
• Pigs in a blanket. This is just to be nice or, in my case, to totally surprise your kids. You can use veggie dogs or regular hot dogs. Cut them in half and wrap each half in a refrigerator crescent roll. Cook, cool and send with a side of mustard. Your kid will be the envy of everyone at school.
• Some kind of grain with stuff mixed in. Couscous, rice, quinoa or bulgur (that stuff in tabbouleh) are all good. Add nuts, raisins, veggies and/or sesame seeds. Stir in a little olive oil if it seems dry. Or soy sauce. Kids love soy sauce.
  

Fruit might seem easy, but here are some things I have learned. Your mileage may vary.

• Bananas are not ideal, for the reason I mentioned before.
• Peeled oranges are more likely to get eaten than unpeeled.
• Tangerines are more likely to get eaten if you remind your kid that they are not oranges and are much easier to peel.
• Grapes are good.
• Sliced apples and kiwi are more likely to get eaten than unsliced.
• Pineapple is a treat.
• So is sliced mango.
• Keep a bag of frozen, mixed fruit on hand. It comes in handy in a pinch and will mostly melt by lunchtime. Send a fork.
• Dried fruit is not a fruit. It is a Third Thing.

And now, the Third Thing, the bane of my existence. Well, not really, but it is a pain. The Third Thing must be chosen wisely. It should be good, but not so good that it will be eaten in place of the main thing. Once in a blue moon, you can skip the Third Thing, but this is for advanced lunch makers only; I can't really explain how you know when it's okay, but I know it when I see it. Here are some Third Thing options:

• Carrot and/or celery sticks. Bonus points for a little container of ranch dressing (Fancy Mart only, all of the other ones have MSG) or hummus for dipping.
• A second piece of fruit. I'm not proud, but sometimes this is necessary. If possible, make sure the two are different shapes and colors, like a green apple and red grapes.
• Apple slices with peanut butter. This is a convenient fruit and Third Thing in one.
• Ants on a Log. Celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins. Tip: the fresh ground peanut butter holds up better; it's not as runny as the jarred kind.
• Leftover popcorn
• The day after a party, leftover chips or melba toast. Just make sure you weed out the soggy ones that were next to the dip.
  
• Homemade trail mix. Get creative and use what you have in the cabinet:
• raisins
  
• dried apricots, apples or figs
• shredded coconut
• leftover cocktail nuts
• roasted peas
• chocolate chips
• cereal
• a chopped Viactiv calcium caramel chew
• M&M's
• Applesauce. To clarify, this is not a fruit, because it is a sauce!
• Leftover snacks from soccer, if and only if the rest of the lunch is ridiculously healthy and tasty.
• Dessert. I try to only send dessert if I made it: banana bread, a cookie or two, a small piece of cake. The fact that you made it will impress the teachers, so they will overlook the fact that you sent your child junk food. One of my children had a teacher that would send packaged junk food back home, but let the child eat the same food if it appeared to have been made at home. Not that I'm suggesting repackaging junk food...
  

Drinks are optional. We send a water bottle every day. Cute notes are also optional, but you should try for at least once a week. Kids love the notes. And you can write stuff like, "Eat your fruit, because Daddy and I love you!" Make sure you sign them with love. If you have more than one child, make sure the notes are similar (equal amounts of affection) but not exactly alike. And that is all I have to say about school lunch.

Namasté, y'all!

Things I Can't Find

• Two silver punch ladles. I had them at our old house and they are gone, gone, gone. Believe it or not, I would actually use them. Both. Here's a great punch recipe: Mix equal parts Minute Maid frozen limeade (prepared), gingerale and pineapple juice. Make an ice ring (in a small, non-fluted tube pan) out of sliced limes, pineapple rings and equal parts limeade and pineapple juice. In fact, make two, so midway through your soirée you can change the old one for a fresh one to keep the punch super cold and pretty. I've never tried adding liquor (vodka? rum?), but I bet it would be good. Let me know if you try it.
  
  
• My purple Patagonia jacket that I bought in the eighties. That jacket rocked. This one time, I was wearing it and I got drunk and climbed over an iron gate with my friends. I fell down the other side, ripping a huge hole in the jacket's sleeve when it caught on one of the spikes at the top of the gate. I sent the jacket to Patagonia and told them what I had done. They replaced the sleeve and it looked like new. No charge, no lecture. How cool is that? But I don't think loss is covered under the lifetime warranty. My brother in law has a jacket that looks suspiciously like it, but the color is a bit off.
  
  
• The glasses that may or may not have been in the pocket of that jacket. I don't need glasses anymore, so I don't really care. Oddly, my vision got better with pregnancy and I now rock 20/20. But the glasses were Oliver Peoples and made me look quite smart, so I wish I still had them. I have not seen my brother in law wearing the glasses.
  
  
• My keys, at least three times a week.
  
  
• My sanity, when I lose my effing keys!
  
  
• My husband's bike, which was stolen earlier this week. Don't feel too bad for him, though, because the shed was unlocked and the door was open, just as he left it.
  
  
• Our marriage license. No big deal, really, I got a copy of it last year. And no one ever asks to see it.
  
  
• My Charlie's Angels lunch box. I don't want to use it, but I would like to sell it on Ebay.
  
  
• O's Nintendo DS Never mind. We found it, behind the hand mixer in the cabinet to the left of the stove. Of course. How cool is it that he wasn't even that upset that it was missing? I love that kid.
  
  
• The perfect retro modern fabric with which to make curtains for my kitchen.
  
  
• Those two white, monogrammed hand towels. Eh. I'm over those.
  
  
• The really pretty hair clip I bought from Urban Nirvana a few years ago. It was very fancy and I really miss it!
  
  
• The navy blue fleece pullover with the planets on it that my mom got for O. when he was little.
  
  
• The charger to my camera battery.
  
  
• Plants that I can't kill.
  
  
• The perfect garlic press. It should be easy to work, easy to clean and able to crush several garlic cloves in a single press!
  
  
• The perfect nut chopper. It needs to chop nuts uniformly. What's up with the combination of whole and powdered nuts?
  
  
• That totally awesome mini dress that belonged to my mom in the sixties and fit perfectly. I would so love to rock that dress right now. I seriously have no idea what happened to it. And I'm not the kind of girl who loses clothes, if you know what I mean.
  
  
• The perfect top to go with this really cool skirt I have. The skirt is made of vintage tie fabric and I'd like to wear it to our friend's wedding next month.
  
  
• The perfect wedding gift for our friend who is getting married next month.
  
  
• A great shoe repair place.
  
  
• A purpose.
  
  
• It in my heart to forgive my husband for lying to me all the time.

Namasté, y'all.

Life Simplifier of the Day

When O was little, like a good and lonely new mommy, I regularly attended La Leche League and a Hippy Mommy Playgroup. Although I don't go anymore, they both served me well at the time. I learned a lot in LLL:

• Breastfeeding is normal.
• I don't have to defend my parenting choices, but I can, if I'm willing to risk boring the heck out of other people.
• Some people take the whole natural parenting thing too far and are extremely boring when talking about it.
• Even hippies can be judgmental and small-minded. Okay, I already knew that, but I got to see it in action.
  

The Hippy Playgroup meant a lot to me, too. I made some good friends and these are some things I learned:

• A. can take care of his own children just fine while I go out with friends for a few hours. Really.
• I can still carry on interesting conversations, as long as I have coffee, even though my brain has gotten more and more addled with each child.
  
• Bringing food to a family with a baby is a super nice thing to do. Doesn't matter what the food is and doesn't matter how well you know them. After the X-Man was born, we had food almost every night for over a month. I still get teary thinking about how much that meant to me. Not all of the food was our preference and we didn't know some of the people very well. I'm eternally grateful to them and I try to help other people when I can, without worrying if it'll seem weird.
• I don't have to defend my parenting choices and, if I want to be a good friend, I won't question the choices of my friends. I can assume all of my friends are intelligent (cuz I aM so sMarT.) If they want my opinion, they'll ask. If they have all of the information they want or need, they'll make a great decision based on that, without my help or judgment.
• The vast majority of people who choose to homebirth and/or homeschool do it for great reasons. A very, very small minority make those choices because they are socially phobic and/or very small-minded.
  
• Hummus is not appropriate for a party.
• How to make a pie crust right in the pan, no trouble, no mess.

The last was courtesy of my friend J's grandmother, who I've never met, but suspect I would like immensely. And now, I am passing it on to you.

Pat in the Pan Crust, by Madeline Colletti*

Right there in a 9 inch pie pan, dump and mix the following:

1 1/2 cups + 3 tablespoons flour. If you want to use whole wheat, I recommend whole wheat pastry flour. But what I really recommend is good old all-purpose flour (organic and unbleached, of course!)

1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup vegetable oil

3 tablespoons milk (It works fine with whatever kind of milk: soy, rice, goat, cow, skim, whole, etc.)

If you want to get fancy, you can mix the dry ingredients (in the pan!) with a fork first. Then pour (in the pan!) the milk and oil. When I made it last night, though, I dumped everything right in the pan (!) and it came out great. Mix it with a fork (guess where!) until the dry ingredients are moist and the dough is chunky.

Now press it into the pan with your fingers. I recommend pressing it into the sides first, then use what's left for the bottom. After you add your filling, you can go back around the edges and press the dough lower if it was too high. I like to make it a little bit too high so I can get a nice fat edge around the top.

This crust is great for a pie or a quiche. If you're a quiche maker, here's a base recipe:

4-5 eggs

spoonful of mustard (any kind, even good old yellow hot dog mustard, but I prefer something with a bit of zing.)

cup of grated cheese (any kind.)

splash of milk

salt and pepper to taste

That can be dumped over whatever veggies or meat you like in your quiche.

Now cook the thing at 350° for 35-45 minutes, until the crust is slightly brown. let it sit out on the counter until the center is truly set. Eat it hot or cold.

Namasté, y'all!

*copyright © 2001 Madeline Colletti

I Should Never Complain

I am filled with joy. Right now, as I type, a nice man is in my kitchen installing a brand new dishwasher, one that works. It's going to be so awesome; I may have a party for it this weekend. At the party, we could use all the glasses in the house and just run the dishwasher again and again, until they're all clean. The house is peaceful; O and the X-Man are at school and Baby J is napping. And I'm trying very hard not to laugh out loud. Not because of my giddiness over the dishwasher, but because the dishwasher guy just farted. No lie*. I could hear it from the other room. Farting aside, I'm thrilled he's here.

Sunday night, I came home from Yoga to find a very happy and proud husband. Happy, because he was about to leave for a beach trip in the name of work (translation: several days of hanging out with all his lawyer friends at a conference, with no kids, of course. And getting to write it all off. Lucky.) Proud, because, as he announced before I was all the way inside, "I emptied the dishwasher for you!" That's nice, I thought, in my Yoga-induced haze. But, as I walked past the dishwasher, I noticed that it had only completed half a cycle.

I've always had issues with that dishwasher. In fact, it's probably my fault that it didn't work, low expectations and all. It was here when we moved in. It looked so smug sitting there, in all it's stainless steel, European glory. It was a Bosch. Please don't tell me how much you love your Bosch. I'm thrilled for you, I really am, but we had no love for ours, nor it for us. We may have found it intimidating; perhaps it was just too sophisticated for us. One problem with the Bosch is that, down heah in the backwoods, there are only two companies who will work on it. One of them we've used for other things, so we called them when it broke the first time. Within that company, only two guys are trained to work on Bosch. One of them is Sully.

Sully is mean, pompous, insane and not, I'm sorry to say, all that bright. And he came to our house, several times. He talked the whole time he was here, whether or not we were in the room with him. I think he evened talked when we weren't home. His final analysis was, "It's fixed. Make sure you run the hot water for three minutes every time before you start it." I expressed my feeling that this did not equal "fixed." Sully told me I was wrong and that every dishwasher in the world is like this. Never mind that the heat part was working fine until he messed with it; we had called about something else entirely. Sully was like a dog worrying a bone. He refused to admit that there was any problem other than the fact that we were too selfish to warm up the water for the pampered brat of a dishwasher. He came again and again, chipping cabinets, spilling water and in general being a nuisance. The only nice thing he ever did for me was turn off a pot of chicken stock that was boiling over. But, who wouldn't?

Herr Bosch still didn't work and the company sent the other worker, after my normally mild-mannered husband called and told them that Sully was never to darken our door again. In the end, the dishwasher sort of worked and I got to think my husband was pretty hot, standing up to the repair company like that. He was defending my honor: Sully called me a liar when I mentioned that I had never had to run hot water for a dishwasher before. When I realized that the dishwasher was, once again, not doing its job, I decided on the spot to buy a new one. I couldn't take another (six or seven) visits from Sully.

Anyhow, as I considered the possibility of searching through the cabinets and drawers, seeking out everything that still had food and soap streaks on it, I felt a sudden need to kick something. I went outside and kicked the fence, which hurt. I'm immature like that sometimes, Yoga or not. When I was pregnant with Baby J (hormones!), I got mad at A about one thing or another. Maybe he was walking too loud, who can remember? I got so mad at him that I threw a nectarine at the wall. I'm far too uptight to leave a smashed nectarine just lying around, so I picked it up and headed towards the trashcan. When I got there, my loud-walking husband was bent over the can throwing something else away. I'm not proud of this, but I squished the nectarine on his head. I ground it right into his bald spot, and it was totally satisfying. In fact, the enzymes from the fruit may have helped him grow more hair. So, in a sense, I was being nice.

After kicking the fence, I went in to help A. reload the dishwasher. Finally, the job was done, the cabinets cleared of all soapy food remnants. And the dishwasher wouldn't start. And it was time for my hapless husband to leave with his friend. As they drove down the road, listening to stupid boy music, I would be at home, with four hungry children, and a crop in the fieeeeeelds. Wait. That wasn't me, that was Kenny Rogers. I would be left with three hungry children, a load of dirty dishes and a broken dishwasher.

Before Lucille A. arrived at his destination, the clouds had parted. I realized I was having a pity party for nothing. Not only would I be getting a brand new dishwasher, I could get whatever I wanted. A. would feel so bad for me that he wouldn't dare question the price. He'd be so happy to be able to come home, guilt-free, new dishwasher installed. The very next morning, I called him to let him know how tickled I was, so he could enjoy his vacation work and come home with a clear conscience. I dropped Baby J off at the nursery and headed down to the best appliance store ever, Jeffers-McGill. I was greeted with a smile by the salesmen, who looked like a band of Angels. I swear I heard harps as I walked through the door.


I was giddy with anticipation, secure in the knowledge that I could let the dishes pile high, because the installer would be here the very next day. Jeffers-McGill does not carry Bosch. Wise choice. And I will never buy an appliance from anyone else ever again. I really should have saved myself the pain and embarrassment of kicking the fence.

The dishwasher is in, the sink is empty, the husband is on his way home and all is right with the world. Without further ado, I present to you, Miss Tag. The very lovely Miss May Tag:



Namasté, y'all!

*In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that the sound quite possibly could have been his shoe sliding across the floor. But, I was still laughing because...it sounded like a fart!

Adultery

"Shhhh! Don't say it in front of Mom!"

I knew it was only a matter of time before the X-Man said whatever it was he wasn't supposed to say, so I didn't even ask, I just started counting down from ten. Ten...nine...wait for it..."Let's do sex, babeeeeeee!"

We were in the car and I had run back inside to get something. Apparently, the boys had had a chat while I was gone. The car is an easy place to have difficult conversations, because you don't have to look your kids in the eye; I highly recommend it.

Seasoned parent that I am (and older sister of three, so I benefited from watching my own parents), I didn't panic. I fake chuckled, because I've found this is one way to get kids to talk; I would make a great "good cop." I asked them, calmly(!), where they had heard such a thing. O gave me a name immediately. Although I won't say who it was, for fear of embarrassing his parents, I was reassured; I know the kid and his parents and I know they're not creepy. I was also reassured by the fact that the phrase itself made very little sense. Have you ever said that? Or had someone say it to you? Me either, and I've been having sex for a while now.

I asked the kids what they thought sex was. The X-Man, five at the time, said, "I think it means, like...you're beautiful?" I told him that was part of it. I knew our older son would give a better answer. After all, I had explained the whole thing to him years earlier, when I was pregnant with his brother. I was so proud of myself and I figured the job was done. "I think it's like adultery," he said. And it dawned on me that one conversation with a two year old probably wasn't sufficient.

So, I bought a book, It's So Amazing! It came highly recommended by my sister in law, who is brilliant at handling these things. She doesn't get uptight or embarrassed, like...me. I was so excited. A book! I could just give it to O and leave the room. As the kids say, "Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezie!" My glee was short lived. V, in her wisdom, let me know I would need to read the book out loud with him, because kids don't always interpret things the way they should. After reading the whole book, which is very graphic in a psychologically healthy, age appropriate way, V's daughter said, "Mommy, aren't you glad Daddy never touched your vagina? That would be gross!" I would have been stumped and called in an expert. My sister in law, unfazed, rolled her eyes and said, "Weren't you listening? He did! How do you think we had the three of you?" After some initial queasiness, her daughter was just fine.

There are two characters in the book, a bee and a bird. The bee is content to remain in the dark about the great mysteries of life. The bird wants to know it all. I have two birds. Unlike his parents, O felt no embarrassment whatsoever. He looked forward to reading more of the book each night and asked plenty of questions. We discussed everything from masturbation to same-sex unions. The book covers everything a curious bird needs to know. The X-Man hovered like a Hummingbird, excitedly fluttering his tiny wings, just outside the door of the room where we were reading. At five, my husband and I thought he was too young for all of the answers. Plus, as oldest children ourselves, we think it's important to make younger siblings wait a little; they always get to do everything sooner! The book is labeled "7+" and we decided to trust that. All in all, it was a very positive experience, in spite of the lame joke my husband made out of nervousness in response to a question O had about masturbation. I'm glad to answer all questions about masturbation, in hopes that my children are happy with just that until they're 42 and old enough to have sex.

A few weeks passed. In the car again, I pointed out my old apartment, "That's where mommy and Lady M used to live before we were married."

"You and M were married?" We're pretty liberal around here, so this question wasn't all that strange.

"No, I meant before she married Sir P and I married Daddy."

"If you and Lady M were married, you couldn't have kids," from the oldest Bird.

"Yes, we could."

"But the man has the sperm and the lady has the egg and you need both," from the youngest Bird, from the side of his mouth, tapering off as he realized what he was admitting.

"Yes," I responded, suspicion in my voice, "And where did you learn that?"

"FromthebookIt'sSoAmazing," said the Hummingbird, beak pursed, laughing.

Did I really think cramming the book on top of some other books on a top shelf would keep the Hummingbird from it? Oh, well.

"And I'm only five, but I'm almost six and the book is for seven and up. And I can play games that are eight and up."

Well then. Oddly, he has better recall of the book than his big brother, even though he read it on his own. Must be that forbidden fruit thing...

The only thing to do at that point was remind both of them how same-sex couples can go about becoming parents. The book covered that, but I guess it didn't make much of an impression.

The book, by the way, is fab. I think every parent should go out and get a copy; save it until you need it. Everything is worded exactly the way I would say it, if I had time to think about it. I tend to ramble (did you notice?), especially when I'm nervous. The book does not ramble. The book is cool as a cucumber.

It's been several months, but my little birds are still fascinated. My husband and I teach O's fourth grade Sunday school class with two other parents. Talk about birth control. If everyone had to do this before having children, they might be more careful. Last Sunday, one of the other parents, mother to a single, hand raising, clean dress wearing little girl, taught the class. She covered the Ten Commandments. We were off the hook, or so we thought. At one point, she handed out tablet shaped construction paper and asked each of the children to choose a commandment, write it on one side of the page and paraphrase it on the other. Some people are so good at making up activities. Why don't my husband and I ever think of stuff like that? She seemed so mature; we just bring doughnuts. I bet if we bring doughnuts every time, the kids will like us best. Ha!

Anyhow, the kids were working hard. Most of the boys chose, "Thou shalt not murder." A lot of kids chose, "Honor thy Father and Mother." Our son, who was dishonoring us by making us look like freaks, chose the adultery one. I saw his paper as I walked by. To quote Dwight Schrute, of The Office, "Eff!" I ran over to my husband, trying to look calm. Strained whispering ensued.

"Did you see what he wrote?!"

"Yeah, and he asked me what it meant."

"What did you tell him? Oh no, what did you tell him?!"

"Don't worry. I told him to ask one of the other parents."

"Excellent."

Luckily, he asked the one who has several kids, not the mother of the only, who might have been less understanding.

I scooted over to the mother of many, apologized and asked what she told him. "Just don't date other people when you're married." Whew. Why didn't I think of that?

The leader went through the commandments, allowing one or two children to read what they had written for each one. Of course, my bird was the only one to choose the one about adultery. Although I was nervous, he quoted the other teacher verbatim and the moment passed. Or so we thought. One girl raised her hand to tell the class, "My babysitter had two husbands and they both dated other people while they were married to her." Another child chimed in, "That happened to my aunt!" Little pitchers, big ears, I tell ya'. Ain't it the truth?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Did that title grab your attention? Perv.

The Ladies of Nail Trixx* Strike Again.

"You want lip?"

If you thought that was a response given by someone who'd just been accused of engaging in sarcastic backtalk, you would be wrong. In fact, it was a question posed to my sister in law, who was strapped down in a chair for her eyebrow waxing. The question was accompanied by a single raised eyebrow (perfectly groomed, of course) and an accusing finger pointed at my dear and browbeaten (har, har, har) sister in law's upper lip. The ladies of Nail Trixx have decided that their assault on her eyebrows is not enough. In what may be a strange initiation into a secret society, they're trying to break her down. They've moved on to her upper lip, which in my opinion is not noticeably hairy. And it wasn't noticeable to my sister in law either, until today.

In fact, they give her plenty of lip, in the form of criticism of her hairy face. Going by what they tell her, you would assume she looks like a gorilla, or my Dad's back. Au contraire, mon frère. She's a babe, with no more facial hair than you or me. But for some reason, the ladies of Nail Trixx are determined to make her believe otherwise. And it's not just the ladies. According to V, when she's behind the shower curtain in the corner getting her brows whipped into shape, the two men who work there always come back to laugh at her. You might think she's being paranoid, but they come back there every time. And they point at her while they laugh hysterically and talk in a language she doesn't understand. Can you think of another explanation? I can't.

Namasté, y'all!

*Name of the salon name has been changed to protect me from their wrath.

In Which We Realize That the Middle Child Is a Materialistic Liar

The X-Man has been in the process of losing his first tooth for a while now. We thought he was excited about the maturity implied by the losing of the first tooth. We thought his excitement was pure. In fact, it was not.

There's been much discussion about the tooth in recent weeks. There was another tooth growing in behind it, jockeying for the prime spot. The same thing happened when O's first tooth was loose. Neophytes that we were, we rushed to the dentist and, in an attempt to save him from braces, had the old tooth extracted. It was a lot of fun. O had brought with him a set of nasty looking plastic teeth that he got from the prize basket at Piggly Wiggly. He had saved them for weeks and couldn't wait to put them on right before the dentist looked in his mouth. That kid has always had a great sense of humor; he gets it from his dad me. Even after getting hopped up on nose gas (love that stuff!), he remembered to put them in. You don't know funny until you've seen your six year old, high as a kite, wearing hillbilly teeth and laughing and drooling. I think the dentist liked it. And now I know what kind of behavior to look for when O is a teenager and I'm trying to figure out if he's been drinking.

The X-Man was increasingly impatient. Each of us had chosen a day when we thought the tooth would fall and all of those days had come and gone, tooth intact. Several nights ago, we went upstairs to kiss the boys while they were sleeping (and smell them - they still smell so cute, but I'm guessing this will come to an end soon. I've caught whiffs of the socks and I can smell the future.) We found this note under the X-Man's pillow:

We hadn't realized he lost his tooth! This was such exciting news! We were somewhat disquieted by the rampant materialism, but thrilled that his happy entrée into big kidhood had arrived. We examined the note and decided that requests for a book and a baseball were endearing, in an All American boy kind of way. Since the Firefly Phone seemed to be an afterthought, we chose to overlook it. The picture of himself looking sweet was a nice touch.

In our house, the Tooth Fairy brings five dollars. I am mildly irritated with you parents out there who've raised the bar so high. What happened to a quarter? Or even a dollar. Our Tooth Fairy brings five dollars, even though we've heard tales of her co-fairies leaving as much as twenty. And some of these overeager fairies leave toys, including computer games. Hello? How hard is it to lose a tooth? What's next, a trip to Disney World? Anyhow, we couldn't really fault the X-Man for his high expectations, given the myths he's heard on the playground.

After looking in his mouth to verify that he had actually lost the tooth...oops. Not only is he opportunistic, he's a filthy liar! There was the baby tooth, in all its glory, right in front of the new tooth, who still had its back. The next morning, we mentioned that we had found the note when we came up to kiss him and told him that the Tooth Fairy cannot be fooled. She doesn't show up if there's no space in the mouth. And that was that.

Until the next morning, when I was putting his sheets in the wash and another note fell out.

Although I appreciate the addition of "please" and the absence of lies, I do think the picture of himself looking depressed is a bit manipulative. To be honest, I almost fell for it myself. Something about the striped shirt and his hand reaching out for "the stuff" was poignant. His bleak expression tugged my heartstrings. Alas, I'm not that nice, so I got over it.

The next morning, I told him once more that the Tooth Fairy only arrives when there's a fresh gap where a tooth has been. He was disappointed, but resigned to waiting, just like every other kid in the world.

That night, when the kids were "asleep," I heard an excited, nervous "Wheeeeeee, heeeeheeeeheeeee. Aaaaaaah!" from upstairs. This was followed by a skinny little chicken head stumbling down the stairs, bloody tooth in slobbery hand. I shook his hand (not the drooly one) and congratulated him on his accomplishment. We folded the tooth in a piece of paper and taped it closed. I know you didn't think I was one of those parents who has the fancy tooth box or pillow. I found the piece of paper on the counter; on the front, it had a printed request for food for Harvest Hope Food Bank (which we won't forget, and you should donate, too!) and on the back, someone had written "Go, Cocks!" That's my boy!

The next morning, my husband overheard the following exchange:

O: So, did the Tooth Fairy come?

X-Man, after looking under his bed, in case the goods had arrived, and sighing when he found nothing but junk he had crammed under there himself: Yeah, but she just left a five dollars.

Oh well, at least he's cute. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present to you...The Gap:


Namasté, y'all!

In Fact, Money Does Buy Happiness

I've always cringed at the idea that money doesn't buy happiness. Tell it to a homeless person. Or to a single mother who would really like to go to college but can't afford tuition, books or childcare. Yeah, I know that's a cliché, but they're out there. Or tell it to me, when I really want a new couch. Oh wait...I have a new couch! As of 7 am this morning. And it's awesome, although I can't enjoy it because I'm so tired. I couldn't sleep last night because I was so excited about the couch.

I felt a bit awkward, because I realized too late that we didn't have enough coffee to offer Don and his dad, Don Sr. If I was at someone's house at 7 am and they didn't offer me coffee, I would think they were the devil. And I decided against coffee cake, because I didn't think they would be feeling as festive as I was. There was some very good karma floating around, though. I chatted with Don, Sr. while Jr. was out in the truck. Apparently, Jr. is the oldest of four boys, all of whom have nothing but sons, except for the youngest, who has two sons, but followed them with two daughters. Jr. and Sr. drive all over the southeast in an eighteen wheeler, delivering furniture for Room and Board. I always like meeting people who are from families full of sons, because I feel connected to them, in my silly hippy little way.

So, back to the purchasing of happiness. I would never claim that money could buy ultimate fulfillment. I don't even want ultimate fulfillment; it seems a bit crass, n'est-ce pas? But happiness? I know that we are actually happier because we can pay for the following things:

• Marriage Counseling - Not much explanation needed here, but my husband and I both agree that we're happier since indulging.
  
• Babysitters - Love our kids. Love knowing they're well cared for while we hang out in bars.
  
• Meals in Restaurants - Yum. I really missed restaurants when we were first married. They're awesome.
  
• Contributions to Charity - We give because we care and because it makes us feel good. Wanna' make something of it?
  

We fight less because we're able to pay for these:

• A house with more than one bathroom - I live with four dudes. 'Nuff said.
  
• Cars that run - We used to share one car. It was a great car, but it had its challenges. Whenever a big repair was necessary, we would fight. We probably would have preferred to fight with the car, but it was all Zen-like and did not respond, so we fought with each other. I'm not proud of this, but I used to try to blame every repair on my husband's bad driving. The car was nine years old. It was a Toyota, but still. And I won't even get into the fights we had over who should get the car every day. Low point: I told my husband, an assistant solicitor* at the time, that he needed to ride the bus. He pleaded with me, claiming that he couldn't stand up in court and prosecute someone he rode the bus with that morning. Not to mention riding home with them if he lost (never happened. He's a Rock Star.) He won that round.
  
• Home repairs when we need them - See above. You can't fight with a house, so you go for the closest available target.
  
• Clothes for ourselves - ummmm, okay. Clothes for me. I grew up with a mother who claimed that she hated shopping. While I think this is true, I think she also hated what she looked like, even though she was a babe (and I'm not just being nice. Don't you know that about me by now?) I refuse to let lack of a decent outfit kill my desire to rock. Frankly, I'm shallow as all get out and it makes me happy to buy clothes I love. There, I said it. Bite me.

I don't claim to be intellectual. I don't even claim to be all that bright. By the way, why does the word "bright" sound so patronizing? You never hear someone call an equal "bright." My husband and I got in one of our biggest fights ever when he referred to a female colleague as "bright." I accused him of being a filthy, sexist a**hole, which he isn't. Incidentally, that argument might have been prevented by less money. Back in the 90's, my parents could afford a very liberal, private school education for me. This education may have...just perhaps...lead me to over-analyze certain things just a teensy bit. But I digress. I think the claim, "Money doesn't buy happiness" is pretentious as hell. It implies that the speaker is so morally and intellectually superior that his (or her!) mere thoughts bring joy. Those of us who aren't quite as smart are left with our inferior and non-happiness-providing mental ramblings.

Money buys a lot of cool stuff. Furniture, clothes, fancy food and vacations (Disney World! Family Bonding! No lie!) aside, money can also provide intellectual stimulation and spiritual enlightenment for some of us not-so-bright losers. Higher education is an obvious one. But what about Yoga classes? And, let's be honest here, many people don't really feel comfortable at a church if they don't contribute financially. I know churches should welcome everyone, and I believe most of them try, but a lot of people feel embarrassed when they're unable to give as much as they would like. And counseling. Do I ever love counseling: fifty minutes with someone who has to listen to you talk about yourself. Like a best friend, that you pay! Sure, insurance might cover it, but if your insurance covers counseling, you probably aren't working part-time at Wal-Mart. You have to have really fancy insurance to get "talk" therapy, which is the fun kind. Any raving lunatic can get a publicly funded psychiatrist, but where's the fun in that?

Because I've strayed so far from my initial subject (the couch, lest you forget), here's one more picture, taken in the early morning light, while I sipped coffee in my husband's bathrobe. I was so into the coffee, because I couldn't drink it while the Dons were there. That would have been rude, since I didn't have any for them. By the way, we really need something in between the Bodum coffee press and the DeLonghi 20-60 Cup Coffee Urn. Anyhow...


Namasté, y'all!

* My strange and awesome state calls District Attorneys "Solicitors." Yeah, it's kind of annoying, because I had to write a footnote, but I like being different. I'm still lamenting the loss of the mini bottle, which made us the ultimate freaks. The mini bottle, by the way, is 1.7 ounces, more than the average pour in a fancy bar. My parents were so overwhelmed by the mini bottle that they used to split one two ways for a Gin Tonic.

Final! Update!

I have spoken with Don! He now has bad directions to our house, because I was too excited to give him directions and my husband did a less than stellar job. But Don will be here in the morning! With the couch! Should I have made a coffee cake? Dammit!

Update on the Couch, Because I know You Care!

I have spoken with the driver of the moving truck containing my couch! He will be here between 7 and 7:30 am tomorrow! I forget his name, but he sounds very nice! And Midwestern!

Longest Week Ever!

My new couch is coming on Wednesday and it's taking forever. I've never known a Monday and a Tuesday to be so long. Please, oh please, let the couch come in the morning. I can't take it any more! On a side note, why am I such a baby?

Fish Tacos, Fish Tacos, Fish Tacos! Go! Go! Fish Tacos!

Guess what I made for dinner tonight. Seriously. Just guess. Fine, I'll tell you. Fish Tacos! And get your mind out of the gutter. There's no euphemism to be had here, just tacos. With fish!

Take about a pound and a half or two pounds (tonight I used 1.89 pounds) of some kind of white fish fillets, frozen or fresh. We usually use tilapia or catfish. Big shocker, I use a packaged seasoning from the Fancy Mart. Feel free to make your own and, if you want me to read you the ingredients of this one that I like call me, but I'm not going to type them out.

Slice the fish into one inch strips. This is much easier to do when they're frozen, even if they're not frozen all the way. I learned that trick from a stir fry recipe involving flank steak. It has made my life a lot easier, so I'm passing it on to you. Mwah!

Put the fish into one of those big Zip-loc bags with a tablespoon or two of olive oil. Seal the bag and knead it so the oil covers the fish. The seasoning packet tells me to mix the powder with a quarter cup of water and dump that in the bag. I use a little less water than that. I knead the (sealed!) bag again to coat the fish. Try to get most of the air out of the bag before you seal it. Now you can leave the fish in the fridge until you're ready to cook. If your fish are frozen, they should be thawed by the end of the day if you do this in the morning.

Next up, black bean salsa to go with the tacos. This is actually my sister in law's recipe, but I don't think she'll mind if I share. Dump a can of drained black beans into a bowl. Feel free to use non-canned ones. Whatever. Add the following to the bowl:

1 red bell pepper, chopped. Orange is fine, but red is prettier. Yellow is unacceptable, because there is more yellow to come.

1 green onion, green and white parts, very thinly sliced.

1 clove of garlic, minced.

1 cup of chopped pineapple. I actually used fresh, albeit sliced by one of the fine employees of the Fancy Mart. If you use canned, drain it first.

1 cup of frozen corn. No need to thaw it, it'll thaw quickly and it helps keep the salsa cold.

A heaping spoonful of some kind of prepared salsa. If you don't have that, add a spoonful of chopped tomato. If you don't have that, skip it. I did.

If there are no children involved, please add a finely chopped habañero.

Last, but not least, add a ton of fresh cilantro. You don't even have to chop it, just drop the leaves in whole.

Stir!

Put about two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar and about a teaspoon of sugar in a little glass bowl and heat them in the microwave for about 20 seconds, just long enough so you can stir it and mostly dissolve the sugar. Drizzle that over the salsa. Then add a few drops of lemon or lime juice and drizzle the salsa with olive oil. Stir!

Now add cayenne pepper and salt to taste. You can skip the cayenne if you don't want any spice at all. Final stir!

Now, go about your day. Have a good time doing whatever it is you do. But make sure you find time in your busy, busy day to pick up taco shells (soft or hard), mixed greens (to add to the tacos or serve under the fish and salsa, you low-carb eating freak), sour cream or whatever else you like. If you live in my town, you should go to Rosewood Market and grab a container of their awesome chipotle veganaise. If you don't eat it all with the tacos, never fear. It makes a great dip for boiled shrimp or potato chips. It's awesome with crab cakes too. In fact, go ahead and pick up two containers of it; save yourself a trip.

At the end of your busy, busy day, waltz into your kitchen, pour yourself a drink and maybe put on a nice apron. I really like these from Anthropologie and I'm thinking of getting one. Let me know which you think would look best (on me, of course.)


Once your drink is poured, your waltz waltzed and your apron tied, pull out a nice big frying pan and heat it. Dump the fish in and throw away the bag. Mom, this is for you. Throw. Away. The Damn Bag. I know they're expensive and can be washed and reused, but this one had raw fish in it, m'kay? Cook the fish until it starts to flake apart. Cut it with your spatula until it's all crumbly. I can't think of a better way to describe it. Sorry.

Bring out the salsa and whatever else you plan on serving with the tacos. The salsa can be made at the last minute, but I think it's better when it's been in the fridge a few hours. If you're using shells, load them up with fish, the black bean salsa, some lettuce-y greens and a dollop of chipotle mayo or sour cream. You can also serve it as a fish taco salad - just dump everything on top of some mixed greens, crispy shell bowl à la Taco Bell optional.

And it's good the next day, too. Enjoy!

Olé, y'all!

It's Good to Drink and Blog So Other People Know What You're Really Like

So, it's Game Day again. Which means I'll get a few text messages from my siblings reading "Game!" In case you don't know, us Gamecocks like to yell "Game!" at each other. The only proper response is "Cocks!" If you ever get a text message that says "Game!", you'll know how to respond.

A true Gamecock cannot resist the call. I was in Atlanta one weekend with my sister. It was a game weekend and, as I was driving away from the chichi little café where we had brunch, I yelled to her on the sidewalk. "Game!" Much to the surprise of the sophisticated Atlantaians still eating outside, she screamed her response, "COCKS! WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I also like to call out of town Gamecocks on their cell phones, just so I can get them to yell "Cocks!" on a bus or street corner.

I didn't go to tonight's game because O mentioned a week ago that he really wanted to go to the game against S.C. State. Since I never have a clue who they're playing, it seemed only fair that I let him go with his Dad. I stayed home, suffering like mad, with the two younger monkeys. Eh. If you know me, you know I wasn't suffering. I went to Yoga while the lovely neighbor girl kept them. Then I took Baby J and the X-Man to a Japanese restaurant, because the X-man wanted squid salad. And I wanted sashimi and a nice glass of dry white wine. Just so you feel a tiny bit sorry for me, please know that Baby J wasn't interested in the fried tofu I got for him, the toy provided by the restaurant staff, my cell phone or the dude with the mohawk at the next table, so I had to let him crawl around on the floor, while I tried to follow a conversation with the X-Man.

I was asking him what he liked best, out of all the food he ordered. He said, "Actually, I have to say, everything on my plate: the Dragon roll, the eel, the California roll, the ginger, the crab...well, everything but the Wasabi. On AFV, that's America's Funniest Home Videos, the guy ate all of the Wasabi and he was like [insert insane gagging six year old face here]. But I didn't see it. It was on YouTube. You can watch it on YouTube, where they have the laughing babies. For my lunch, at school, I want the rest of Baby J's fried tofu, like the piece that I ate a little bit of, and some eel and California rolls and Dragon rolls and especially ginger, because I looooooove ginger."

Around the time I realized Baby J was using my purse as a doggie bag for his used tofu, a couple I know from the neighborhood walked in. They were on a date. With other grownups. I don't know them that well, so I was trying to act sort of like I think normal people act. I thought that if I didn't look at the floor, they might not notice Baby J. I thought I could portray myself as a sophisticated, together-type mom of three. Do you think it worked? I do not.

Drinking and driving is so totally not cool, so I waited until I got home to have another glass of wine, some leftover sparkling we had in the fridge. And, because I'm such a stellar mom, I waited until the boys went to bed to start in on the rest of the bottle. I had to call my friend J in Mississippi so I wouldn't be drinking alone. Classy, huh? She had to go, because her son had just gotten home from the longest play date ever, so here I am. And here are the text messages between me and my dear husband, who's still at the game. Commentary in brackets. Did you really think I could do this without commentary? I don't even brush my teeth without commentary.:

Me: score? of game and of fun.

Him: Game: 17-3 us. Fun: 24-0 us.

Me: Aw.

Him: sC state has a great band & cheerleaders [This is because he knows that's all I care about. I'm the only person who stays in my seat for half time. And I love marching bands. Drumline is one of my favorite movies and I have no recollection of the plot.]

Moi: I wish I was there just for the band and cheerleaders. Is the flag dude in the house? [At the first game, I was pleasantly surprised to see that one of the Flag chicks at half time was a dude, mostly because it gave A and me a chance to crack ourselves up. And my dear husband indulged me by discussing it for at least four minutes.]

Lui: No flag dude sighted yet. How's X Man?

Moi: So...it's not half time? [the Flag...um.."People" don't show themselves until halftime.] Y'all seen anyone we know yet?

Lui: Flag Dude!!!??? Where are u?!?!?!!!!??

Lui: He's MIA

Lui: Never mind. He's on the opposite side!! [I know my husband is cool, because he's willing to devote this many texts to the flag dude.]

Moi: YESSSSSS!!! Flag DUDE!!!

Lui: 2d half just started. We seen D & A, Uncle J, Aunt K, Cousin M, Cousin W, Uncle D, The P's, back o "John's*" head (he's with daughter) [All those Aunts, Uncles, and cousins are mine. I have tons and they love them some football. My dad and brother were there too. My husband's family is too fancy European for our American style football. By the way, A doesn't really say "we seen." He was being funny.]

Lui: Flag dude yes. Pregnant looking co-eds yes. [Ladies, empire waist is not for everyone.] Yoga turd no. [This is a guy, whose nickname I cannot explain here, who was at a game and totally, maniacally into it, in spite of his Yogic leanings. I hope he never reads this, because he's really rather nice.]

Moi: No more wife? [Referring back to "John" who was at the previous game with his wife, who we heard had left him. This is an interesting situation and I would like to know more. Plain and simple, I'm nosy. He does have good seats, so maybe she's rethinking her actions. I know I would. But I wouldn't cheat on my husband in the first place; I'm too lazy and he's awesome, so what would be the point? I guess some people's husbands are not awesome.]

Lui: Nope

Moi: i m bored and kind of drunk. was talking to J [friend who recently moved to Mississippi] on phone, so not drinking alone.

Lui: Stuck in traffic. Be home in 2 hours [This is also a joke.]

Moi: Eff! [Joke. Again. Dwight said it on the Office and it's funny.]

And now he's home.

Namasté, y'all!

*Some names have been changed, because...just because.

Eyebrow Mania

So my sister in law, V says today, "I was managing my eyebrows and...

Whoa. Eyebrow management. We all do it, but V's cooler than most of us. And she has really great eyebrows, kind of old-school Brooke Shields, but with an edge. I'm actually jealous of her eyebrows, but I try not to let it consume me. It would seem that V is now spending a fair amount of time and energy on eyebrow management, and it may be indirectly my fault.

When I was pregnant, I made her come with me to get a pedicure because I wanted company. I got a lot of pedicures when I was pregnant; I couldn't reach my toes. I've read that some women get their husbands to do the job when they can't reach. I've also read that some husbands will perform bikini area grooming. No. Thanks. Not that mine would be willing, but the results might be a bit scary and I wouldn't want anything too shocking on display at the obstetrician's office. I live in a smallish town and it might get back to my mother.

Anyhow, V liked the pedicure and decided to go on a regular basis. A few weeks later, she breezed into her neighborhood mani pedi joint after a trip to the grocery store next door and sat back to have her toenails restored to their previous state of fabulousness. As V relaxed into the ten speed massage chair, the technician looked up and began berating her, in a rather loud voice. V had no idea why she was being chastised and got more worried as the technician approached hysteria. Eventually, another technician was called over to translate the dire warnings. She didn't do much better, but had mad charades skills. She pressed the back of her wrists against her forehead, fingers extended and wriggling wildly, as she harangued V. It would seem that the well intentioned ladies of Nail Trixx* were trying to inform V that her eyebrows resembled a live, drunk octopus.

The moment was ripe with tension and urgency. V. allowed herself to be propelled into a corner and strapped into a chair. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest as the Queen of Charades whipped a shower curtain around the two of them. V was grateful for the curtain, as it was the only thing shielding her from prying eyes in the grocery store parking lot. When I suddenly developed major complications in my first pregnancy and had an emergency c-section at 30 weeks, there was less urgency. And the nurses and doctors were a lot calmer than the ladies of Nail Trixx. And they knocked me out, unlike V's tormentors who, without warning, poured hot wax on her eyelids, let it dry and ripped it off. More plucking and scolding followed. All for the low, low price of five dollars!

In the calm after the assault, as she contemplated whether or not to notify the police, V looked in a mirror and acknowledged that the torture might have had decent results. I saw her later that day and, without knowing about her harrowing experience, told her she looked great. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something about her. Perhaps it was the adrenaline putting color in her cheeks.

V. has returned regularly to the not-exactly-upscale Nail Trixx for eyebrow grooming and pedicures. The price of the eyebrow attack has gone up to eight dollars, but V thinks it's worth it and, I must admit, her eyebrows do look great. They're a real personal style statement. One of our mutual friends believes that the secret to attracting men is in having impeccably groomed brows. Maybe because neat eyebrows lead them to imagine you groom other areas too. Men are perverts, n'est-ce pas? By the way, I wouldn't recommend Nail Trixx for bikini waxes, because the dollar store shower curtain is the only privacy measure. Sometimes, it's worth it to pay more to go to the fancy place.

The latest insult, the one that compelled V to step up her eyebrow management routine, was the information, offered with gusto by the ladies of Nail Trixx, that a very small segment (about a millimeter wide) of her left eyebrow grows down towards her eyes. The Queen of Charades, who seems to be the ring leader, believes this is the result of a chicken pox scar. I really hope they don't offer laser resurfacing at Nail Trixx, because I'm afraid V. will end up blind if she lets them do it. She was warned to keep it trimmed...or else. I think she's convinced that the Nail Trixx Mafia spies on her.

I wish I could show you a picture of her "before" eyebrows, so you would understand how over the top the Eyebrow Mafia's hysteria was, but I would have to strap her into a chair to get that picture. And I'd have to convince her to forgo eyebrow management for at least three weeks, and she's more afraid of the ladies of Nail Trixx than she is of me.

By the way, if you're looking to make this political, it's not. V's self esteem is just ducky and always has been. She just has really awesome eyebrows to go with it now.

Namasté, y'all!

* Name of the nail salon has been changed to protect me!

Games for kids are lame.

I don't like playing with children. I don't get grownups who think children's games are fun and go on and on about the importance of "being playful" (make sure you say that in a lame, fake child-like voice to get the full effect). The only time I've had an inner child is when I've been pregnant. I like being a grownup. I don't miss being a kid at all, although it's a perfectly nice thing to be, when it's your time. I like grown up stuff, like staying up late, drinking, not going to school and doing whatever I want (in your face, Mom!).

I don't mind playing with my own children when there's nothing else to do, but I get to pick the game. Candy Land, Hungry Hippos, Chutes and Ladders, anything based on a cartoon character - those are obviously out. Also on my Please No, That Game Is Excruciating list are the following:

Scrabble Junior - really, they can play the real one. Scrabble Jr. is nothing but fill in the (predetermined) blank. Boring!

Apples to Apples Jr. - I got this because the adult version sounded fun. The kid version is not fun. It's painful. My mistake.

Monopoly - with people who can't count. It's not so bad with older kids, but it takes too long. And they get so mad when they don't have any money left. I think this is a good life lesson. Get used to it, it happens to me all the time.

O and the X-Man know if they want me to play, it'll have to be Yahtzee!, Blokus, Uno, Sorry! or the recently-added-to-mommy's-short-list Clue. We played Clue at the beach, during a visit with my Mother in Law. I'm pretty sure I pulled it out and made the boys play with me in an attempt to escape her political discussion monologue, which is even more excruciating than a game of Candy Land with a two year old who thinks you're cheating. I'm pretty darn Liberal, but listening to my Mother in Law talk politics is enough to make me want to vote Republican out of spite. Clue was the only game at her house with most of the pieces, so I picked that one. I got to be Miss Scarlett, just like I always was when I played with my sisters, because I was the oldest and bossiestmost assertive. Yes! We had to make more of the tally sheets, which took up a good chunk of time and was quite satisfying to this mother of a one year old who never accomplishes anything. I had to use a ruler to draw the lines and I felt pretty important. I need to buy Clue for our house, because it's definitely on the list now.

Bonus: My Mother in Law told me how wonderful I was for doing such a thing with the children. She said she admired me. She's French, so I'm never sure if she's being nice or totally sarcastic. Like when she tells me my shorts and tank top are "elegant." I've decided it's not my job to read tone, so I just listen to the words and say thank you. Which probably irritates the heck out of her. Muwahaha!

I'll also play Pool, but I will not let those little rats win or even cheat. I don't care what Daddy does! They're not good enough for a decent game of Ping Pong yet, but that'll happen soon. We don't have a spot for either of those at our house anyway. We do, however, have a lovely and previously unused side porch that now houses a...drum roll...building more drama...wait for it...FOOSBALL MACHINE!!! Yes, you read it right. I know you're slamming your fists and tearing your hair with jealousy. Too bad! It's ours!


The machine used to live at my parents', but has been locked away in a dark and dusty basement for far too long. One of the players wears a jersey with my brother's name written on the back - what a coincidence. My husband and I set it up the other day and, while the children pressed their little noses against the door and begged to be let onto the porch, we played a couple rounds. My husband thinks he's so great, but (honey, hope you're reading!) those games were just practice! And he should also know that it wasn't nice to make fun of me for calling my guys "dudes," as in "Hold on! I didn't line up my dudes yet!" Because he was kind of cheating and dropping the ball before I was ready. Anyhow, like I said, those were practice and it should be noted that I was rocking serious Foosball skills later. I beat my son O, two out of two, and he was trying. It's good for kids to lose; it helps them understand how the real world works.

We may need to reserve adult Foosball for times when our neighbor isn't home, because we get a little loud. My two favorite things to yell are "Sonofabitch!" and "In your FACE!" I'm not above whooping and hollering either. Are you surprised?

I think I'm doing my kids a favor by not pretending to be interested in their games. The whole false praise as a self esteem booster that adults used on my generation turned a lot of us into apathetic slackers (yup, I'm talking about myself here*). One of the reasons we had more kids is so they could entertain each other. And I don't want them to become the kind of adults who bore other people with, for example, long speeches about politics. I'm trying to teach them to find common ground with their friends. I'm also trying to teach them not to swear. But I refuse to get rid of the Foosball machine, so I may have to live with the swearing. Oh well, I'm doing my best.

Namasté, y'all!

* There's a great book by Alfie Kohn called Punished by Rewards: The Trouble with Gold Stars, Incentive Plans, A's, Praise, and Other Bribes that covers this. Well, I say the book is great, but I haven't actually read it. Slacker that I am, I just skimmed it, so I would have more time for reading websites about celebrities. But I think I got the major points. Maybe you can read the whole thing and tell me about it, you go-getter!

Things That Always Make Me Laugh

I need this today.

*The phrase "busier than a one legged man in an ass-kicking contest" cracks me up. And spare me the comments about how mean it is. Whateva!

*Almost anything the ladies on Saturday Night Live do cracks me up. Some skits that come to mind:

Amy Poehler in The Swan

The Woomba commercial. I can't even think of Tina Fey saying “It cleans my business – my lady business - and I like that,” without cracking up.

Maya Rudolph as the single, pregnant woman power singer

Maya Rudolph as Oprah and/or Donatella Versace

*My husband doing the thing where he stands behind a counter and pretends to walk down the stairs. He just squats lower and lower to the ground with each step. Trust me, it's funny.

*My brother in law dressing up in too tight clothes and exposing himself to company. For example, my husband and I stopped by for a drink one night and, when we got there, my sister in law invited us to sit down and said G was in the shower and would be down soon. He finally joined us, wearing tight white long john bottoms and a green tank top belonging to his wife. He still did the joke of pretending that he was surprised to see us. He has also rocked a Speedo and tight, flesh colored swim trunks that his dad left at the beach house. He's a legend. My sister in law will help him set the joke up and play along with it. That's important in a marriage.

*This joke: A bear and a bunny are crapping side by side, in the woods. The bear says, "Hey, do you ever have problems with shit getting stuck in your fur?" The bunny says, "No! That's gross." So the bear picks up the bunny and wipes his ass with him. I had trouble typing that because I was laughing so hard.

*Thinking about this one time when the X-Man got mad at me and my husband. He was about five years old and possessed enough reason to not want to get in trouble. I can't remember what he was mad about, but he said, "Oooooooh!" and wiped his hand on my husband's leg, before walking out of the room, with his knees bent and his tiny hiney sticking out, like a duck. We think he wanted to hit my husband and, at the last moment, settled for the hand wipe, which could hardly be used as evidence against him. "Son, you may not say 'Oooooooh!' and wipe your hand on your Dad." Nope, just doesn't work.

*Making my husband crack up, like when I imitate people, like our children's grandparents and some of our friends. I'd give more detail, but I don't want to incriminate myself.

*Thinking or talking about the first time my now brother in law visited. We were waiting for him in the car, while he looked for his jacket inside. My brother B was going to find the jacket, wear it and, no matter what, insist that it was his. And we were all going to be in on it, calling the hapless suitor a freak for trying to steal my brother's jacket. We didn't do it, because we were laughing too hard. But it would have been funny. Is it odd that I relish the idea of making the significant others of my sisters feel uncomfortable, but I would never do the same to my brother's girlfriend?

*The Copying Game. You know, when you repeat everything someone says. One time at my parents' house, I was doing it to my husband while he rambled on about something totally boring. He tried to ignore me, but my brother was on the couch watching football and laughing. It was gratifying. That game is so funny, always.

*"D*ck in a Box" from Saturday Night Live. Here you go:


*That's what she said.

*My friend Mariah. And Lee. And Sylvia. And Virginia. And Kara. And all the rest of my friends, on any given day.

*My sisters and my brother. And I think this is a sibling thing, because my mom thinks her brothers are funny. They kind of are, but maybe more amongst themselves. On a sad note, my mom's older brother died recently and, although I know they miss him for many reasons, I bet they really miss laughing with him. I always say that only your siblings get what it was like to live with your parents and grow up in your town. And that can be pretty funny. I'm so happy to have my sister in law for the same reason; she gets what it's like to be married to someone who was raised by my in-laws.

*Pot. Just kidding. I don't break the law. Anymore.

*Farts.

And on that note, this list is only going downhill from here, so I better stop before I destroy my image as a mature, sophisticated Diva.

Namasté, y'all!

Do You Know What Is Cute?

Dese wittle fatty feeties are cute:

A Meta Blog Moment (Alternate Title: The Secret of the Gingered Tuna Salad)

As I was leaving Rosewood Market today, one of the employees walking in said, "Oh, hi! It's the Vegannaise."

"Awesome! Thanks!"

Wait a second. How did they know I couldn't quite figure out their Gingered Tuna Salad recipe? The creaminess eluded me.

As I well know, it's easy to figure out who links to or references your website. If I can do it, it can't be that hard. I'm mildly amused by the fact that people have arrived at my site after these searches:

"ruths chris filet recipe"
"botox before getting pregnant"
"ate unrefrigerated cream cheese icing while pregnant" [Note: I'm not a medical professional, but I wouldn't sweat this one.]
"children sunday school lesson plan to print"
"lamb chop gravy"

I apologize to the folks who came looking for Ruths' Chris filet recipe only to find a negative review (written by someone - me - who has never been there) and a great filet recipe. Well, I don't apologize for the recipe; I hope some of them were brave enough to try it. And I hope I didn't send someone like myself into more of a panic with my rant about teaching Sunday school. I also apologize for the absence of a lamb chop gravy recipe. I'll get right on that. I actually have some lamb chops in the freezer, so that may happen sooner rather than later. I'm thinking something with dried apricots. I hope no one was disappointed.

Anyhow, the nice people at Rosewood found my Blog and figured out it was me. Maybe because I had harassed half the staff about the recipe two days ago. Mystery solved. And, I might add, a perfect example of the advantages of shopping local businesses. Hooray!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I think a spoonful or so of the Vegannaise would work. A little goes a long way.

Letter to the Annoying Guy Who Sat Behind Us at the Game

Dear Sir,

You may not have noticed me Saturday at the game. I was sitting in front of you, in the Zone, where the people are supposed to be a little nicer, because the seats are so expensive. Yeah, I didn't pay for mine, either, but we can all act kind of classy, can't we?

Your voice is loud. Too loud. Even if you had just been talking about, say, football it would have been annoying. Your friend's voice was not quite as loud, but annoying in its constant presence.

If your voice is that loud, it's especially annoying when you use the "F" word over and over and over. I know that word. I occasionally use it, in private of course, so I didn't need the tutorial. If my children had been with me, I would have asked you to stop, but we left them at home, so I suffered in silence.

By the way, did you know gambling was illegal? It is. According to my husband, you are well versed in all the gambling terms and must be a real addict pro. Perhaps you were trying to brag by talking, loudly, into your cell phone about the $4800 you put on some team or another. Perhaps you would like to hear how much I'm about to spend on my new couch. No? Oh, well.

I know I probably should choose a career one of these days, but I didn't appreciate your monologue on the finer points of selling cars. The parts about units and only having twenty six days a month to sell cars were terribly boring to the uninitiated uninterested. I really didn't like the part about the dumb B-ch who works at the same dealership you do and is worthless. Tell it to your manager and try to use nicer language. Just a suggestion. I also didn't need to hear, in great detail, how you and your buddy were planning to school the new guy. I think he might do just fine without the benefit of your great wisdom. My least favorite thing about car dealers is how they talk so much you can't think. And I'm the primary car buyer in my family, so you might want to reconsider your attitude towards us dumb B--ches.

My husband likes to look at attractive women. I even point them out to him. Heck, I like looking at attractive women. But I feel compelled to mention to you what it took me years to teach my husband: Be cool, idiot. Don't stare with glazed eyes and don't wonder aloud if the lady in question is "legal." And, above all, do not ask the woman in front of you (that would be me) how old she thinks one of your targets is. That was just creepy.

I am sorry you forgot your belt. Even though you didn't need to say it loudly enough for everyone to hear, I do understand how such a thing could be annoying. I hate it when I, for example, forget to wear earrings. I do hope it didn't ruin the game for you.

Lastly, if you cannot take any of my kind advice and file it away for future reference, you may want to avoid referring to the specific dealership that employs you (S***. How could I forget? You said it about a hundred times.)

In hopes of tempering the negative tone of my letter, I would like to thank you for not being the guy who feels compelled to shout very specific instructions to the coach and players, even though there's no way they could hear him. That guy is really annoying. I also must admit that you have provided mildly interesting fodder for our post-game chats. I thank you for that.

Anyhow, thanks for listening. I did have a good time and I hope you did, too. It's always nice when they win, even if they should have won a little better. Go, Gamecocks!

Sincerely,

The Lady Who Sat in Front of You at the Game


P.S. Namasté, Sir.