Vacation Shopping (AKA Free Money!)

Last night, I had the pleasure of having dinner with a bunch of young and fabulous ladies, my sister's friends. My sister's in town and, because I'm her sister and hostess, I get to tag along with the cool kids. One of the cool kids was Frenchie, of the amazing Frenchie Skirts. I want a Frenchie Skirt real bad, but it's not the sort of thing you can buy on impulse, which is my preferred method of shopping for expensive things. One of these days, I'll have to get mad at my husband, feel sorry for myself and make an appointment to have a skirt made. And follow through before I forgive him. I hear it's addictive once you start, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Anyhow, last night Frenchie had on the most fabulous top (and shoes and coat, but let's stick with the top.) I think it would look nice on me, but she didn't offer to give it to me. Oh well. It turns out that she bought it on vacation, in a pinch. I love buying stuff on vacation or in a pinch! I'm not proud of this, but I've fantasized about having a black Prada dress overnighted from Neiman Marcus in the event of my husband's sudden demise*. Anyhow, the lovely Miss Frenchie was stuck in L.A., having worn all of the outfits she brought. Her flight was cancelled and she had to stay an extra day. Like any savvy traveler, she had packed only enough fabulousness to get her through the trip. And her hostess was having a party that night! Hello? Emergency! Frenchie had to have something to wear and she had to have something fast! She headed over to Rodeo Drive, bought a BCBG top (their fancy line, not that stuff you get in the mall) and Donald Pliner shoes. I emailed her for clarification, because I got well into a bottle of Prosecco at dinner. She very kindly retold the story** and closed with, "Will never be able to afford either again but...fun while it lasts."

And that, my friends, is the essence of vacation or in a pinch shopping. Frenchie's income didn't drastically change that day, so her budget was the same. But! She. Had. No. Choice! It wasn't her fault the flight was canceled. And she could hardly hide out in her room, completely nude, while her hostess had a party. The only thing to do was buy something to wear and not be too difficult about it. It would have been very poor form to do anything else. When put that way, you have to realize that Frenchie was a martyr. And did I mention that her hostess was a priest at All Saint's Episcopal in Beverly Hills? What would Jesus do? He would buy an outfit, without any thought about his personal finances. He would be selfless, just like Frenchie. And it really is a fabulous top. Maybe she'll let me borrow it...

The mathematical formula for vacation and/or in a pinch shopping is simple. Multiply by two. Multiply by four if you're lucky like Frenchie and experience both at once. And if it's still not enough, add a random number of your choice and whip out your credit card (or your parents' card...or your boyfriend's...) So, maybe I should order a Frenchie skirt by phone next time I'm out of town and suddenly have to go to high tea...

Namasté, y'all!

* Yeah, I kind of know that isn't funny considering his near death experience the other day, but he lived and all he has is a scratch on his finger. Whatevah!

** I love a good shopping story!!

You Might Not Want to Lend Us Your Car

We are not having the greatest time with cars recently. As I have mentioned, we are currently down one BMW*. Now we are down one old, but still running Acura Integra. It didn't even have 150,000 miles on it (149 and change, in case you were curious) and we've managed to destroy it. The car belonged to my mother-in-law, who's in France for a long visit with her family.

My husband, who I love very much, was driving on a two lane highway in St. Matthews, South Carolina yesterday, on his way to a hearing. As he crested a hill, actually going the speed limit, he barely had time to see a pickup truck driving down the middle of the road, headed for him. He swerved to avoid the truck, saw that he was going to go down an embankment, and swerved back across the road, lost control of the car and flipped. That's right, flipped. As he's been instructed to do, he called me and said,

"I'm totally fine. I had a really bad wreck, though."

I like to hear the "I'm fine" part right away, because car wrecks scare me. Several years ago, Nana, my mother's mother, died in a car wreck and I've been really skittish about cars since then, although I have to admit I wasn't exactly laid back before. I remember my Dad calling me and telling me about the wreck. My husband was at tennis and I was home with O and the X-Man, who were about five and two years old. I had had a glass of wine (that's why I had kids, by the way, so I would never have to drink alone) and I was afraid to drive, because of the wine (I have a very low tolerance, in spite of all the practice) and how upset I was. I was in shock; at the end of the conversation, I remember asking Dad if I had understood correctly that Nana was dead.

I called my friend Julie because I really didn't know what to do. She's the kind of person you need as a friend. She told me to get dressed and that she would come get me and the kids. My kids weren't wearing shoes or shirts and she told me not to worry about it. When she got there, I still didn't know what to do and I couldn't reach my husband or my parents. Julie put the kids and me in her car and she dropped the kids off at her house with her parents, who were there to visit their three grandsons. Her parents, who are as kind as Julie, found them some clothes and played with them while Julie and I drove to different hospitals, trying to find my family. Julie's husband Tom drove out to the tennis club to get my husband.

Nana is the only dead person I've ever touched. I never felt a need to touch the other dead people I knew because I was more prepared. I laid my head on her chest and I wanted to stay longer. I wanted to curl up in the hospital bed with her, for just a little while, but my mom and one of our priests were there, so I just put my head down for a few seconds and touched her hand. It was so sudden. She and her husband had just moved from their home in Winnsboro to a nursing home here in town. She was in good health and we were so excited to have her nearby; I had already taken the boys to see her and we were looking forward to seeing her a lot more. I really needed those few seconds with Nana and I wouldn't have had them if Julie hadn't taken charge. She lives in Mississippi now and I really miss her, but I have no doubt that she would drive here if I really needed her and I hope she knows I would come to her if she needed me.

Anyhow, after my conversation with my husband, he sent me this picture, taken with his camera phone.


The accompanying text read, "This is how I went." I have to admit that my heart stopped and I thought I had talked to a ghost. It seemed like one of those things you read about, where the widow swears her husband came home for dinner, even though he had been dead two hours already. But I called him back and he was fine, just not terribly articulate. The truck that almost hit him never stopped. Luckily, a nice couple came along right after it happened and they were able to describe the truck to the police; they remembered seeing it swerving right before the accident.

I can't stop thinking about what might have happened and I feel very, very blessed right now. His only injury is a little scratch on his hand, which is hard to imagine when I look at the pictures. My mother-in-law had a very sweet picture of our two older children on her dashboard; A. saw it as the car flipped and thought about them and Baby J. He said a lot of people stopped to help and he got a lot of hugs. I get a pit in my stomach if I think too much about what could have happened and I know he does, too.

We do feel a little bit like bad high school kids, though. I mean, his mom goes out of town, we use her car without asking and flip it into a ditch. Yikes. I bet we're gonna' be in, like, major trouble. I mean, that car was worth, like, almost a thousand dollars. It's worth a lot more to us, though, because it kept A. safe.

Namasté, y'all, and please don't forget to wear your seatbelts.



* Still for sale, by the way. Email Me! Please!

Is Your Husband Irritating Like This?

As you may remember, my husband and I are trying to unload sell a used BMW*. Recently, he resigned from the Car Buying Committee. He claims to be done with it; he wants me to be the sole member and has pledged to happily drive whatever I get for him. That's cool, because I love haggling for used cars. If you thought I was being sarcastic, you were wrong. I really think it's fun. It's easy for us ladies, too, because we can always invoke the absent, controlling husband. When I bought my van, in the rain while pregnant, I kept going out to my car and calling my friends.

"What are you doing?," I'd ask.

"Nothing much. How about you?"

"Buying a car."

"Cool. You coming to Bunco this week?"

"Yeah. Later!"

Then I'd go back into the car office, looking as tired and pregnant as possible and sigh,

"I just love that van, but my husband says no. Waaaaaahhh!"

Eventually they gave in, but I think I'm blackballed from that place.

A. also resigned from the committees for Party Planning, Environmental Services and Youth Management. He claims that between his position as head of the Fund Raising Committee and occasional volunteering for Youth Management, he has no time for those other commitments. Which is fine by me, because I'm all about control.

In spite of having tendered his resignations to these committees, he can't resist the occasional meddling input. Like he wanted to know if we should put a tub of beer on the front porch at our party**. And he wanted to know if we should donate the car, rather than trying to sell it. I told him I thought the laws had changed regarding tax deductions on donated cars. He gave examples of people he knew who had donated their junkers to both NPR and some other place he couldn't remember. I told him that was a while ago and I thought the rules changed this year. He told me selling it was the same as donating and donating was less of a hassle. I explained, for the millionth time, that a tax deduction isn't a tax credit. I'm tired of explaining that. To a lawyer. Yes, I know he does mostly criminal defense, but he pays taxes and he passed the Bar exam, which has a section on tax law or something similar, right? Once and for all:

A TAX CREDIT REDUCES THE AMOUNT OF TAX YOU PAY, IN THE EXACT AMOUNT OF THE CREDIT. A TAX DEDUCTION REDUCES THE AMOUNT OF TAX YOU PAY BY AN AMOUNT BASED ON YOUR TAX BRACKET.

Or something like that. Any tax lawyer or CPA out there is more than welcome to explain that more clearly, because the way I'm saying it isn't getting through. I'm not a tax lawyer or CPA. In fact, I failed Accounting I in college. I'm not saying that to be funny, I really did; frankly, it was over my head and verrah, verrah boring. But I do vaguely understand the difference between a tax credit and a tax deduction. Just sayin'.

In an attempt to convince me that donating the car really was a good idea, he said,

"But those people donated them to, like, an actual place."

What? You mean, as opposed to donating it to the universe, like this guy, who left his car at Douglas International Airport in Charlotte, North Carolina***:

Although that was a very kind thing to do, I don't think he can count on a tax deduction. My husband admitted that the police report from an abandoned car probably wouldn't suffice as documentation for the IRS.

What my husband clearly doesn't understand is that, in resigning from all those committees, he relinquished all control. He is not the CEO, so individual committee heads don't answer to him. I'm the CEO, and I couldn't even pass Accounting I, but I do throw a decent party.

All that being said, I might try to donate the car anyway, because I'm lazy. Also, I spend a lot of time on my other committees, so the Car Buying Committee is low priority; shortcuts are welcome. Now all I have to do is convince "an actual, like, place" to take it. So I need to create a PR committee, which I'll lead. And I'll be the only person on it, unless I can get a college intern to work for free. Hmmm...

Namasté, y'all!

*Email Me if you're interested. Make an offer.

**Answer: Good idea, and we've done it before, but decided against it this time, because we didn't want beer drinkers to miss out on liquor in their hurry to get a drink. And you have to be stupid to put unguarded liquor on your front porch in my neighborhood.

***True story, by the way; my sister snapped that picture on her way to Haiti last week.

Best Part of Thanksgiving.

We're having a party tonight*. We've recently added liquor to our standard party menu, to show how mature we are, but we're not so mature that we're too proud to take donations. As I was leaving my mom's house yesterday, she offered me a half bottle of gin for the party. Dad went to get it out of the liquor cabinet, because my parents don't let us kids in the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and offered to let me take that, too, which I did before my mom could say no.

I walked outside, carrying the bottle of Jack by the neck. For some reason, I can't hold a bottle of Jack by the neck without waving it over my head and yelling something. I looked at my brother and yelled,

"Mama alriddy gave me muh Chree-usmus present! Yeeeee-haw!"

There was only one correct response. My twenty three year old brother, slouching beneath the basketball goal with his hands in his pockets, muttered,

"Maih(n)!**"

Missing out on free liquor is a terrible thing. If I know him though, he went inside after I left to see if they were still handing it out. I bet he ended up with Seagram's 7.

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, if you know us (i.e. know where we live) and we forgot to invite you, please come anyway. It's a very casual affair and we invite people when we see them, so if we haven't seen you in a few days, we mean for you to be here.

** I do not know how to spell this. It's like the word "Man," but with a very country accent. Someone should start a website that lists ways to spell stuff like that. My husband is pretty good at it (he was responsible for "Pbrrrt.") Maybe he should do it, in his vast amount of spare time.

Ah, Thanksgiving.

This is the anniversary of my first date with my husband. I don't think he got me a present, but that's okay. Before our date, he spent the whole day at the beach having some sort of weird alternate universe Thanksgiving with his French mother and I had spent the day with my family, enjoying traditional dishes, such as heaping servings of passive aggression, and sides, including resentment, boredom and occasional flashes of humor. It was a good day for something new. According to him, my sweet husband spent the whole day looking forward to our date that night. Awwww...

He picked me up in his two door Honda Accord* and we started with dinner at Garibaldi's. That makes it seem like we were some kind of fancy couple, who ate in fancy restaurants. The reality is that the only two places open were the IHOP and Garibaldi's and I was too bloated to consider IHOP. We split the check at Garibaldi's and went to a party, filled with a lot of people my husband knew and a few people I recognized. I don't remember much about the party, other than I realized that I had forgotten about a lot of people I grew up with. They were (and are) nice enough, but I went to boarding school and I wasn't all that cool to begin with, so I don't think anyone really missed me. I like parties where I don't really know anyone, though, because there's no pressure.

After the party, we went to a bar called Jungle Jim's; I had never been there and I've never been back. I'm not even sure it's still open. I remember that it looked like the bathroom of a pizza place and that we ran into a friend of mine from school, who was with my eleventh grade prom date (his claim to fame, I'm sure...not). They eventually got married and they're divorced now, which makes me sad, because they both seem like nice people. They have three little children, and I know that children usually don't make marriage any easier. Not to be depressing, but children can destroy a marriage. Not that children destroyed their marriage. If there's one thing I've learned in ten years of being married, it's that you have no idea what goes on in other people's relationships. Seriously. I mean, would you ever guess that A. and I like to dress up as school girls and get in slap fights eat takeout Chinese right from the carton?

By the time A. and I had our first date, I knew far more about him than a potential girlfriend should know. He lived in an apartment across the street from mine and was friends with my roommate. When she moved to San Francisco, he didn't notice and kept coming over, in the middle of the night after he came in from a bar. I was happy for the company, because watching Jerry Springer at midnight all by yourself implies that you're watching it for real and not just as a joke. And A. needed an audience; over a couple of weeks, he read all of his diaries from his post-college years to me. That was before everyone in the world had a Blog, by the way, so it wasn't really normal to share intimate details of one's life with relative strangers. And there was some seriously embarrassing stuff in there**.

In spite of knowing all his deep, dark and flat out strange thoughts, I married him, a year and two months after our first date. I married him for his health insurance, his heartbreaking good looks and because I couldn't (and can't) imagine spending my life with anyone else.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

* Boy, do we ever wish we still had that car, in light of our recent experience with a BMW. Speaking of, if anyone wants a 2001 BMW five-series wagon that might just need a new engine, I will give you a good price. This is not a joke. Email Me and make an offer.

** This is one reason he will never leave me, because if he does, all of that stuff is going right here on my Blog. And I'll never leave him because I really love our house and I couldn't afford to live here without his income. Shallow, I know, but it is what it is.

Sometimes I Think I'm Not Smart

And sometimes I think I'm very smart, because I don't think too hard or let life get too difficult. It's been a long day, but I got a lot done and now I'm eating cheese (some Havarti-ish business with peppercorns in it), drinking wine and watching Reno911!: Miami with my sister. I really like this movie. And I don't care who knows. I also wish I could beat box. Maybe that'll be my New Year's resolution: Get better at beat boxing. It shouldn't be too hard, either, because it would be pretty hard to get worse. Boom...puh-chhhhh...bomp,bomp...puh-chhhh!

This is like a grownup version of Party-in-a-Bag, which Lady M (my pre-wedded "bliss" roommate) and I used to enjoy immensely. Here is a recipe for Party-in-a-Bag, but there are many variations, so feel free to experiment.

Party-in-a-Bag

1 Whitman's Sampler (you can substitute a couple of KitKats or bags of Raisinets.)

2 Cans of Diet Coke or Coke, or Diet Dr. Pepper.

1 Large (party size) bag of good potato chips, like Ruffles.

1 tub of French Onion Dip.

1-2 magazines, like US Weekly or People

1 movie. Back in the day, we used to buy a video at Wal-Mart. We would only buy the ones that were five dollars or less. Our collection included The Brady Bunch Movie, Totall Recall, True Lies (or something like that), St. Elmo's Fire, The Breakfast Club and Nine to Five, all excellent films. Nowadays I guess you could just download a movie, but that might give you too many choices.

1 Tijuana Mama pickled sausage, just for laughs (although once the other snacks are gone, the Tijuana Mama does not seem so bad.)

Serve immediately. Sit on couch and enjoy!

Husbands are fun, but some husbands are too fancy to enjoy Party-in-a-Bag. Hmph.

Namasté, y'all.

So Easy That I'm (Almost) Embarassed to Tell You

My children like Indian food, even Baby J. In fact, I thought he was a picky eater, because he wouldn't eat stuff like rice cereal or apple sauce. I was eating a dish of palak paneer for lunch and he went nuts reaching for the spoon. I gave him a taste and he couldn't get enough. In fact, he ate the rest of my lunch. It turns out, he's not a picky eater, he's Indian, so now I sprinkle curry powder on anything he deems too bland.

As you may know, I'm a huge fan of certain ready made foods, like these sauces by Maya Kaimal. I know I should learn to make Indian food from scratch, but...but...it's so much easier this way! And I bet it's better than anything I could make. I also can't resist a meal that takes five minutes to prepare. There are several ways to go about this, so I'll just explain the basic plan.

Meat Lovers Version

A slow cooker is the way to go for this one. Melt a little butter or vegetable oil in a frying pan and sauté a chopped onion. When the onion is soft and maybe a little bit brown around the edges, dump it in the slow cooker. Add the following:

2 10-16 oz. bags of frozen, chopped spinach.
3/4 cup dried lentils.
3/4 cup water
1 15 oz. jar of Maya Kaimal's Vindaloo or Tikki Masala sauce. The other ones are good, too, but those happen to be our favorites.

Stir it all together. In the pan where you sautéed the onion, brown whatever meat you want to use. No need to wash the pan first; the remaining oil or butter will keep the meat from sticking. I've used lamb chops, chicken wings, chicken breast and lamb cutlets. Use whatever you want.

Once you've browned the meat, lay it on top of the mixture in the slow cooker and cook it. I can't tell you exactly how long, but you should be able to get an idea from looking at another slow cooker recipe that uses the same amount and kind of meat you're using.

Serve it all over rice. I'm crazy about Carolina Plantation Rice, which smells like butter while it's cooking, even though there's no butter in it.

For My Vegetarian Friends

The vegetarian version is even easier. In a big frying pan, sauté one chopped onion in butter. Add two 10 oz. bags of frozen spinach and a jar of the special sauce of your choice. If you want to add lentils, cook them ahead of time (3/4 cup dry lentils yields about 2 cups cooked.) Make sure they're pretty mushy and stir them in.

While that's heating up, take a smaller frying pan and melt a little butter in it. Add some cubed paneer to the pan and sauté until it's a little brown around the edges, turning it every now and then.

Serve it in a bowl with rice.

Namasté, y'all!

Bad, Worse, Worst.

Bad: Realizing your current bra size is a 32 Long.

Worse: Realizing that you must be a crazy, country grandma because you regularly keep stuff in your bra.

Worst: Not finding some of the stuff until the end of the day.

By the way, you might not want to ask to borrow my cell phone. Just sayin'.

There was a time when I was sure I wanted to have my breasts put back in their place. When my youngest sister got married, I saw my other sister naked quite a bit, when we were trying on bridesmaid dresses. Lo and behold, there were my old boobs, albeit on someone else's chest. It was then that I realized how the mighty had fallen. And deflated. I got depressed, just a little. I mean, I have plenty of high tech (and high priced!) bras that do what they need to do, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to buy a shirt or a dress without worrying that my foundation garment might not fit under it. And most of the stuff I wear underneath my clothes isn't fun and cute; it's utilitarian and expensive. I love expensive stuff, but I like to get some fun for my money.

After my second child was born, I pledged to wait five years after I was finished breastfeeding and assess the situation. I was pretty sure I would go ahead with the re-placement of my breasts then. As things go, I got pregnant again before the five years was up*. Once again, I've decided that I'll wait five years after he's finished breastfeeding and see how I feel. If I still care, I'll get the lift. Maybe. You see, I'm not so sure now. I thought this might happen, which is why I've always given myself the grace period. After a few years, you get used to the way things are. I no longer lament the time it takes me to roll them up and stuff them in another expensive carrier each time I get dressed. I know which bras fit me best and I know how to find them on Ebay or at tullulah. And, at my age, I really don't need to be rocking tube tops, no matter where my breasts are.

After my third c-section, I also realized that recovering from an operation isn't really much fun, and my recoveries have been relatively easy. I'm not sure I'm willing to do it if I don't end up with something really awesome, like a kid. Breasts would be really great, but I had them before and I don't remember my quality of life being any better. I hate pain and I hate not being able to exercise, so the prospect of having to take any down time after an operation isn't appealing. Also, I saw a film of the operation at the gym (where I get my television fix, since we don't have one). It was scary. I know I'd be asleep and all, but it was really, really gross. Seriously.

I do have an agreement with one of my girlfriends: If I'm ever in a coma, she has sworn that she will force my doctor to give me a breast lift and maybe a bikini wax for good measure**. I tried to get my doctor to go ahead and give me a bikini wax during my last c-section, but they didn't have the equipment and frankly, I probably wouldn't have wanted to rock a bikini immediately after the birth anyway. I also tried to get him to give me some sort of combined c-section/tummy tuck, like the stars get. He said that was more or less a myth and not really possible. Apparently, those stars actually have to breastfeed, exercise and eat less, just like the rest of us; they just have more help, so it works quicker. I do think it's important that I make this declaration official:

If I wake up from a coma with these same old boobs, someone's in big, big trouble.

You are all responsible now, because I would hate to waste a good coma. Please go ahead and bookmark this entry, so you can forward it to my doctor if the need arises. Thank you.

Namasté, y'all!

* Just so you know, the second child was really supposed to be our last. We even had the consultation for the Big V, we were so sure our family was complete. But my husband is a slacker and never followed up by getting the actual vasectomy and, one night, after a couple drinks, one or the other of us (we can't remember who) asked the other if he/she ever thought about having a third child. Baby J is very, very cute and we all love him very, very much. The End.

** Incidentally, all of my girlfriends and I have agreed to pluck each other's random facial hairs if we are ever in comas. You may want to make this agreement with some of your closest friends, too. Don't bother telling your husband, because he would probably just think you were joking. Take care of this today; you won't be sorry.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times.

Ah, the toddler. In the interest of truth, my other children were nearly literate before they could be referred to as toddlers, because neither of them walked until they were nearly two years old. Baby J, however, toddles away, which is adorable and melts my heart, but drives me crazy. You know how cute it is the first time they do something? And how annoying it is the fiftieth?

One of my best friends from college, Beth, was raised with a great rule:

Once is funny, twice is silly and three times is a spanking.

The rule is excellent for older kids and I've used it since my children could understand. Fortunately, they've never pushed it and I've never had to spank them for making a silly joke*. I'm not sure what the rule is for a toddler, though. Once is cute, twice is adorable and three times is a tiny, screaming tyrant?

In one corner of our kitchen, we have a couple of big floor pillows that the kids pull out to sit on occasionally. We keep the pillows in a sunny spot, surrounded by windows that go all the way to the floor. Baby J likes to go there and we recently started calling it the bird nest and using it as a reading corner. It was so cute at first. Someone would say, "J, you wanna' go to the nest and read a book?" He would get one of his books and toddle over, waiting for someone to come read to him. His big brothers were happy to do it. I'll admit, we might have gone overboard; we might have said it, I don't know, thirty times in one day? It was just so adorable to watch him waddle over, fat little bottom going side to side, tiny hands gripping one of his favorite books. I had visions of my children as adults, sitting around the table during one of their visits home from their fabulous lives, and reminiscing, "And how could we forget the nest? Ah, yes, that is where I first felt the inspiration to write my third [brilliant] novel..." In less than twenty four hours, I came to regret my actions. Baby J waits until no one wants to read, grabs a book, sits in the nest and wails until someone indulges him. I'm thinking of hiring a literate neighborhood child to sit there all day, just in case.

When the X-Man was first walking, he would cling to my legs whenever I was standing up. Or sitting down. Or lying down. Or standing on my head. Or going to the bathroom. And he would whine. Why do we forget these things when we decide to conceive another child? And it gets worse, but it gets real cute before it gets worse, which was small consolation at the time. My sister had given our older child a really cool marionette, a fuzzy blue bird with a big yellow beak and wobbly legs, as marionettes tend to have. I don't know how I discovered this, but the X-Man absolutely loved it when an indulgent adult would follow him around the house with Bluey. As long as he was being followed by Bluey, he was positively Zen; nothing fazed him. Bluey was his best friend, his shadow. Whenever the phone rang, I'd pick up the crossed rods that controlled Bluey and we'd walk around the house, the three of us. I'd hold the phone with one hand and animate Bluey with the other. I couldn't drink coffee at the same time, but that was a small price to pay. The major problem was that, after the phone conversation was over, Bluey was not dismissed. And if you paused to do something like scratch your head and Bluey lagged behind, the tiny dictator would emerge, flinging himself to the ground and screaming until Bluey came back to life. Fun times.

As crazy-making as parenting a toddler can be, the indescribable sweetness makes it all worth it. Baby J will tug on my legs, wedging himself between me and the bathroom counter as I try to brush my teeth. Just when I can't stand it any more and I want to run screaming from the room, I bend down and say in a far too frustrated voice, "What? Please. Can't I just brush my teeth?!" And he hugs me around the neck and plants little kisses all over my face. And I am the luckiest person in the universe, just for that moment. And when I give up on making dinner and go sit in the nest, I can't imagine anything I need to be doing more than sitting there, the warm weight of a toddler in my lap, watching his chubby hands turn the pages of a book. Dinner will get made, the floor will get swept eventually and my teeth will get brushed, but the toddler won't wait. He'll be a different child, less of a baby, as soon as tomorrow.

At the end of the day, "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." Even if that rest is interrupted by a tiny tyrant, chubby and warm in his stretchy snowman pajamas.

Namasté, y'all!



* My husband, on the other hand, will make the same joke five thousand times, even if it was never funny to begin with. And he keeps hoping to get a spanking. I refuse to reward him for dumb jokes, though.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas!

Ah, the holidays! One of the things I like best about the holiday season is the chance to drink and shop. Drinking and shopping is the best; you never buy anything uncomfortable and the atmosphere is just so festive. It's like vacation shopping!

I spent the morning with Jacque at Cloud Nine Market, picking out gift baskets for my husband's office. Every year, I make sure to complain about it just enough so he doesn't want to do it himself, because it's a lot of fun. I know Jacque from back in the day, when she was one of the higher ups in the national chain where I worked as a lowly assistant manager. She was fun then and she's fun now, and fashionable to boot. She had on a great coat today; it was a green and cream brocade with green rhinestone buttons, très, très chic! And of course she picked it up at market in Atlanta, so no one else in town can have one. Lucky!

Anyhow, Cloud Nine has everything: coffee, wine, fancy snacks, bath products, cute kitchen stuff and free wi-fi. The free wi-fi is a new addition and I liked being able to turn on the laptop while I talked to Jacque; I think it made me look very hip and professional and important. We lazy housewives have to get it where we can. I drank a bunch of coffee and ate a cookie and babbled incessantly. In spite of all that, the baskets are taken care of, mostly thanks to Jacque, who is very patient.

Her coat reminded me that after Yoga tonight, I'll get to do a little drinking and shopping. Annabelle and Kristy, respective owners of LaRoque and tullulah, are co-hosting an open wallet house. They give you a little discount and a little alcohol, a perfect combination. And I'll be all blissed out from Yoga, so it should be fun. Jacque's coat reminded me of Annabelle's stuff, which she designs and sews herself. She uses vintage-looking fabrics and the styles are classic. I have one of her dresses, but I might need a little jacket. Or two.

And Emily at M Boutique, right down the street, is having an open house, too. Although my lucky jeans have not done as much for the Gamecocks as I had hoped, I still love the store. I look forward to tottering down Devine Street, shopping. I wish I had a friend to join me, but babysitters are hard to come by at the last minute and I don't think you should introduce kids to the concept of drinking and shopping until they're of age. Also, they totally cramp your style.

Speaking of drinking and shopping, my original partner in crime, the Lady M, is coming for a visit. Ever since I learned that Baby J could survive a night without me, I've wanted to do it again. The Lady M is taking a spur of the moment trip to Charleston this weekend and if she can make it from San Francisco, I can make it from Columbia. I can't wait to see her; it'll be just like old times, but with better food.

Namasté, y'all!

I Made Pumpkin Soup With a Baby Clinging to My Legs

And it was pretty quick, so I didn't get as annoyed as I could have. First I would like to tell you an easy way to get cooked pumpkin. You've probably heard this before, but just in case...

Take a pumpkin (or two or three, depending on their size) and cut it in half. Scoop out all the gunk and the seeds; set that mess aside and clean the seeds for roasting after you get the pumpkin in the oven. Put the pumpkin face down in a jelly roll pan; that's a cookie sheet with sides. Fill the pan with about an inch of water and cook the pumpkin at 375° for an hour or two, until it's tender when you poke it with a fork. During that time, here's what you can do:

1. Rinse the seeds from the pumpkin(s). Pat them dry with a clean dish towel. Spread them on another cookie sheet, drizzle them with a little melted butter and sprinkle with seasoning salt. Stick them in the oven with the pumpkin and cook them until they're done. Maybe an hour? I don't remember. But take them out and stir them a few times while they're cooking.

2. Take two of your kids to piano.

3. On the way to piano, make your oldest child, the "good" one, call his friend and apologize to him for chucking a basketball at the back of his head the day before.

4. Curse your husband for not making him apologize on the spot.

5. After you drop the kids at piano, go by the park to make sure your friend isn't mad that your son chucked a basketball at the back of her son's head.

6. Feel relieved when she tells you it wasn't at his head, just his back.

7. Chat with your friend while your baby eats other people's Goldfish crackers.

8. Introduce yourself to the mother of the Goldfish crackers and promise to bring her a dollar next time you are at the park to pay for the Goldfish, which you have no intention of asking your baby to stop eating.

9. Feel relieved that she says you don't need to bring the dollar, because you never have cash. Cash is for kids. Grown-ups use debit cards.

10. Worry that your blind acceptance of debit cards will lead to some sort of horrifying Handmaid's Tale scenario. Pray that our next president will be a Democrat.

11. Pick the kids up at piano. Marvel at how cute and earnest they are.

12. Marvel (silently) at how tone deaf your middle child is when he sings Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I mean, how hard is it? Everybody knows that song.

When you get home, take the pumpkin out of the oven; the meat should have separated from the rind. Scrape out about four cups of it and put that in a pot. Whatever is left, scrape into a freezer container, label it and save it for another day.

Add the following to the pot:

2 cups stock (I used vegetable stock because there is a vegetarian in our family. Chicken would be fine, too.)

About a half a cup of roasted red pepper.

One onion, chopped and sauteéd in olive oil until soft.

1-2 teaspoons fresh thyme or a sprinkle of powdered.

A healthy shake of white pepper.

Salt to taste.

Bring it to a boil and let it simmer until everything is soft enough to use the Pbrrrt*. Use the Pbrrrt to pureé the soup. After it's completely Pbrrrt-ed, add about a half a cup of half and half and Pbrrrt it some more, just enough to blend.

Eat it. Add more cream or milk if you want to cool it down or if you just want a creamier soup. I usually add milk for the children.

Go to Yoga.

Namasté, y'all!

* That link is to a fancy Pbrrrt, which is what we call immersion blenders, thanks to my French mother-in-law, who has trouble remembering names of things in English. My Pbrrrt is not fancy; it is made by Betty Crocker and works just fine.

Omphaloskeptics Don't Wear Overalls

When my nephew was a toddler and had to make a decision, his hand would race to his navel and he'd start digging. He couldn't decide between waffles or pancakes, mommy or daddy, chocolate or vanilla...or strawberry. And he couldn't wear overalls, because the stress of being unable to reach his navel was unbearable. After the decision was made, he still couldn't relax. Second guessing and over-thinking is natural for some people. My nephew is a classic maximizer*. Even after making his choice, he still worries that he could have done better.

In a lot of ways, my sister-in-law V. is like a sister to me. We don't have the same parents, but we do have the same parents-in-law (if it's taking you a second to figure that out: our husbands are brothers.) Sometimes, I think we're married to the same guy, because our very minor complaints about our nearly perfect husbands are so similar. One think we've noticed about our in-laws, including our husbands, is that they're all belly button diggers. It's become so ingrained that I realized the other day that I use that phrase a lot and no one but V. has any idea what I'm talking about. Allow me to explain.

Belly button diggin' is closely related to navel gazing. It's just more agonizing and less productive. The navel gazer can produce entire works of art about him or herself (or, um, a whole blog.) The Belly Button Digger (BBD) agonizes endlessly to no avail. When I was pregnant with our third child, I decided that we absolutely had to go to Disney World, within weeks. I am not a Belly Button Digger. As soon as the thought entered my head, I was sure it had to happen. And it had to happen fast because, if history repeated itself, I would be on bedrest soon enough. The big boys were the perfect ages to enjoy Disney World and a baby would postpone the trip indefinitely. So I told my husband I was booking the trip and the Belly Button Digging began.

"I don't know...Disney World? I'd rather go to Europe."

Like that's going to happen, you Belly Button Digger.

"I don't know if I can miss five days of work."

Hello? Cell phone? No one will miss you.

"Maybe it's too expensive."

Lalalala...

Imagine him saying all of those things with an excruciating look of pain on his face. One would think I had asked him to choose between walking the plank or Russian Roulette, not a trip to Disney World or...not. Because I had no time for Belly Button Digging, I told him I was making the reservation and, while I would be happy for him to come, I would be equally happy taking my mother, who the boys adore. And he started anew.

"But they'd never forgive me."

They'd be far more focused on, I don't know, DISNEY WORLD than you, dear.

"I owe it to them to go."

There will be no martyrs at Disney World!

"Your mom doesn't want to go."

Does, too.

I made the reservation and told him to let me know. In the end, he went, strictly forbidden by me to make any negative remarks or ugly faces before, during or after the trip. I made him buckle up his overalls and enjoy himself, which he did.

My husband has been browbeaten out of much of his Belly Button Diggin', but others are not so lucky. And BBD's can miss out because they spend too much time thinking. It's a particularly agonizing form of procrastination. You can't decide if you want to go out Friday night, so you don't get a babysitter. But you have children, so of course you want to go out Friday night, which you finally know for sure on Friday afternoon at five o'clock, when all the babysitters are taken or on their way to Happy Hour. V. and I realized long ago that it was pointless to ask our BBD husbands on Wednesday if we should get a sitter for the weekend. They always said no and they always whined on Friday that they wished we had gotten one.

I suppose that I could do a little bit more belly button digging; I do tend to make rash decisions. I was whining to my sister today about how I'm not stupid, but not in possession of any kind of useful intelligence. She claimed that I'm plenty smart and I've made choices about what to do with my life. The truth hurts, but I guess she's right**. I do tend to choose the easiest path, not the most advanced or even the most interesting. But at least most days I'm content; some days I'm even wildly happy, like when we went to Disney World or when I got my lucky jeans. And even if I had a big, fancy life, wouldn't I still be unhappy sometimes? And wouldn't I have to work a lot harder? And not go to Yoga as often?

In the end, I think balance in a family is good. Let's say your wife is jumping on the bed with an empty Margarita glass, yelling, "Do it! Do it! Do it!" in reference to quitting your job. A little contemplation is probably a good thing. If my husband was as impulsive as I am, we'd live in a house that needed a lot more renovating than we could afford, because we'd have twelve children. And tattoos. And if I was more like him, we'd only have one child and we'd be driving the same car we had when we got married. I like to think that my impulsiveness has given him the courage to go farther with his career and do other cool stuff, like go to Disney World. And the kids never would have gotten those faux hawks. I could be wrong but, frankly, I'm just not going to think about it too much.

So, next time you want to do something like steal plants from the park in the middle of the night to plant in your yard and your friend says, "I don't know...," feel free to say, "Quitcher dang belly button diggin' and git in the car! Yer drivin'! Whooooooo!"

Namasté, y'all.

* If you followed that link and read about the quiz, you may find it interesting to know that I scored 17 and my husband scored in the 70's. Fun.

** Well, sort of. It's hard to explain how having three children limits you. And how you desperately love the children and wouldn't change a thing. And how you had no idea from one year to the next what you might want five years down the line. A little belly button diggin' might have left my options open, but I wouldn't have as many children and my children crack me up, which is pretty much all I want out of life. Except...oops, I came pretty close to Belly Button Diggin' right there.

Bread is an Excellent Vehicle for Butter

Out: Local wine.

Five Minutes Ago: Local produce.

In: Local meat.

Next week: Local butter.

That's right, my friends, butter. Soon, you'll see the provenance of butter, right there on the menu. I'm sure they're already doing it up in New York City. The sea bass will be served with a lemon beurre blanc, made with butter from the Happy Cow Creamery. The Happy Cow Creamery, by the way, produces some of my favorite butter. We buy it by the log, salted and unsalted, from Rosewood Market. And we've gotten spoiled; I just can't enjoy plain old table butter like I used to.

My love affair with butter began in childhood, when it was a forbidden fruit. Biscuits and butter were reserved for special occasions, like Thanksgiving or a sleepover at my best friend's house when we were little. Her mother made the best biscuits. If we ate our green beans and pork chops, we could slather a few of the warm, crispy little biscuits with butter and honey. I can still recall the perfect blend of crunchy, sweet and creamy as the biscuit melted in my mouth. At my house, we didn't have butter, just margarine, which was deemed healthy by my mother, the same woman who, after reading about it in a magazine, tried to make all four of us kids swallow a teaspoon of wheat germ a day. That lasted about two days, but the cannister of wheat germ stayed on the counter for the duration of my childhood; as far as I know, it's still there. I don't believe margarine is healthy in the least, but that's another story.

I cringe when I go to a restaurant and find that the butter is bland. Haphazardly chosen butter can taste a bit like Crisco. I want to see butter get the recognition and consideration it deserves. I want butter tasting to be an art. I want the Future Farmers of America to address butter.

Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks glass of milk] The defect in that one is bleach.

FFA Judge No. 1: That's right.

Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.

Napoleon Dynamite: [drinks second glass of milk] This tastes like the cow got into an onion patch.

FFA Judge No. 2: Correct.

Napoleon Dynamite: Yessssssssss.

Now imagine that same scene, but with butter. Glorious. I would be the first to sign up for a butter tasting. The butters could be paired with different breads. One would be an excellent croissant butter, another perfect for sourdough. We would talk about which breeds of cow produced the best milk for butter. And what the cows should eat to flavor and color the butter. There would be certified butter tasters. Unfortunately, they could not be called beurriers, as that name is taken. Maybe beurristes? Beurritos? Beurremeisters? Did you know that the yellow color of butter is determined by the amount of carotene in the cow pasture? I learned it from a book, my favorite book about food.

When I want too much information about some food or another, I consult The Larousse Gastronomique. I love the French, because they have strict laws about food. The Larousse lists ten labels for butter:

Farmhouse butter
Pasteurized butter
Dairy butter
Sweet butter
EEC butter
Imported butter
Restored butter
Salted butter
Regional butter
Concentrated (or cooking) butter

Would I ever like to get my hands on some of those or...um...get some of those on my biscuits*. According to the Larousse, "Regional butter [is] produced solely in its region using cream from the local dairy cows. Each region's butter has its own distinctive flavour, texture and colour due to the quality of its pastures." Napoleon Dynamite would be able to pick out each one, I'm sure.

The Larousse refers to butter made from milk that didn't come from a cow as "alternative butter" and lumps it in the same category with the hated margarine. I think this is a bit of an insult to the buffaloes, camels, goats, ewes, mares and donkeys who provide milk for butter, but you know how the French are. In my book, margarine isn't even a food, much less a butter, but I do respect the French need to uphold truth in food labeling; in fact, I think it's sexy. In spite of that, we really enjoy goat butter and I'm looking forward to trying some of those other ones, although I'm not so sure about donkey butter.

At my butter tasting party, I plan to serve sparkling wines from several countries and maybe a dry white wine or two. I might add a dry rosé, for my husband, because he likes it and I don't like him to drink pink wine in public. I'll have at least ten butters, including Parmigiano Reggiano butter, which is sure to spark debate (Is it a butter? Is it a cheese? Cheese! No, butter! Spreadable cheese! Butter!) And I'll ask Heather if she's willing to talk bread pairings with me. And I'll make a big batch of my best friend's mom's biscuits. It will be verrah, verrah fancy. And you can host one, too! And make the biscuits!

My Best Friend's Mom's Biscuits

I called my best friend's mom to get this recipe when I was pregnant with my third child. I needed the recipe real bad.

Sift nearly 2 cups of self-rising flour ( reserve a little flour to cover your hands later) into a large mixing bowl. Cut 3/4 to 1 cup Butter Flavor Crisco into the flour until it's grainy. That's right, you heard me. Crisco. And I do get the irony of using butter flavored Crisco when I'm extolling the virtues of butter. Don't tell the French, okay?

Add 3/4 of a cup of buttermilk to the mix. By the way, did you know buttermilk comes in a powder? That's a good thing for those of us who aren't regular butter milk drinkers, because I have yet to find small containers of buttermilk and most recipes call for a cup or two, which leaves you stuck with a bunch of buttermilk. You can, however, freeze the leftover buttermilk in ice cube trays and put the cubes in a freezer bag to use later. Or just keep a canister of the powder on hand.

Use the rest of the flour to cover your hands and pat the dough out on a clean surface. Don't knead it. Roll or pat it to about a quarter of an inch thickness. Cut the biscuits and put them on a greased cookie sheet. I like to cut them small, about the size of a pat of butter. Bite size things have less calories, even if you eat twelve.

Cook the biscuits at 400° for about 10 minutes.

Eat them all, with lots of butter.

Namasté, y'all!

*That's what she said. Sorry, couldn't help myself.

Why It Really Doesn't Matter If Your Kid Hears Some Filthy Song

"Soulja boy up in dat...Whoa!

Wommy crank bat, wommy row!

Now Supe-Man, Supe, Supe-Man!"

And according to my little would-be rap star, "In rap, did you know they leave some letters out? That's what makes it cool."

Now you know.

Namasté, y'all!

Scary Cat

I'm a little bit scared of cats. I used to have a recurring dream that a cat was wrapped around my head and I couldn't remove it, because it was as strong as the Incredible Hulk. It was normal cat-sized, but really, really strong. The cat on my head was more annoying than painful and the dream was highly irritating. According to this article, cats in dreams usually represent yourself or someone close to you. Does that mean I feel suffocated and annoyed by myself? Could be. I haven't had that dream in years, but I'll probably have it tonight.

There is a gray cat who lives in our neighborhood. The gray cat thinks he lives at our house, because he hangs out there all the time, staring at us. We don't feed him or pet him or even acknowledge him, but he is stalking us.

At first, he just hung around the yard, staring at us as we came and went. He progressed to observing us through the glass back door. Last week, emboldened by who knows what, he actually came into our house when one of the kids left the front door open. I'm scared of cats, so I made O pick him up and put him outside. A day or so later, I walked by the closed front door and he was on the porch, vigilant. He stared at me through the panes and wouldn't look away. I hurried out of the room before he could steal my soul. Yesterday, he had his paws on the bottom pane of the door and was staring into the living room, waiting for me. Again, he wouldn't look away. I boldly approached the door and made a face at him through the glass. He ran away, after scoffing at my stupid face.

It dawned on me that I should take a picture of him, so people will believe me. I went and sat in front of the door with the camera, hoping he would return, but he did not. I will be sitting there again today at some point. It's kind of nice.

In my darkest moments (which aren't all that dark), I think the cat is a reincarnation of one of my dead ancestors. And because I'm paranoid, I think the ancestor disapproves of my lazy lifestyle. Alternately, I think the cat is just a cat who wishes he was a tiger and wants to eat my family. That psycho cat needs cat therapy, which reminds me of something the X-Man said when he was about two.

We were in the car and he was in a foul mood, whining away in his car seat. I started babbling to distract him.

"Oooh! Look at the big truck! Look, a bird! Hi, pretty bird! Look at that - that's the Cat Clinic! That's a doctor's office, just for cats!" The whining stopped. Suddenly interested, he asked,

"That's a doctor? Just for cats?"

"Yes," I answered, relieved that I had hit on something that rendered him speechless. We traveled in silence for several glorious minutes. I glanced back, thinking he had fallen asleep, and saw him staring out the window, tiny brow furrowed, contemplating this new information. Finally, he spoke.

"But, how do the cats open the door?"

I wonder if the Cat Clinic does psychotherapy? Stalker kitty could use it to deal with his fixation on our family.

Namasté, y'all!

In Which My Husband and I Spend Our First Night Away from the Baby, With Another Man (Alternate Title: The Sanest Days Are Mad)

My husband has a BMW. We've invested so much money in it that it should be worth a lot by now, right? And we're about to make some more improvements, because it died just as we reached Greenville, South Carolina last night for the Morrissey show.

About ten minutes before we arrived in Greenville, that scary little light came on, the one that warns you your car is about to overheat, leaving you stranded in the middle of the road with smoke coming out from under the hood. We made it just off the highway and almost into the city before the car died. I leapt out of the car, grabbing my bag of course, and scooted across four lanes of traffic to get to the sidewalk. My outfit, which looked totally awesome for a concert, made me look like a drunk hooker running from her pimp.

Especially given that I was tottering across four lanes of traffic, trying to get away from an old guy in a BMW. And yelling. I was yelling at my husband because, in an effort to go down with the ship, he was calling the auto club on his cell phone, standing beside the car in the middle of the highway. Brilliant. As luck would have it, we were meeting our friends George and Blan at the concert and they just happened to pull up right behind us. I stood on the side of the road looking scraggly while they pushed the car into a parking lot. I am only sorry that I no longer smoke, because that would have made the scene better.

The auto club couldn't send a tow truck until morning and we had no ride home. You know what that meant...we got to stay in a hotel and everyone got to drink, because the designated driver had been rendered obsolete. Wheeeeeeeeee! There were a few non-rock starish details to attend to, like calling my dad and convincing him to go relieve our babysitter and spend the night with the kids. Baby J was a tough sell, because we've never left him overnight and he still won't say no to a midnight snack. But, what can you do? I love situations that are completely beyond my control, because no one can get mad at you for having fun.

Nervous husband in tow, we parked Blan's car and tottered* to the show. As we were walking, I saw a familiar sight. At first I thought it was a mirage, but, no! It was a Westin Hotel! My absolute favorite campground! I just love the Heavenly Bed. And the Heavenly Shower. And the Heavenly Television and Room Service. We stumbled into the hotel, less than thirty minutes before the start of the show, and were thrilled to find out that we could get a great rate on a room. The rate was not so great, however, that we could afford a second room for our friend George, who had already warned us about his snoring, but that didn't matter. A simple night out to see a concert had turned into a glamorous adventure. And this particular Westin was built in the 1920's, which totally matched my jacket. I couldn't have been more pleased.

The show was excellent. My favorite part was in the lobby, when I was using the box office phone book to get the number to leave a message asking the parking lot owners not to tow our soon to be towed car. A dashing, young man with a fabulous British accent came up to me and said, "Would you like to see the show for free? You're beautiful." Yes, folks, for an old, married mama like myself, this sort of thing does more for the ego than a million compliments from my husband, bless his heart. And it totally confirmed that I had picked the right outfit. And that my hair looked pretty good.

We sat in a box, one of those opera hall type boxes, which made it a more grownup sort of night, as did the bar in the lobby. I liked the box, because it was so clean that I could take my shoes off and dance. We could see everyone, including the fans who ran up on the stage to try to touch Morrissey and the bouncers who tackled them. I had forgotten how much I loved Morrissey, too. During Old Lang Syne, he rested in some kind of shoulder stand with his legs in full Lotus while the band played and y'all know I love me some Yoga, so that was hot.

After the show, we went to a bar (yay!) By then, my husband had given up and was pretty relaxed. In the bathroom of the bar, I found this notice:

So, if you are seeking employment as a professional waiter or as a waiters position, let me know. And do not worry if you have very little knowledge of international beers and liquors, because they had those, but not any more. Now they just have Bud and Bud Light.

After the bar, we tottered* back to the hotel, ready to crash. But not before my husband and George went across the street to a restaurant to get beer and bubbly, which I drank out of the bottle after jumping on the Heavenly Bed in my husband's tennis clothes, which he conveniently had in his car. I fell asleep to the sounds of Sports Center and George's snoring. My husband, for once, didn't snore. It was a perfect night.

The next morning, while husband supervised the towing of the car and George slept, I sat in the hotel restaurant, reading the New York Times and taking advantage of the all you can eat breakfast buffet. I had an omelet (asparagus, broccoli, peppers and cheese), bacon, sausage, cheese blinis, fruit and about four shiny pitchers of coffee. I grabbed a bunch of those tiny jelly and syrup jars for the kids. As it turned out, there were no rental cars available, so my husband had his assistant drive up to get us. Our heroes, the staff of the Westin, comped our breakfast out of pity. We had to wait a couple of hours, so I kept hitting the breakfast buffet. I skipped lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I had my brother take lunch to the kids at school. I didn't want to ask my dad, who had gotten very little sleep, or my mom, who was spending the morning entertaining the winsome, but high maintenance, Baby J. I'm very proud of my baby brother, who managed to come up with a well balanced lunch: peanut butter and jelly, apples, Cape Cod chips and V8. So...the big kids were fine, Baby J was pleased with all of the attention and didn't seem to care that we were gone and Morrissey was superb. Best! Night! Ever!

Namasté, y'all!

* I tottered. My three dates walked. I was feeling pretty glamorous, with three dates and all. Granted, two of the dates were married, one of them to me, but I take what I can get.

In Which I Learn That My Sister Thinks I'm a Crazy Drunk Housewife

I was on the phone with my sister this morning, on the way to the Fancy Mart to drink coffee and blog (yeah, babe, I have a blog.) In the middle of our conversation, I yelled,

"Don't hit me, Lizard's Thicket!"

"Oh my God! You almost hit a Lizard's Thicket?!"

Did she really think that I a) was about to hit an actual Lizard's Thicket and b) was convinced that said Lizard's Thicket was actually moving towards me? In a word, yes.

In fact, 'twas the Lizard's Thicket van driver that may have been drinking at 9 am and subsequently plowed through a red light. I was merely demonstrating that I am my mother's daughter by talking to cars, even though neither they, nor their intrepid drivers can hear me. My mother talks to cars and it makes me crazy. For that matter, it makes her crazy. When she wants to change lanes, she doesn't use her blinker, an excellent communication tool, like they taught us in driver's ed. I don't think she ever took driver's ed. I'm pretty sure she learned to drive with her father, who was blind. Really. She would sit on his lap and tell him which way to turn the wheel while he worked the pedals. I'm serious. They lived in a very small town, so it's not as bad as it sounds, but still.

"Oooh! Blue car! Let me over! Jerk!"

The hapless Blue Car has no idea she wants to turn. He can't see her hunched over the steering wheel and straining towards the dashboard in an attempt to propel the car forward, because she has tinted windows. And he can't hear her objections to his cold refusal to let her into his lane. I feel sorry for the Blue Car, because he doesn't have a clue that he's the target of all this anger.

Maybe it's a good thing he can't hear her, because my mom can be scary in the car. When she's driving through her neighborhood and passes someone she knows, she waves and says (out loud, even though the windows are closed),

"Heeeeeeeeyyyyyy! Heh, heh, heh..."

It sounds like she's planning to toilet paper their house later. Or that she already has and they don't know yet. Or that she kidnapped their dog and is holding it hostage in the basement. My mom's weird, but not that weird and, frankly, not that energetic.

Whoa! Did you see that Hardee's that just flew by? This is making me nervous. I think I need to make another pitcher of Vodka Stingers*.

Namasté, y'all!

* Just so you know, a Vodka Stinger is made of equal parts White Crème de Menthe and vodka. Shake them together with ice and strain into a cocktail glass, or pitcher. Shaken, not stirred, please.

What to Do With the Four Pounds of Grouper My Mother-In-Law Put in Your Freezer

Oh, she didn't put four pounds of grouper in your freezer? Well, if she had been to your house she would have, along with some eggs, fresh mayonnaise, cookies and grapefruit juice. And you would know about it, too, because she might mention it a few times. And you'd be freaking out, because you wouldn't be able to find the mayo, which is bound to spoil and destroy your family.

Anyhow, I was glad to get the grouper, because it inspired me to make fish chowder, which I love. So here you go:

Extreme Grouper Chowder

Take about four pounds of grouper fillets and put them in a zip-loc bag with some lemon juice. Keep them in the fridge until you need them.

Start with a roux. I started with a roux in anticipation of publishing this recipe. I imagined how sophisticated it would sound to say, "Start with a roux." I feel all Julia Child and sh*t. It's less complicated than it sounds. In a big soup pot, melt a whole stick of butter. Add a half a cup of flour and whisk it for a few minutes. No lumps, please!

To the roux, add two sliced onions and one sliced red pepper. Let them cook for a few minutes, until they're soft.

Next, add the following to the pot:

4 cups of fish stock (homemade if you like, or by the can or box. One of these days, I'll give you a stock recipe, which you can freeze in can-sized increments.)

1 can of tomatoes with green chilis (like Ro-Tel)

1 can of evaporated milk

3 tablespoons of tomato paste (I like the kind in the tube, because it lasts a long time and is easy to use.)

1 cup of frozen corn

3 cups of peeled, chopped potatoes (I used Yukon Gold and they were yummy. Incidentally, they have a medium amount of starch for a potato and hold up well in soups.)

sprinkle of white pepper

heaping spoonful of brown sugar

as much fresh thyme as you have the patience to strip off those little tiny branches, at least a tablespoon.

salt to taste

Let the soup simmer until the potatoes are more or less cooked, about thirty minutes.

By the way, if you're itching to open a bottle of wine and need an excuse, a splash of dry white might be nice to add. I didn't need to justify opening the bottle, so I didn't add any.

Now dump the fish from the bags right into the pot. The fish should cook pretty quickly, in about ten minutes, and it'll break into bite-sized chunks as you stir it.

Now eat it.

If you would like to be very fancy, you could sprinkle fresh thyme on top of each bowl. Or you could make your own croutons with thyme and olive oil. Or you could just serve it with crusty bread. Maybe even bread from Heather's Artisan Bakery, because it's so good you'll freak out. It's crazy good. I accidentally ate an entire loaf of her ciabatta. And an entire loaf of the cranberry nut challah. It's that good!

Namasté, y'all!