I can't be the only one.

I love my husband, I really do, but I can't be the only wife who's ever looked at her beloved a little bit menacingly after raising his life insurance. The last two times I was pregnant, we upped the amount of life insurance on A, for the same reason anyone does. I have no income and it might totally traumatize the kids if I had to put them in daycare right after their father died so I could go work at the Dairy Queen. And I need money for stuff like beauty treatments, a personal trainer, sweet clothes and other things that might help me score a new husband. And, oh yeah, I might want to pay for college and other random stuff for the kids.

I'm a very practical sort of person and I've already told A that I would use about $50,ooo of the insurance right away for necessities, including, but not limited to, the following:

• An awesome dress or suit for the funeral. If he dies in the fall or winter, I plan to wear a wool suit, pencil skirt and very fitted jacket, nipped in at the waist. If he dies in the spring or summer, I'll probably wear a sheath in silk or linen. And whatever I wear, it'll be super expensive, because I won't have time to mess around looking for a bargain. Ahem.



• Shoes for the funeral. As much as I love Louboutins, the red soles might be too flashy, so I'll probably go with Chanel or Prada, or Pedro Garcia if I'm feeling rebellious. I can't decide if it would be tacky to wear seamed stockings. Glamorous, yes, but maybe a bit over the top, even for me.



• A hat. Hmmmm...does anyone still wear a hat?
  



• Till to come to my house and do my hair. I have no idea if he does this, so I would have to pay him a lot, but I can't show up to my husband's funeral looking like a hag and I think it would be tacky to go to the salon. Plus, Till's blowouts are so good they last for days, which would be good for receiving visitors.
  



• Plastic surgery. I'm not telling you what kind, because that's personal. I think I should have the surgery within a week of A's death. That way, I can recover when I'm supposed to be home mourning anyway and I'll be able to hit the ground running when it's appropriate.



• A television, to watch while I'm healing from the surgery.



• A nanny, so I can get some sleep.



• A housekeeper, so I won't miss A folding the laundry. That's something he does that I really, really appreciate. I hate folding laundry so much that I used to use the dryer as my dresser. I wore stuff from the dryer until it was empty. I used the washing machine as a hamper. It wasn't a bad system, really, but it doesn't work for a family of five (well, four if A is gone, but still).



• Personal trainer. I'm old and I got three babies. 'Nuff said.
  



• Therapy for me and the kids.

When I'm pregnant, I'm not always in a great mood. The first time we went to get life insurance, I was pregnant with our second child and had already gained about fifty pounds, which felt like a lot. Little did I know, I would put on twenty or thirty more, but I digress. A and I sat in Mr. P's office, feeling rather proud of ourselves for being so grownup, I'm sure. We discussed what price to put on A's head an appropriate amount and I was shocked to learn how much my husband was worth. Fifty pounds overweight because of something he did, I wasn't his biggest fan at the time. I figured I would have to pay someone to haul him off. I started asking questions.

"So, Mr. P, what happens when...oops!...I mean if, he dies?"

"You'll get the amount we agreed on."

"In cash?"

"Um, no. I'll bring you a check."

"To my house?"

"Yes."

"You, personally, will bring the check?"

"Yes, I will."

"And you won't be shy, right? I mean, I'll be mourning and all, but you do know it will be okay to come by. With the check."

"Ah...yes." I could tell he was getting uncomfortable, so I decided not to ask if he would also bring a casserole.

"Will it be a big check, like Ed McMahon brings?"

"Um, no, just the regular size."

"Aw, I was just kidding." Mr P and my husband laughed in relief, nervously. "But, seriously, when you bring the check, will it be good? I mean, could I technically take it to the bank and cash it right that second? If I wanted to?"

"Um, yes."

At this point, my very embarrassed and terrified husband broke into the conversation.

"If I'm murdered she doesn't get a check, right? I just wanted to make sure that was clear," he said, glaring at me.

"That's correct."

Well, duh, I knew that.

And of course Mr. P tried to talk us into getting insurance for me, but I did the math and I spend a lot more than any housekeeper or nanny ever would. And I'm pretty sure the grandparents would help out if I was dead and A's only option was to dump the kids in some sub-par daycare. Also, even though I'm not dead, I am lazy, so we already pay babysitters and a housekeeper. Therefore, those wouldn't be new expenses. Incidentally, we did try to get life insurance for me when I was not quite pregnant with Baby J and I got turned down, because I'm just too precious to insure, I suppose*.

According to A, I looked at him in a really threatening way for about a week after each time we raised his insurance. I won't deny it, but in the end I do understand that money couldn't buy his jokes, his relationship with our children, his Scrabble skills or any number of other things I know I would miss. I'd much rather have him than the money, really! However, I have let him know that I will be very angry if he dies right after the term ends. If he has to go around that time, I'd much rather him do it the month before than the month after. I'm just being practical.

Namasté, y'all!

* Truth: that wasn't the reason. I failed the medical exam. The insurance company sent a nurse to my house to do the exam for my application. I had returned from the hospital the day before and was recovering from a miscarriage and subsequent D & C. I have primary hypertension that's medicated, but my medication was a bit off, because I had just left the hospital. And I hadn't had the best few days of my life, either. I told the nurse I had had a miscarriage two days before and she didn't answer. I was still sitting on the couch in my sweatpants when she let herself out the door, without saying goodbye. She was really sweet. Not. My blood pressure reading was high, so they turned me down. Surprise, surprise. I got pregnant with Baby J two months later and we haven't tried to get insurance again. So, if I die, you might want to offer to do some babysitting for free.

Oh, the X-Man.

The X-Man: Aunt E, do you know who you're going to marry yet?

Aunt E: No.

The X-Man: Oh.

[the following discussion deleted because it was boring. ish.]

Moi: Sweetheart, how do you know who you're going to marry?

X-Man: Huh? I do not understand this question.

Moi: I mean, what do you need to know about someone to know that you should marry him?*

X-Man, after some thought: That he's not a gangster.

Moi: How do you know if someone's a gangster?

X-Man: He has sweet clothes.

X-Man, after much more thought: And a gun.

X-Man, after much, much more thought: But maybe he's a hunter.

So, ladies, now you know. A dude with a gun is okay to marry, as long as he doesn't have sweet clothes. If you see a total dork with a gun, that's your man.

Namasté, y'all!

* It should be noted here that I was pathetically hoping for a really cute answer, because a year or so ago, I asked him the same question and he answered,

"His heart."

I guess he's jaded now that he's in first grade.

First!? (Alternate Title: Drinkin' and Bloggin' With Friends!)

So...it's 10:46 pm, Sunday night, and our dear friends M and K are here. They don't get out much, because they have like twenty little girls. But this week, K's parents are in town and available for babysitting duties, so they're here to keep us company. Hooray!

I had to show K our Christmas card display after we had a discussion about who does the best cards*. K asked me if we were, in fact, the first ever to display Christmas holiday cards in such a way. I'm pretty sure we aren't the first, but I'm showing you a picture, 'cause it's cute. We I punched holes in all the cards and tied them to the stairs. Cute, huh?


Just in case you're curious, the painting in the back is by my husband's cousin. The kids have christened this one, "Other Man." We have another one; they named it "Man." Go figure. At our old house, we had "Other Man" in the hall to point people towards the bathroom. I like art that is good, as well as useful.

Namasté, y'all!

* We decided that Tiny Prints is the cutest, but a bit pricey. Shutterfly wins for Best Overall. Now you know.

Last Minute Shopping!

You know I like to shop local and I did this year, more than ever. I shunned the big box stores in favor of Creative Kids and Be Beep, which now carries Legos (Hooray!) Someone on my list got a fab pair of kicks from Sophie Shoes in Five Points, where all shoes are 40% off for the rest of the month. Someone else is getting a membership to the Columbia Film Society and a gift certificate to the best brew pub evah', the Hunter Gatherer. Someone is getting something big from Outspokin'. I had a few things left to buy, none of which could be found locally. What's a socially conscious gal to do? Never one to back down from a shopping challenge, I called a babysitter*, wracked my brain and came up with a solution. There was a way I could get stuff from big chains while supporting local business and avoiding the mall. And it would be fun. All I needed was a laptop and a babysitter. Piece of cake.

I went to Adriana's (free Wi-Fi!) in Five Points to finish my shopping, eat a delicious lunch and check out local celebrities. I settled into a booth and turned on the laptop. I ordered from Brooks Brothers, Anthropologie, the Apple Store and Nordstrom. By the way, if anyone wants to open a store that has big boy clothes (size 8-16) that are cool (not just preppy stuff for church), that would be great. I would gladly shop there instead of Nordstrom. Just sayin'. By the way, I had the M's Spinach Salad for lunch. I try to order something different once in a while, but that salad is just perfect. I think I'll shop at Adriana's every year, so relaxing! Afterwards, I headed up Devine Street to Little Lambs and Ivy, a new-to-Columbia children's store for a gift certificate.

Gift certificates are an obvious eleventh hour choice, but you should also consider donating to charity in someone's honor. That's a gift that most (adults) are thrilled to get. Unless they're not thrilled, then it's an excellent choice if you want to be passive aggressive. And the recipient can't complain, so it's a perfect choice. My sister M, who I now know is a diabolical genius, took it a step further. My husband and I are in possession of a relative, who shall remain nameless, who once suggested that a large, flat-screen television would be a nice gift for us to give her. Now, we don't own a television ourselves, so it was a bit of an odd request, and, oh yeah, we don't actually spend that much on gifts. M said that we should buy the television and donate it to the Children's Home...in the relative's name. Brilliant, just brilliant, and almost worth the expense.

So, my shopping is done and I'm looking forward to a nice day with my family. We're headed to lunch at Al Amir. It's one of our favorite places and, unfortunately for us, they're closing this branch. They'll still be in Irmo and I'm sure we'll make the trek once in a while. After that, we'll be putting up decorations at the house, so come by and see us!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Another excellent, local gift is anything from Caw Caw Creek Farms. My husband gave one of our friends a leg of Emile's Country Prosciutto, hoof and all. Pretty cool, huh? If you don't have the stomach for that, Emile has many other fine products that aren't quite as intimidating. I don't know if he can hook you up at the last minute, but it's worth a try.

* The babysitter is key. When you're trying to make a plan, always call the babysitter first. The babysitter is essential; without her, the plan falls apart. Plus, you're hiring someone local and that's a good thing!

Just Right.

The best recipes don't try to get too fancy. I hate it when people mock standards, like deviled eggs, trying to make them fancy by adding caviar or truffle oil. Unless it tastes really good, then it's okay. But fancy for the sake of fancy is just lame.

The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking, by Mai Pham of the Lemon Grass Restaurant, is one of my all-time favorite cookbooks. I found it one night when, possessed by a sudden and urgent desire to learn to make Pad Thai (and a suspicion I could make it for a lot less than I paid for it in a restaurant), I drove to a book store, parked myself on the floor in the Asian cooking section and read a few Pad Thai recipes until I found one that looked right. I knew I had met The One when I saw it included, without shame, six tablespoons of ketchup. If someone is willing to use ketchup and admit it, they obviously care more about taste than...anything. Which reminds me...I once "hung out" with this guy who made the best second best spaghetti*. His secret was a large squirt of French's Yellow Mustard in the sauce. Who knew? Mai Pham's Pad Thai rules, but the two recipes from that book I use most often are the Vietnamese Salad Rolls and the Ginger Noodle Salad, which I highly recommend for potlucks**.

So, I was going to give you my recipe for Sake-infused deviled eggs topped with a Caviar, roasted red pepper and aged truffle*** oil coulis, but I don't have a recipe for that, so you're getting my friend Lisa's pimento cheese recipe, a recent Bunco snack. It was just right.

Lisa's Just Right Pimento Cheese

8 ounces sharp cheddar, shredded

8 ounces extra sharp cheddar, shredded

1 small jar of pimentos, drained

2/3 to 1 cup Hellman's mayonnaise (I have to give a shout-out to my favorite here - Duke's! I am, however, mature enough to share the love with Hellman's.)

dash cayenne pepper

1-2 tablespoons olive juice

Mix. Chill. Eat.

She claims the olive juice is the secret and I believe her, because it was really good. And I do have a brief PSA:

Please serve your party dips with celery (not just crackers) for those of us who like to maintain the illusion that we eat low-carb. Lisa had celery and so should you!

Namasté, y'all!

* Technically, the best spaghetti recipe is my Nana's. And I ain't talking yer fancy "may-ri-nay-rah" sauce or nothing like that, y'all. I'm talking spaghetti sauce like Donna Reed used to make. Your kids will love it. Here it is (is it odd to put a recipe in a footnote? Whatevah!)

3/4 lb. ground meat. You can use any kind of meat you like. Beef is the original, but I've used turkey and Boca Crumbles.

1 medium onion, chopped

1 large can (28 oz.) tomatoes, slightly chopped. I get the ones that are already chopped, but if you want to feel like you're doing something, feel free to buy the can of whole tomatoes and chop them.

1 can tomato purée, paste, soup, and sauce - any size. This may sound random, and it is. For several years, I left out the can of tomato soup, because my mom left out the comma between paste and soup, so I thought she just meant paste. And it tasted the same. I think the addition of the phrase "any size" proves that all you need is a random assortment of canned tomato products here.

1 small jar stuffed olives, chopped. In case you didn't guess, she means the ones stuffed with pimentos, nothing fancy like blue cheese or almonds. And I have no idea how big a small jar is. This recipe was written in olden times, when there were less choices, which I believe was a good thing.

1 teaspoon salt. Only the finest of salt, harvested from the Dead Sea, bien sûr. Kidding.

1/2 teaspoon pepper.

1/4 teaspoon sugar.

1 tablespoon Italian Seasoning. Yup.

Separate and brown meat. Add onion, cooking 'til soft. Add other ingredients. Cook several hours, stirring and scraping bottom occasionally. Low heat. Freezes well.

Those were my Mom's words in italics. The only suggestion I have is that, if you have one vegetarian in the house, you can mix all ingredients except the onions and protein-of-choice in a pot to start. Then, brown the meat and onion in one pan. Brown another onion in a separate pan and add the vegetable protein. Scoop out enough of the "other ingredients" to go with the veggie mix. Add the meat to the remaining sauce. Was that clear? I hope so, because I'm tired and have had two super-size glasses of wine. I have a very low tolerance.

**Email Me for my ever so slightly easier version of this recipe. Just put "noodle salad" in the subject line. I can't guarantee I'll send the instructions right away, but I must admit I felt very professional when I asked that you "put 'noodle salad' in the subject line." Like I get so many emails from my blog that I need to sort them. Ahem.

*** Gah! I swear I'm not a food snob, but I do think correct terms matter. For example, I cringe when someone calls Cava or Prosecco "Champagne." I don't cringe so you would notice, by the way. I'm pretty sure only my husband can see the ever-so-slight shudder, because he knows me so well. Wow. I just digressed in my own footnote. And all I'm drinking is a very average California Chardonnay. Yikes. Here is the point of this footnote: I'm referring to actual truffles - mushroom-type - not some kind of fancy chocolate. And I have no idea why I feel the need to defend a recipe that does not exist and that I wouldn't make or eat in a million years if it did exist. I have had a very long day, okay? It started with a trip to the mall to see Santa. Do you forgive me now? If you're interested in an excellent explanation of truffles, well written and peppered with subtle humor, click here. That article made me want to try to cook with truffles, even though I had dismissed them as being elitist and boring.

Don't Mess With Bill.

Well, yesterday afternoon was a real roller coaster ride. My husband and I somehow got invited to a dinner honoring Dick Riley. Oh, ahem, the other special guest just happened to be...wait for it...here it comes...BILL EFFIN' CLINTON! That's right, yo! And I do love Bill Clinton. I spent the whole day about five minutes (in 30 second increments) thinking about what I should wear.

It's not easy for a housewife. I have jeans and I have party clothes. I do not have "business attire." I do not do any sort of business and I know very little about tires, so I don't have much use for stuff like that. Plus, it's not really my style, which might be one of the reasons I don't have a job. As I pondered what to wear, I perused an article in the State paper about the dinner. For about thirty seconds, I was relieved, because the paper said the dinner was black-tie, which is easier for me. I have lots of cute party dresses and cocktail skirts. I suspected that was too easy, though, because I hadn't heard from anyone else that it would be black-tie. And it wasn't; it was a misprint and I'm sure they printed a correction today, albeit too late for the few people I saw in black-tie.

Speaking of overdressing, I understand and forgive the folks who read the article in the paper and came dressed. In fact, I think the State owes them an apology, because that can be embarrassing. What I do not understand is the woman who shows up in a prom dress. There's one at every party, whether it's an oyster roast, a cocktail party or a political dinner. Ladies, do not wear your prom dress anywhere other than a prom. Frankly, I wish I hadn't even worn mine to my actual prom; it was hideous and I wish someone had told me. There is no excuse whatsoever for wearing a prom dress after the age of eighteen.

Anyhow, after my brief respite, I re-commenced trying to pick an outfit. I tried to do tasteful, I really did, but I gave up. I went as a crazy housewife, more celebrity gawker than politico. I wore a short, brown tweed skirt, a dark blouse with a wide collar and Victorian people all over it, my YSL platform boots and my daytime brown fishnets. I think I looked pretty cool. And I painted my nails bright red while the baby was at the drop-in nursery. I also wore my favorite Christian Dior lipstick, this perfect brick red color that I save for special occasions, because it's been discontinued. I felt very proud that I was able to fix my hair with the baby digging his fingers into my fishnets.

Now for the boring stuff, my limited observations on Bill's speech. These thoughts probably aren't original, but I don't really pay attention to the news, so forgive me. Also, I didn't take many notes, because I was a little bit tipsy and a lot distracted by the dashing former president. I'm only human, right? Here are my notes (in italics), more or less.

How sexy is it when he talks about his wife? However--did he make it cool for independent women to accept cheating?

This bugs me a little, like maybe it's unsophisticated to expect fidelity. Which I absolutely do, by the way. I've told A that if he does it and doesn't get caught, goody for him, but if I find out, I will make him wish he never met me. Seriously. No big violent moves, just lots of petty irritations. And I get the house. And some other random stuff, like his CDs, which I don't want, but would take out of spite.

I tried this w/game once but alcohol + my brain=incomprehensible notes

Yup, I can't take decent notes at a football game, either. I know about as much about sports as I do about politics.



I have to pee, jealous that E. peed before speech

Why does my sister think of everything?

Dick=child centered/performance oriented

That sounds not so nice, but it was something nice Bill said about Dick Riley.

"most of my life not politics. it's my foundation" - ??? - for potential 1st ladies - but maybe they would say same

At first I thought this was uncool, because candidates wives do make politics their lives, but then I realize that they would say the same thing he did. And it would be equally untrue.

Title? sister's brain>my brain

That is not a good title. "Don't Mess With Bill" is better, but not by much.

love hill. but she's no bill in terms of inspiring people

Which is why her campaign should use him more. Or not. Because everyone pales in comparison to that guy.

"The only thing that matters is whether people are better off when u quit than when u started. The rest is all smoke and mirrors."

Word, Bill. Word.

looks down at beginning (when he's mentioning names) - but looks up talks freely about ideas/stats - passion for change

And this is probably why I love him. When he's thanking everyone at the beginning, he reads from his notes. When he starts talking about actual stuff, you feel like he's chatting with you. But you don't get to talk. And he's one hundred feet away and using a microphone. Oh well, you know what I mean.

Who cares why he gets all fired up as long as life gets better? education (??) → student loan reforms → everybody wins (HHES) no default

M'k. This was after my second glass of wine, so I'm not sure what I meant. I think the "who cares" is telling. I think he said "everybody wins" in reference to his student loan reforms and this reminded me of the school I went to for many, many years (HHES). They had a motto, "Everybody Wins." That's nice, but it doesn't make the students sound outstanding in any way, n'est-ce pas? I mean, how can anybody win if there's no loser? Huh? Answer me that! But I digress.

ideology=u have answer already and are impervious to the evidence

I think I just liked the way that sounded, so I wrote it down. Yup.

Hill. reminds me of pres. of Smith @ my sister's grad. - smart but not cool - sincere

I have no idea why I wrote this. I've always thought that, but I don't know why I was thinking it at that moment. Her voice sounds like those New England women's colleges' presidents' voices*. She seems so sincere in her desire to change things. And I don't want a cool president, I want a smart one.

Well, that's it. Now you know how simple I really am. And you know what else? This has to be said. I think the new convention center is fab. We really needed it, although I could have done without the accompanying Ruth's Chris. But they have got to do something about the appetizer situation. They had this:


But it was in the middle of a big round table and couldn't be reached discreetly. I'm tacky, but not tacky enough to be seen reaching for cheese balls and cramming them in my mouth while the former president talks. As you can see from the photo, I did manage to break off a chunk of the cheese ball before he started. You can also see my sister's Hillary button. That was not a table decoration, just her special touch. So I was left with this:


which was on the table when we sat down. And which was all gone before we got our actual food, because I kept nibbling on it during the speech, in between taking those brilliant notes. I might have done better with a little bit of protein to go with the wine.

Namasté, y'all!

*That was a lot of apostrophes. I bet I messed at least one of them up. That sentence sounds much better out loud.

Unhh!

We've been known to call the X-Man, our six year old, "The Moaner." He moans, or maybe it's more of a groan. It's a drawn out, guttural unnnhhhhh sound. We first noticed it on family walks; he would lag behind, shoulders slumped and mouth hanging open and moan as he dragged his tired feet. And that was just in the first block. He spent a lot of time on my husband's shoulders. Lucky for my husband, the X-Man is a light weight.

He'll moan in response to anything.

"Honey, you need to clean your room."

"UNNHHHH!"

"Bath time!"

"Unnhhh..."

"Are you dressed yet?" (yelled up the stairs for the fifth time in twenty minutes.)

"Uuunh...uuuunnnhhh!"

Sometimes, he moans in response to his mental anticipation of a difficult, perhaps insurmountable, task. He got in the car last week and before he sat down, moaned.

"Uuuunnnhhh..."

"What is it? Did you have a tough day?"

"I need my birth certificate and I know I don't have it! Unnhh!"

Of course I asked why. I was pretty sure it wasn't as urgent as he imagined. Last I checked, six year olds don't usually have to submit their own paperwork for anything.

"I need to know my date of birth!"

He was surprised to learn that this was in fact the same as his birthday, which he knows. But he wasn't quite ready to let go of a good moan.

"Oh...ohnnhhh. Well I still don't know the year!"

Which I told him. It was the least I could do. When he pointed out that he would "never be able to remember" this, I assured him I would remind him until he had a chance to write it down. That kid is really smart in some ways, but sometimes I wonder...

Anyhow, I always accused my husband of passing on the moaning gene. He's half French and half Serbian, so he's genetically predisposed on both sides to being easily dissatisfied and vocal about it. The combination of the two is greater than the sum of its parts. My husband likes to say, slightly altering something he heard on the Sopranos, "Nobody suffers like the French Serbs." Whining is absolutely not sexy, but self-deprecation takes the edge off, so he comes out ahead, lucky for me. I recently had to acknowledge, however, that the X-Man may have picked up the moaning habit from someone else.

My husband and I were in the backseat of my brother and sister-in-law's car; we were all going to a party in Lexington. Lexington is about a million miles from where I live, although people who live there will swear that it's just a twenty minute drive from downtown. Lies, lies, lies. It is so far, forty five minutes at least, really more like an hour. And people insist on inviting you out there anyway. The upside is that they feel obligated to make the parties really fun, probably to reward you for your trouble, and I've never had less than a rocking good time out there. But I digress.

At some point during the drive, I heard,

"UNHHHH! This is taking forever!"

I looked around, thinking the X-Man had somehow eluded the babysitter and hidden in the car. I didn't see him, so I glared at my husband, surely the culprit. Slowly, it dawned on me.

It was me! I was the moaner! And I sounded exactly like my over-dramatic boy. Wait, did I say over-dramatic? I meant outspoken. And assertive. Yeah. Unnnhhhh! I hate it when I realize I'm not perfect!

Namasté, y'all!

Ostension

It's that time of year, y'all. The time of year when people send me and every other woman with an email account dire warnings about gang initiations involving attacks on women, usually in mall parking lots, where we apparently spend a lot of time. I love Snopes.com, because it helps me know when I really do need to be cautious and when I can just ignore that flyer on my windshield.

Anyhow, my husband and I were rambling drunkenly after writing Christmas cards discussing that old urban legend about the people who get robbed on vacation and, upon developing the film in their cameras, realize that the people who robbed them stuck their toothbrushes up their...never mind, you know the story, right? Anyhow, I mentioned the story as we were brushing our teeth. I was telling A. that the story was racist (duh). And I pointed out that, even if I was racist, I wouldn't want to use a toothbrush that had been up anyone's you-know-what, even my husband's and I love him very, very much*. Is the color of the bum in question important at all? I mean, how racist do you have to be to care? A bum is a bum is a bum, and I don't want my toothbrush anywhere near one.

None of that is the point. The point is that my husband said,

"Well, that story's probably true by now."

Which cracked me up. He's right, every urban legend is only a suggestion away from becoming the truth.

That being said, I am sick to death of the dire warnings about random crimes against women**. Why are they always directed at women? My husband goes to his office at night and I make him park in the front and ask him to be very alert when he leaves. I also like for him to call when he's leaving so I know when to expect him home. A man alone and a woman alone are more or less equally vulnerable to someone who's determined to rob them. And I'm sick of the not-so-subtle racism in the emails.

When it comes to crime, protecting yourself shouldn't have anything to do with race or gender. We should always be careful. We should always be alert. And we should always think about what we can do to make crime less likely. I know it often seems like there's nothing that can be done, but every bit counts. Give to Harvest Hope. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Question all kinds of racism, including the kind that's so ingrained you don't see it anymore, and make sure that your children understand it.

Here are some local places that could use your time, money and support***:

Sistercare

St. Laurence Place

Harvest Hope

Oliver Gospel Mission

Children's Garden

Palmetto AIDS Life Support

Epworth Children's Home

Sexual Trauma Services of the Midlands

The Nurturing Center

CASA

The Family Shelter

MIRCI

Namasté, y'all.

* Sorry if that sounded silly, but I had to add the second "very", in case he hasn't bought my Christmas present yet.

** The exception being the ones that are true and relevant, like the email being sent around right now about a woman who, with her three young children, was held at gunpoint in the Earthfare parking lot here in town the other night. The nice people at the store have verified that it did happen and that the family in question is doing alright, although I'm sure they're still shaken. The crime happened in the late afternoon, when the store and parking lot are usually pretty crowded. To be honest, I was glad to get the warning, because even though I'm a pretty cautious person, I wouldn't be on high alert in that situation. I can't imagine. That poor family! I'm glad to hear that no one was hurt. The person stole her purse and three bags of groceries. Somehow, the fact that groceries were stolen makes me even sadder. I mean, you have to be pretty desperate to hold a mother and her three children at gunpoint for food. So sad for everyone involved. If you're a praying person, please keep them in your prayers.

*** Please feel free to add more, local or not, in the comments section. I'm just picking a few and there are many.

Holiday Perverts! Hooray!

As I was leaving Target yesterday, my sister-in-law called me, because she was feeling a bit molested and needed to share. She had just left her regular eyebrow waxing/pedicure/manicure place, next to the grocery store. She went there for a pedicure, bright red to go with the fab silver dress she's wearing to a party tonight. Today was special; she had a man pedicurist. V. was looking forward to the calf massage, but this one was different. It went up four inches past her knee, which made it a leg massage, not a calf massage, and was not what she was expecting. She said the man kept trading off with his wife (he did the massage and she did everything else) and she would watch him do the frottage leg rubbing. V. began to suspect she was the pawn in some dirty little game. The worst thing, she said, was that the massage wasn't even very good. She would have gladly suffered the assault for a decent leg massage.

Obnoxiously, I said,

"I can so top that. I was just about to call you."

Don't you just love people who have to one-up everything? She called for support after a traumatic experience and I pretended to listen, just waiting for my turn to talk. And I can't wait to tell the story again, so here goes.

As I was leaving Target, a homeless-ish* man approached me and asked for some change. In all honesty, I told him I didn't have any. I didn't explain further, but I pretty much only use my debit card and rarely carry cash. When I got to my car, I realized I had several plates of coconut pecan bars, meant for Baby J's teachers at the drop-in nursery, and that I could spare one. I strapped the baby in the car seat** and called out,

"Sir? Excuse me, sir? Are you hungry?"

He came towards me and I handed him a plate of bars. He thanked me and leaned in for a hug to show his appreciation. Full of over-educated, under-employed, lazy housewife guilt, I hugged back, more or less. Given just the smallest bit of encouragement, if you can call it that, he leaned down, rested his head on my breast...and nuzzled. Oh, yes he did. It was like getting a hug from the biggest toddler ever. I peeled his arms off and, rather than question his behavior as I would have if we met at, say, an oyster roast, I wished him a happy holiday, blessed him and left. He blessed me first, but I had been about to bless him anyway. He didn't seem offended that I didn't return his affection. Maybe he thought it was worth a try. You never know, right?

Namasté, y'all!

* I say "ish" because, for all I know, he has a home and just doesn't like to hang out there. And he likes to wander around parking lots in dirty clothes asking people for money.

** Boring clarification for anyone who is kind enough to worry about my baby's safety. There were several other people around, the baby was strapped in the seat, the car wasn't on, the weather was neither hot nor cold, the man was no more than ten feet from my car and I went to him, so he didn't come over to my car. Not that he would have done anything, but you never know. Oh! And I could see Baby J and the car the whole time.

What My Man Won't Do For Me. (Alternate Title: "I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won't Do That.")

I'm a huge fan of Christmas and I'll readily admit that I might go a tiny bit overboard, occasionally. Christmas was a big deal in our family when I was growing up and I looked forward to it all year, starting December twenty-sixth. The first Christmas we had together with a baby, my husband learned some things about me. Given our extremely limited financial means at the time, I had planned on doing next to nothing for little O. He was only seven months old and wouldn't have a clue. Well, my Grandmother schooled me on that one. I told her my plan (or lack of plan), thinking she would praise me for my practicality. Nope. She let me know that his first Christmas could not be ignored, because O. would want to see pictures of it when he was older. If I couldn't produce those pictures, the whole Santa thing would be destroyed. I thanked Grandmother for her wisdom and made sure Santa would arrive. That year, O. got a handed down, repainted high chair, some new cloth diapers and a few little toys that would look good in pictures.

As you may know, Santa doesn't just leave toys in a pile, he creates an artful display. If there's more than one child, he puts each child's loot in the same place each year, so they'll know who gets what. The eve of Baby O's first Christmas, I nursed him to sleep and went downstairs to do my job, leaving my husband in charge of the sleeping baby. I didn't want him to see what I was doing, because someone had to be surprised. After an hour or so, the baby woke up and A. called for me to come get him, which I would not do. I was very busy. I still needed to chew up carrots and spit them out along the front walk and down the street, for our video the next morning. Everyone knows that Santa's reindeer are messy eaters. At one point, I remember A. asking me, his seemingly (sort of) normal wife, "Who are you? What have you done with my wife?"

As is our custom, he's since come around to my way, more or less. The thing about Christmas Eve is, cue the violins here, it's my husband's birthday, so we have a little party for him involving takeout Chinese, a fair amount of drinking and a dramatic reading of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas by my Dad. The end result is that Santa is sometimes a little bit tipsy when the time comes for him to do his job.

A few years ago, after a particularly rowdy birthday party, I decided to take it up a notch. As I was unwrapping, putting together and arranging toys, I had an idea, brilliant if you ask me. Before I go on, you should understand that A. understands the fun of Christmas now and he's always done what I asked, including building a castle out of about two hundred blocks and putting together a puppet theater without making any noise. When I was pregnant, he even did the carrot chewing and spitting for me, all the way down the street. But that year, I had an even better idea. Reindeer poop. Yup, poop. I envisioned a big pile of poop on the front lawn and how my children's little faces would light up in wonder when they saw it.

"Look kids! What could this be? Wow! It must be REINDEER POOP! [chuckle chuckle] Those crazy reindeer!"

They would remember it fondly for years to come. It would be a new tradition, one that they would treasure and carry on when they had children of their own. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I begged A. to make like a reindeer and... he said no. Absolutely not. I begged some more. I leapt around the room drunkenly in my pajamas, acting out the children's surprise and glee, hoping he would share my vision. I accused him of not loving me because he wouldn't do something so simple that would make me so happy. He wouldn't budge. For the first time in our marriage, it looked like I would lose.

I hate to lose. I kept on and on, pleading. I accused him of trying to ruin Christmas for EVERYONE. I called him a Grinch. I told him he was the most selfish husband ever. All I was asking for was one big... You know, now that I think about it, I was being a little bit obnoxious, but it's hard to back down once you've been so adamant about something.

Lucky for me, my husband knows me well and he knows that I have a big fear of getting in trouble. He managed to talk me down off the ledge (I think I had progressed to trying to make him go buy me some prune juice). This is what he said:

"You know what would ruin Christmas for the kids? Waking up Christmas morning to find Dad gone, because he spent the night in jail after getting arrested for %&*ing on the sidewalk and Mommy was too drunk to drive down there and bail him out."

Huh. When he put it that way, it made sense. He was working as a prosecutor for the county at the time, too, so that would have been pretty embarrassing.

All is not lost, though. One of my brilliant friends, who shares my advanced sense of humor, suggested that I make reindeer piles out of microwave-softened Tootsie Rolls and shredded coconut. This would be even better because, when we "found" it, I could pick some up, pop it in my mouth and, while the kids screamed in horror, happily announce,

"Don't worry, kids! It's reindeer poop; it's magic! It tastes awesome! I swear!"

I keep forgetting to get the Tootsie Rolls and coconut, though. Maybe this year!

Namasté, y'all!

Shopping, Local Style.

As you may know, I love to shop local. I do shop at chains, but I never enjoy it as much and I feel a little bit dirty when I do. One thing that's great about staying out of the big box stores is the convenience factor. I have a toddler, a very naughty toddler, a toddler who is so naughty that his grandmother wouldn't keep him for longer than twenty minutes today. He breaks stuff and laughs about it. And while you're gluing it back together, he breaks more stuff. But then he makes the cutest face ever, so you can't get mad. Guh!

Yesterday, naughty toddler in tow, I realized I needed to get bookstore gift cards to give to my big boys' school. I had a little debate with myself in the car, not out loud, just in my head. Not that I have voices in my head... Anyhow, I wasn't sure if the teachers would prefer cards for a big box bookstore, where they might be able to get more for the same amount, or if they would share my view that it's crucial to support what may be the last independent bookseller in our town, The Happy Bookseller. I love that place. The staff there is actually familiar with things like books. I called the store, warned them of my toddler problem and asked if they could have the gift cards ready, so I could run in and pick them up. That way, my toddler problem wouldn't become theirs. Of course they agreed. Can you imagine calling some big store and asking for that?

"Sure," the unlucky employee who picked up the phone would answer. "Just come to any desk."

"But," you would plead, envisioning a long trek around the store and a longer wait in line, during which the bad toddler would chew through forty dollars worth of bookmarks and a bag of coffee beans, "Can you just have them ready when I come in?"

"Jennifer" would finally agree, just to get you off of the phone, and it wouldn't be done when you got there. In fact, Jennifer wouldn't even exist.

"Jennifer C. or Jennifer S.?," the counter person would ask. "Or was it Jenny? Or Jeni?"

Thus, I decided that the Happy Bookseller was the best choice. I wanted to give something the school could use, without compromising my sanity or values. I called them and talked to Marsha, who totally sympathized. Perhaps she once had a bad toddler or perhaps she had seen one in the store before and was grateful for the opportunity to avoid a big scene. I went in, got my gift cards and ran into my ninth grade English teacher, who I always thought was amazing. I credit him with the fact that I didn't flunk out of college; I never could take tests, but he taught me how to write great papers, so I got by on those. Thank you, Mr. Gasque*! Mrs. Gasque told me how cute Baby J was and we were in and out so quickly that he didn't have much of a chance to humiliate me. Yay!

Next door to the Happy Bookseller is Be Beep, a toy store. I tried to go in with Baby J, but that was a bust and we had to leave. Today, I went back. Once again, I called ahead, told them what I needed and they promised to have it ready and waiting, which they did. They also had this, which I didn't buy, but I might have to go back and get. I don't quite understand it, but it looks cool. And I was thrilled to see that they now carry a huge selection of Legos, including Mindstorms, which are supposed to be hard to find and in demand. I'm thrilled that O. hasn't asked for those, because they're crazy expensive and I hate to see him disappointed, but if you are searching for one, I suggest you buy it there. It'll be easy and they'll actually wrap it for you. Frankly, it looked really cool and I'm glad O. didn't ask for it, because I would have been so tempted...

They haven't advertised this yet (you heard it here first!), but they had tons of other Lego stuff, none of which can be found at Target. I know this, because I've checked Target several times and felt more panicked each time, when they still didn't have what I needed. One year, I resorted to overpaying for something on EBay, because I messed up and didn't buy it in time. Be Beep had both of the Lego things my big boys wanted! Hooray! My mom wanted to give those to them and one of the nice ladies called her so she could give her credit card number over the phone and save a trip. Do you think they would do that at Wal-Mart? And gift wrap it? I think not!

In other local shopping news, Jackie at Kicks is offering twenty percent off all purchases in December, for a good cause. The Children's Garden is a daycare for the children of homeless families or other families in crisis. If you bring in something for them, you get the discount. They need things like diapers, paper products, children's underwear and socks, soap and laundry detergent. And, if you like, you can choose to donate your percentage off to the Children's Garden. What a great excuse to buy shoes! Another thing they're doing at Kicks that made me really happy is providing reusable bags with handles, instead of paper bags. The salesperson made sure to let me know the bag was washable, which tells me they're really making an effort to encourage reuse. I'm guessing the bags don't cost much more than those fancy shopping bags you get and throw out. I have a similar one from Rosewood Florist. How awesome would it be if every retailer followed their example? How refreshing to shop in a place owned by someone who so obviously cares about our community.

Namasté, y'all!

* And, Mr. Gasque, please don't blame yourself for the quality or lack thereof of my current writing. I've had three children and lost numerous brain cells since I was in your class.

Oh, the Things That Make Me Happy.

I'm not even sure I should apologize for bragging, because this isn't all that impressive, but please accept my apology for the shameless brag.

My sister's been driving my uncle's well-loved (to the tune of 135,000 miles or so) Infiniti while she's in town. In case you didn't know, Infiniti is made by Nissan, which makes it a fine car in my book. And this one runs well, considering its age and mileage. It has some mad cool vintage touches, like an enormous phone, permanently mounted on the floor between the front seats, and a clock with actual hands. For some reason, you have to push a special button on the ignition to get the key out. I like that; it gives the car character.

Anyhow, the other day she came home and informed me she wouldn't be able to make her planned road trip to Charleston that night because there was something wrong with the Infiniti, which I could see, because the something wrong was hanging off the bottom. She hadn't planned on driving the antique car to Charleston, but my dad was planning on driving it all weekend and letting her take his (ever so slightly) newer Buick*. She didn't think it was fair to leave dad without a car, because he's a real estate agent and they make money by driving people around and looking at houses. If they can't drive, they can't work. Except for the time my workaholic dad had had a gastrointestinal "procedure" and decided to take my brother-in-law and sister-in-law out anyway. He couldn't drive, on account of the pain killers, so he made them drive while he drooled in the passenger seat. It was cool, though. My brother-in-law happens to be a gastroenterologist, so it didn't bother him in the least.

When I was in high school, I drove a fine car, my Nana's 1981 Dodge St. Regis. It was such a great car that they only made them from 1979 to 1981, because the world just couldn't take that much awesomeness. The seats were like La-Z-Boy chairs, cushiony and velour. One day, I was coasting in the Dodge and I heard a loud clunk. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a large piece of flat metal behind me that I knew had not been there a moment before. I pulled over, retrieved the piece of metal and drove directly to a gas station. One of the fine employees there asked me if I was "real attached to this thang," holding up the piece of metal. I said, "Um...no?" and he threw it in the trash can and told me to have a nice day, which I did. I might not have even told my parents, for fear that they would declare the car undriveable. Armed with this knowledge and a roll of duct tape, I felt sure I could fix my uncle's car.

As it turned out, I didn't have any duct tape, because my kids are always stealing whatever tape I buy. I don't know what they do with it, but I never see it again. So I called for some string, which the X-Man had in his room. While my sister explained to the X-Man who MacGyver was, I shimmied under the car, after checking to see if the emergency brake was on, of course. I used two pieces of string to re-affix the hanging metal thingy to the bottom of the car. I made my sister hum the theme to the A-Team, because neither of us could remember the MacGyver theme. When I was finished, I went inside and finished making enough coconut pecan bars** for all of my children's teachers, our neighbors and anyone who invites us over before Christmas. I am a woman of many talents. Ahem.

Today, my sister took the car in to be officially fixed, by an actual mechanic. It is with great (probably disproportionate) pride that I tell you this: He ended up performing the same repair, but with metallic twist ties. In my defense, I also wanted to use metal and briefly searched for picture-hanging wire, but I couldn't find any. And that is why I feel pretty darn clever today.

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, y'all, my Dad's Buick Park Avenue is old and he wants a new one, but they don't make them and he doesn't like the replacement. He can't decide what to get, so he keeps trying to polish the old Buick. If you can suggest a new car for him, I know he would appreciate it.

** I apologize for not providing the recipe, because they're very good. In fact, they are the only thing that keeps my kids from getting thrown out of school, because the teachers look forward to them. I'm not ready to share the recipe, but I will tell you that it's from a book, which I didn't know when my friend gave me the recipe. She used to sell them in her restaurant, which closed, and I had to have the recipe. They are so yummy.

Childhood Mystery, Solved

When I was growing up, junky snack food was rare in our pantry. I was the oldest of four children. By the time my brother, the youngest, was born, mom and dad had gotten looser with the grocery budget and he got all kinds of good stuff, like Pringles and fancy cereal. When there was good snack food, you had to be very careful not to eat the last of it, because you would then be accused of "EATING IT ALL!"

You would open the pantry, hoping for something good, even though it was usually filled with healthy (i.e. tasteless) cereal, canned vegetables (the only kind we ate), canned soup and boxes of stuff like instant mashed potatoes and Hamburger Helper (bought on sale and saved for a special occasion.) Once in a while, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a box of Triscuits! Or a bag of Cheetos! Or something crazy like Apple Jacks! And I would want to eat it, all, but I wouldn't. Not because of some innate sense of fairness, but because I was afraid of being humiliated. So I would eat half, or slightly less than half, leaving a thoroughly respectable amount for the next lucky snacker. And if the bag wasn't open yet, I wouldn't touch it, because I wouldn't want to get in trouble for eating something that was being held in reserve for a higher purpose, like bridge club.

Whenever my mom had bridge club, there were treats, none of which were for us kids, not even a bite. There were never any leftovers, either, because drinking heavily and telling dirty jokes playing bridge makes ladies very hungry. I remember seeing the milk carton of Whoppers on the counter, reaching for them in awe and immediately hearing my mother yell, "Stop! Those are for the ladies!" Apparently, ladies eat a hell of a lot of Whoppers. And you thought they just ate little sandwiches. Now that I'm a grown up, I have Whoppers at all of my parties. And I let my kids eat them. I even let my mom eat them, because I'm not one to hold a grudge.

Sometimes, I would open the pantry, see some extravagant trans-fat-filled delicacy and eagerly reach for the box, only to find it was surprisingly light. I would look in to find four Doritos or a half of a Fig Newton. Torn, I wouldn't know what to do. If I alerted anyone to the presence of this paltry amount, I'd have to share and I'd probably be accused of eating the rest anyway. If I ate it stealthily and someone walked in, I'd hear, "UGH! WHY DID YOU EAT ALL OF THE FIG NEWTONS?!!" That would alert mom, who would give me a lecture on health and the dangers of eating an entire bag of Doritos in one sitting, which I HAD NOT DONE, but never mind. As my sisters got older and more athletic, I was hesitant to incur their wrath, because they could and would beat me up. I hate pain.

Whoever it was that ate (nearly) all of the forbidden fruit knew exactly what they were doing. They never ate the last one or took the last sip, so they never had to leave a tell-tale empty container in the garbage. And if it was something that came in a bag, like chips, they would roll the top of the bag down an inch or two, leaving a large amount of empty space, and put a chip clip on top. When the next hopeful child came along, they would reach for a seemingly full bag, alerting the household to the presence of junk food with the crackling sound, only to have everyone rush in and accuse them of "EATING IT ALL!!" It was very, very scary.

So, my sister is staying with us right now. I've always begged my sisters to come stay with us if they ever had time. I envisioned a warm, fuzzy bonding time for my boys, who adore their aunts and don't get to see them enough, because they live out of town. For the most part, this visit has been lovely. Oddly, around the time she got here, I began to find boxes of crackers with only three crackers in them, cereal with less than a tablespoon left, apple sauce that could only be obtained with a rubber spatula and even a bag of these, with only three left*. When I found a chip clip, carefully clipped to the top of an empty bag, I knew. I knew that the mystery had been solved. It was her, it was always her. But I didn't say anything, because I was afraid she would beat me up. Frankly, it was enough just to know the truth.

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, I'm totally aware that this stuff doesn't exactly qualify as junk food, but I'm mean and don't buy actual junk for my kids to eat at home. I have this theory: If I feed them really healthy at home, then I can let them eat whatever they want when we're out. Just today, for example, my husband and I took these to Sunday school, to make the kids like us to share with the students we teach.


I let my big kids have two, each. I even let Baby J have one, a whole one. Not my finest moment, but it was so cute when he toddled over to the box (which he recognized, which should tell you something about the purity of my commitment to healthy eating) and grabbed one. After shoving the small piece I had given him into his mouth, he toddled off mumbling, "Mmmmm...mmm...mmmmm," the sugary snowman getting crushed in his tiny grip. Please do not call Child Protective Services. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I'll never let it happen again.

My New Rap Album Drops in February, Yo!

We're rollin' in the Prius!
Whoa!

Damn right you wish you could be us!
Whoa!

Did you ever get mileage like thee-us?
No!

Well you would if you had a Prius!
Whoa!

You can have your Beamer!
Yeah!

I'd rather have a broken femur!
Yeah!

Just go ask my man!
Who?

In your face-

Slam!

He used to be that jerk...
Yeah!

But now he has a car that works!

Now he has a car that'll take him far,

I'ma buy him a really cool shirt!

Hell yeah!

That may not sound like the greatest rap ever, but it's better live, when you can see the dance that goes with it. And, don't worry, that was the dirrrrrty version. I'll be droppin' a clean version, too, yo!

Good Car-ma!

It is the dawn of a new era in our household, an era in which all of our cars run and run well. May it last for a long, long time. I bought A. a used Prius today and we unloaded sold the decrepit BMW to a used car dealer who specializes in restored BMWs. As much as I resented that car, it's still a car with feelings and I'm happy that it's in a place where it'll be cared for properly and appreciated.

So, there are many cool things about the Prius, but the most interesting is that its (now previous) owners live in one of the houses my family lived in when I was little. We moved there when I was five or so and moved away after my second sister was born, when I was seven. I went there today to pick up the car and they let me look around. I haven't been there since we moved (a long, long time ago) and we didn't live there long, but I was amazed at the things I suddenly remembered. In no particular order, here you go.

• My mother was in a vegetable co-op. On co-op day, there would be a brown grocery bag on our side porch, filled with vegetables. I remember watching her shuck corn and snap beans from the bag. When it was her turn, she had to go to the Farmer's Market to buy all the vegetables. I don't remember if I ever went with her.


• My mother had a light blue polyester suit with brown pussy willows on the legs. It was a one piece thing, with cap sleeves and a long, tie belt and I thought it was very glamorous.


• We had a small, rectangular fish tank in the kitchen. My mom put snails in it to keep it clean. They would slime up the sides, try to get out and crash to their deaths on the kitchen floor. It was gross, but not very.


• We got goldfish at Woolworth's at Richland Mall. I held the bag on the way home and I was very careful.
  


• I used to play with a board, a hammer and some nails. I would hammer dots into the board with the nails to make pictures. I now realize that the board was a piece of paneling from the den that must have been removed at some point.


• I had a bad dream about Pinocchio chasing me through a castle. I can remember what his feet sounded like, clacking against the stone floor of the castle. Although it doesn't sound scary, it was.


• I had another bad dream that I was looking out of the window in the den, into the back yard. There was a (very typical looking) alien in the backyard and he was going to get me. I cried for my mother and she told me to hide under the record player, which was under the window. I did, but then realized that I was totally visible. I cried for her again, but she was hiding and didn't answer.


• We had a red, child-sized picnic table with green on it. I remember playing my mother's Supremes album on the aforementioned record player. I remember standing on the table and being Diana Ross and making my sisters stand a step down on the benches; they were Cindy Birdsong and the other one. I know this memory can't be true, because my second sister was born while we lived there and wasn't even two when we moved.


• I remember her playpen in the den.


• Once I looked in the fridge and saw store-bought chocolate milk, the kind that comes in a plastic gallon container. This was not the sort of thing we had in our fridge, ever. I was very excited, but my dad said I couldn't have any, because my mom was craving it. I'm guessing she was pregnant. I don't remember being upset when he said I couldn't have any.
  


• I remember being so hungry once before dinner that I was sobbing. My mother gave me a pear and it was very juicy. We usually just had apples and bananas.
  


• I had a paperback book about training poodles. I had a mutt named Sam that may have been somewhat of a poodle. I remember working with Sam for hours, trying to teach him tricks. I probably only did it once. I don't remember him knowing any tricks.
  


• I remember climbing the Dogwood in the front yard.


• My dad had two cars while we lived there, both Chevy Caprice Classics. The first was a flat, sky blue color and the second one was a flat tan. I preferred the blue one.


• Mushrooms grew behind the toilet in my bathroom. My mom got rid of them.


• My room was pale green.


• I got dressed in my room every morning. I sat on my bed and my dad helped me put on my socks. They were thin, white knee-highs and my mom bought them big, so I could wear them a long time. My dad folded the toes over and I could feel them in my shoes.


• My mom had her bridge club in the living room. When I looked at the living room today, it was completely unfamiliar to me. So was the dining room. I don't think I ever had occasion to enter them.
  


• After my sister was born, one of my mom's friends brought me a present, presumably so I wouldn't feel ignored. It was two pairs of underwear, one with blue flowers and one with brown flowers. They were interesting to me, because I only had white ones. They were not very comfortable, but I liked to look at them.


• I did not feel ignored when I had more siblings. I remember being very busy.


• I took a nap every day after school. My mom would wake me up to watch Tom and Jerry. My mom was a genius: I was in school, then I took a nap, then I zoned out in front of the television while she made dinner or took care of babies. And, no, I didn't feel ignored. I liked school, naps and Tom and Jerry.


• I had a swing set in the backyard. It was white. My dad mixed concrete in a wheelbarrow to put around the legs so it wouldn't tip over.


• My dad mixed concrete a lot, I don't know why. That memory doesn't strike me as particularly accurate.
  


• We did some science project in the laundry room that involved water tinted with food coloring in baby food jars. And string. I have no idea what that was all about.


• There was shaggy, royal blue carpet somewhere, maybe in my sister's room.


• We didn't have a couch. Um...I know that memory isn't accurate.


• I had a babysitter who wrote me stories about a purple cow. I had to go to bed on time, so the purple cow would leave a story for me to read when I woke up.
  


• I had a babysitter who took me to the park. She was friends with another one of our babysitters, but they got in a fight over a boy and stopped being friends. Maybe their names were Becky and Stacy. Maybe not.


• I had a babysitter named Della. I think she had braces.
  


• I used to dress up as the Easter Bunny and my mom would take me to visit kids in the neighborhood. The costume was homemade (by me) and involved a leotard, tights and cotton balls. That's embarrassing.


• I had a friend in the neighborhood who was a little older than I was. She lived near the park and I was invited to a sleepover there once. Her friends played a clapping game in a circle. They sang Rocking Robin and slapped each other's hands in a cool way. I had never seen that before.


• There was an old couple on our street who I was allowed to visit. They had candy and a lot of flower bushes.


• I had a puffy, white coat with stripes.


• I loved my mom's oatmeal cookies.


• I learned to ride my bike in the road in front of the house. The bike was red and I thought it looked like a boy bike.


• I remember my mom cooking dinner, but I don't remember where or what we ate. Now that I think about it, there may have been a table in the kitchen. The kitchen's been remodeled and is bigger now.
  


• I dug up worms in the backyard.


• I had a playhouse in the backyard. It had no back door, but there was a shady area behind it that I thought of as the playhouse's backyard.


• There was a girl who lived over the back fence named Heather. I played with her, but I don't remember if I liked her or not.


• I played with the girls down the street. We watched Sesame Street at their house.


• I found my dad eating baby food, pears or tapioca, and he let me try it. He told me he ate it sometimes because it tasted good.


• I had a dress that looked like a skirt and blouse: navy blue skirt and red plaid blouse. I think it had a belt.


• I wore an uncomfortable brace to sleep for a while. It went around my waist and had boots on the end of these rods attached to the waist. Can that possibly be true? If it isn't, I'm more of a freak that I imagined.


• I used to climb the built-in bookcases in the den and hide things in the German beer steins my parents kept there. One time, I hid two crayon stubs, mint green and burgundy, that I stole from school. That's the only time I've ever stolen anything and I still feel guilty. My teachers were Miss Sue and Miss Holiday. We had several communal buckets of crayons in our classroom and they were filled with "regular" colors: red, blue, yellow, green, orange and purple. The mint and burgundy were the only two special colors and there was always a race to get the bucket that held them. One day, unable to bear watching the other children waste them, I slipped them into my pocket. The crayons nearly burned a hole in my pocket; they were my Tell-Tale Heart. I couldn't even touch them. When I got home, I put them in the beer stein, wracked with guilt, but incapable of righting my wrong, terrified of getting caught. I remember the uproar in our classroom when it was discovered that the crayons were missing. I have no doubt some of my classmates remember it, too, and I hope this clears it up for them. It's the least I can do. More than a year later, when my mother was packing for our move, she found the crayons and tried to give them to me. I swore they weren't mine and refused to take them. Utterly confused and too tired to argue (she also had a three year old and a one year old!), she told me to just put them with my crayons. I refused to take them. She probably thought I was off my little rocker. Several years ago, I confessed my crime to her and she had no recollection whatsoever of a scene involving crayons in a beer stein. I felt better for finally telling the truth.
  
  

Okey-doke, I'll stop now, because I'm tired and I suspect no one is reading this, but what a strange day.

Namasté, y'all!

Shopping Tips of the Day, Local and Not

Yay! It's a great day to buy your own Christmas present, which is what I've been told to do. Fun, eh? Unfortunately, no one provided the childcare for me to shop, but maybe you can buy me something. I did manage to take advantage of the Hayden-Harnett online sample sale, which I'll tell you about, now that I got the bag I wanted. Here you are:

Woohoo! Sample Sale! For people who don't live in a fancy city!

I scored the Lucie Clutch and the Bernardin Day Bag (in Haze, although I was so tempted by the black patent!) I apologize if that spoils the surprise of what I'll be getting for Christmas. Actually, the Bernardin is a thank you present from my husband, because I found him a car. It's a Prius (yay!) and he's looking forward to driving a car that works. By the way, I'm so over calling pocketbooks "baaaaaahgs" or the less pretentious, but too feeble, "purses." They're pocketbooks, m'kay? Anyhow, there were other things I liked, so feel free...

In local news, VanJean is having a 40% off everything sale, today only! I tried hard to buy something, but Baby J wouldn't oblige. He crumbled free cookies* all over the dressing room floor while I desperately tried to find something I liked. My ADD just would not permit me to think about clothes I wanted to wear and clothes I didn't want Baby J to destroy at the same time. And they are so nice at VanJean. No one batted an eye when I asked for a carpet sweeper to clean up the mess. They cleaned it up for me and didn't even kick me for not buying anything. They are open until 8 pm, so I may try again, without the cutest little albatross ever.

After my traumatic experience in VanJean, I let Baby J wander up the sidewalk to release some energy. I made it into tullulah for five minutes to get a present for my Bunco group's gift exchange tonight. We do that thing where you draw numbers and, when it's your turn, you can either pick a present or steal someone else's. I got a pair of my favorite underpants, in pink. We'll see if anyone is brave enough to steal them. They're mad comfortable, I swear!

In other news, if this is your sort of thing, Pink Sorbet is open. It's one of those Lily Pulitzer shops. I have limited affection for Lily. I don't think you can grow up in the South without having at least one memory of wearing Lily. And I did rock a hot pink Lily bikini throughout my entire last pregnancy, much to the chagrin of...well, anyone who saw me. I love the look of vintage Lily and they seem to be getting back to that, which is cool. I also love the little boys' bathing suits, which they don't have yet, but will be getting. They had this dress, which is pretty awesome, if you ask me. I have nowhere to wear it, so feel free to snap it up. They're having a Grand Opening on Saturday, starting at 9 am. There will be specials, prizes and refreshments, so go for breakfast.

And, the Saturday after that, go for breakfast at Gervais and Vine, at the all-local Farmer's Market. I'll see you there - and you can check out my new pocketbook!

Namasté, y'all!

* They also had cheese straws and pretzels. Yum!

Having People In Is the New Going Out (Alternate Title: Parties Are the New Bars)

My beloved town is a little bit behind the times (I can say that, by the way, but if you don't live here, you better shut up!) We just can't seem to get rid of smoking in bars, as many other cities have. Now that I'm not a smoker*, I find the idea of hanging out in a smoke-filled bar less and less appealing. And I'm getting old, so I don't like being in places where the music's so loud I can't hear. And I don't like waiting for a table. Or parking. Or paying a babysitter. And I like to pick and choose who I see.

Nobody has parties anymore. Well, that's not strictly true. There are a few, like my friend C., who recently threw a Pajama Party. Initially, I balked at the idea of wearing pajamas out of my own house, but that was before I understood that C. doesn't go halfway when she says party. The party was in the evening, but she had a full-on brunch, including an omelet bar (with a couple of chefs!), lox and bagels, Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and little bowls of cereal instead of nuts. She even had little bowls of sample sized toothpaste and mouthwash. In addition to Mimosas, she served everything else you might possibly want. The very least I could do was throw a bathrobe over my clothes, which being the gracious hostess she is, C. suggested. We had a blast.

As spectacular as that party was (and I'm afraid I haven't done it justice!), a party's a party. Those of us who don't have C's skills shouldn't be shy about having people in. Have you ever been invited somewhere, only to arrive and wonder why the host hadn't cleaned up enough or provided enough entertainment? Oh, no, you haven't. If you answered yes to that question, you don't need better hosts, you need to be less horrible.

I think every family should have "their" party. We have two. One of them is Christmas Eve my husband's birthday. We have our families over for takeout Chinese food and a reading of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas by my dad**. My family is huge, so we used to only have the ones who were in from out of town, but more of them keep sneaking in. Now I just require them to bring a present or at least a card for poor A, the Christmas Eve baby (who wasn't Jesus).

We also have a party Friday night after Thanksgiving (Mwah! to everyone who came this year!) It's always different. Some years it's more elaborate than others, but we've had it enough times that it's "our" party and we really look forward to it. The food isn't perfect, because I make it the day of the party. The drinks are self-serve or, like this year, served by a volunteer bartender. I love guests like that; they're party mayonnaise. The company is random and fun and I always serve Whoppers.

And I love tiny parties, like the one we had by accident last Saturday. We didn't have a babysitter, but two other couples we know did. So we guilted graciously invited them to come over to entertain us after they went out to dinner. We served smoked almonds and wine leftover from our post-Thanksgiving party. It's good to have random appetizers on hand for impromptu parties. Here are some of my current favorites:

• Interesting nuts***.
• Carrot Jam from Cloud Nine Market with cream cheese and ginger snaps or crackers.
• Cheese. Everyone loves cheese.
• Extra points if the cheese is Manchego and you serve it with cotognata.
• Pesto and crackers. I recently made a huge batch of pesto with late summer basil and froze it in ice cube trays. Easy to thaw and serve.
• Frozen spanakopita. Cook it, of course.
• Olives from the Fancy Mart.
  
• Little chocolate thingies.

If you have a little advance notice and you feel like it, you can make these. I had them several years ago at a party in Charleston that my uncle threw to celebrate my cousin's wedding. They are yummy and easy and always get eaten.

Smoked Salmon Endive Appetizers

Get a bunch of Belgian endive, cut the bases off and make a bunch of little boats out of the leaves.

In a mini food processor, mix a handful of chives and equal parts mayonnaise and cream cheese, until they're totally blended.

Put the mix into a zip-loc bag and cut one corner off, so you can squeeze little dollops into the endive boats.

Now put a piece of smoked salmon on top of each one. Yum.

Anyhow, the recipe isn't the point. The point is that you need to have people over. They want to come over. Bars are so five minutes ago. Parties are now, now, now. You don't have to have a theme, but I promise to participate if you do.

And, guess what! You don't even have to give up the best beer in the world to have people in. The best brew pub ever, the Hunter Gatherer, now sells growlers, half-gallon jugs of their beer that you can take home and serve at parties. Yay!

Namasté, y'all!

* Note to my kids, if they ever read this. I was never a smoker, nooooooooo, not me! I just said that for effect! Uh-huh!

** My mom hates that part, but everyone else loves it. He tells it really loud and uses props. And when he says Santa turned with a jerk, he always points to the newest male by marriage in our family, which embarrasses them. And he pretends to vomit when he says, "I threw up the sash..." And he throws torn toilet paper for snow. Ha!

*** That's what she said.

I've Been in Therapy for Forever

The other day, I decided to consult a therapist friend of my husband's. I chose him because my husband quotes him a lot and he says the same stuff I do, which I point out to my husband. A. never remembers when I say something smart, but if it comes from a professional, he listens. Eh, whatever works. I think getting therapy is like getting a car serviced; you have to do it every now and then to keep things running smoothly. There are times when you have a major problem, like you need a new engine for your stupid BMW, but usually you just need the tires rotated, the oil changed and the occasional replacement of the timing belt. I was overdue for an oil change and decided to make an appointment.

When I walked into the office, it looked very familiar, exactly like what you think a shrink's office should look like. Eames chair? Check. Leather couch? Check. Cluttered desk? Check. Stacks of psychology magazines beside an old file cabinet, faded Oriental rug, chess set and built-in bookshelves? Check, check, check and check. Lots of little wooden puzzles on a side table? Wait a second. This office was a little too familiar. As I talked with Dr. X*, I was completely distracted. I asked him if he had been in practice for at least twenty-five years, and in the same office. He said he had and I knew I had seen him before, when I was seven.

First children are experiments. Some of us are a tad bit self-centered, because everything we do is taken so seriously by our naïve parents. The reality is that most, if not all, of what kids do and say is arbitrary, strange and temporary. It really helps me to realize that every unpleasant thing my boys have done (so far!) has been a brief stage that I usually don't remember a month later. When I was in the second grade, I was a troublemaker. In retrospect, I think I was somewhere slightly above the middle of the continuum of second grade naughtiness. I was kind of annoying, somewhat precocious and not as cute as some of the other kids. My teacher, the pretty teacher that everyone wanted, did not like me, and I knew it. It was painful and it was a tough year**. My parents suddenly had a very unhappy child at home and at some point during my annus horribilus, I told my mother I hated her.

I probably did, at that exact moment. I don't remember doing it, so I don't know what cruel thing she had done to incur my tiny wrath, but it was probably something like not letting me watch Tom and Jerry that day. I believe children say "I hate you" or "I wish you would die" because they don't know how to say, "F*** you." Or they know how, but they don't want to get in that kind of trouble. All they're doing is coming up with the strongest, most angry thing they know how to say. Some parents get their feelings hurt; I don't. I know my children love me and don't want me to die.

There's a scene in Terms of Endearment in which Debra Winger, on her deathbed, talks to her son. She says,

"I know you like me. I know it. For the last year or two, you've been pretending like you hate me. I love you very much. I love you as much as I love anybody, as much as I love myself. And in a few years when I haven't been around to be on your tail about something or irritating you, you could... remember that time that I bought you the baseball glove when you thought we were too broke. You know? Or when I read you those stories? Or when I let you goof off instead of mowing the lawn? Lots of things like that. And you're gonna realize that you love me. And maybe you're gonna feel badly, because you never told me. But don't - I know that you love me. So don't ever do that to yourself, all right?"

Aside from the fact that I cry even thinking about that scene, I know how true it is. Children say they hate their parents and they even mean it, but in the end they love them. And I love that scene. I know Terms of Endearment isn't the most clever movie ever made, but what's wrong with a good tear-jerker? I was a teenager when I saw that move, at the top of my game in terms of being mean to my parents. I remember crying my eyes out, because I hoped that my parents knew that I loved them like Debra Winger knew. If I die, will someone please tell my children that I always knew they loved me, so they don't need to feel bad?

Anyhow, my poor mother thought she had failed because her oldest child hated her. At the time, she also had my sisters, who were three and one, so she was probably running on very little sleep, which didn't make things easier. She and my dad took me to a therapist who was reputed to be really good. And he was. I think we went twice, or maybe just once. I remember talking to him alone and with my parents. I tend to be on the dramatic side and I wasn't any different back then. He told me to get comfortable, so I stood on my head (in my defense, I do still like to stand on my head, but I save it for Yoga class now). He gave me five wooden puzzle pieces, one for each member of my family, and asked me to arrange them however I liked. I asked for another piece, which he gave me, and told him it represented my dog. I then put four pieces together, my parents and sisters. I took the other two pieces and put them together far, far away from the happy family; just a girl and her dog, alone and unloved, outside in the rain, I'm sure. And starving. Ha! That was a lie and I knew it, as did the wise Dr. X, who told my parents I was just fine and that I didn't hate them. Probably tired of my shenanigans, he asked me if I hated them and I said, "No." And he said we didn't need to come back. That, my friends, is an honest therapist.

I felt such nostalgia for my first therapy session. It was the puzzle that made me realize I was probably in the same office. I had always assumed that my memory of that office was based on therapists' offices in movies I had seen. In fact, Dr X must have seen the same movies or hired a decorator who had. Somehow, being in the same room I had been in when I was young and still completely sane made me feel very grounded and I left the session feeling at peace. That poor Dr. X! He's so good at his job that people don't have to go back.

Namasté, y'all!

* His last name doesn't actually start with an "X", but it does start with an equally unlikely consonant. Well, not equally unlikely if you go by the values of Scrabble letters, which I do. In that case, it's twice as likely as "X."

** Believe it or not, I'm going to spare you the details. It would take a long time to type and would be neither interesting nor altogether true, I'm sure. Memory is a funny thing and I think many childhood memories come from how we felt, not from what actually happened. But my mother has agreed that Miss Pretty didn't like me and it was a crappy year.