The Seventy Five Dollar Banana.

Our friend S. was over last night and informed us that he could tell which of our children had last used the half bath (meant for guests, but my kids don't really get that), because there was a magazine opened to an article about Speedracer, an unflushed toilet and toilet paper on the floor. Aren't children precious? That's not as bad as what I found there earlier that day: a half finished cup of coffee and the same magazine, opened to an article about The next Narnia movie.

Speaking of my husband, he does have some strange bathroom habits. When O., our oldest child, was a baby I was home with him one day when the toilet overflowed. Believe it or not, I get a certain joy out of plunging a toilet. My dad and I once had a conversation that probably went on a little too long about the exhilaration one feels when the clogged toilet first makes that little suction sound after plunging. You know you're only a few moments away from a clear toilet and that your vigorous plunging efforts were not in vain. I have a whole system for plunging, which I'll be glad to explain, but not demonstrate. Anyhow, our toilet overflowed and, try as I might, I could not plunge it and, trust me, I have serious plunging skills. I called A. at work, seething with suspicion.

"What did you put in the toilet? I know you put something."

"What? The...uh...our toilet? Put something in it? Umm...nope, not a thing."

I knew he was lying, but his response to my assertion that I was going to call a plumber (who I would have to pay out of our then very meager funds) sealed the deal.

"Listen, I'll come home and wait for the plumber. Why don't you take the baby to the mall or something?"

My husband was and is cheap extremely thrifty. That's one of the things I love about him; I know we'll never starve. We had absolutely no disposable income then and he was telling me, a known impulse buyer with a credit card, to go to the mall. And he who never took a day of vacation was offering to come home from work in the middle of the day so I could do it. He hung up before I could tell him he was welcome to come home, but I was sure as he** going to stick around and see him humiliated by the plumbers.

He arrived mere seconds after I hung up the phone. We waited together for the plumber and I pretended I didn't notice as he paced the floor and chewed his fingernails, all the while trying to convince me to just go to the mall.
When the plumbers got there, it was clear that they, like any wife, could smell bullsh**. They looked both of us in the eye and asked for a confession. I knew I was innocent and met their gaze with confidence. My husband, on the other hand, said something like,

"At this point in time, no, I did not put any object in the toilet, herein, at this place in our home, in which I reside at this time. No, your honor, I do not believe that I put anything in that toilet that, in fact, did not belong there. I do not recall, it is certainly possible that...no object was placed in an inappropriate manner in any way by myself into that toilet."

Did I mention he's a lawyer? Just imagine a court reporter reading that one out loud. Don't you think he'd be a tiny bit better at lying? It was pathetic and we all looked at him in silence while he sputtered, still refusing to admit what he had done. The work began.

The plumbers plunged, more vigorously than I could ever dream of doing. They snaked. They used equipment that I've never seen before. Every now and then, they looked back at my husband, daring him to confess. He did not.

Just before the moment of truth, they gave him one last chance to confess. He started to reassert his innocence, but thought better of it.

"I might have put a banana peel in there."

He looked at his feet and we all looked at him with disgust at his ignorance. To this day, I regret what I did next. There are certain things that one never, ever needs to know about another person.

"Why, honey, just why would you put a banana peel in the toilet?"

We lived in a small apartment. The kitchen and garbage can therein were just steps away.

"Well, I was sitting there eating my breakfast and when I was finished, I just dropped it in. I thought because it was food that it was okay."

As if the words weren't enough, he did a vague physical impression of his actions. Multi-tasking is great, but is it too much to ask that one eat breakfast at a table? Or even standing at the kitchen counter? I almost felt sorry for him. The plumbers looked away, appalled. We've moved twice since then and, even though my husband still feels the sting of humiliation*, we use the same company. And they remember the banana peel. Apparently, my husband is a legend in the plumbing world, because one of the new guys told me he had heard about it. I am so proud.

Namasté, y'all!

* Mostly because I insist on telling the story over and over again.

So...

The Daily Digress has a new look. Is the template change stressing anyone out? Please let me know if it hurts your eyes or is in any way irritating. Because I don't want to hurt anyone's eyes or be irritating*. Really!

I'm in the process of starting a new blog, The Shop Tart, and I'm learning all sorts of nifty tricks. It's a little bit addictive, so I had to mess with The Digress. Let me know what you think!

Namasté, y'all!

*My husband would beg to differ. Ignore him.

What would you have done?

So, this one time, I was in exercise class. The girl in front of me had a small hole, just right of center, in the back of her stretchy exercise pants. My first instinct was to tell her, but why go with your gut when you can over-analyze something to death? Especially if that over-analyzing distracts you from the agony of exercise class.

If I told her, she'd feel obligated to skip exercise for the day, lest the hole enlarge and expose more than just a small patch of skin. And I hate missing exercise, especially when I've counted on it and gone to the trouble of getting dressed, getting childcare and showing up. That was one reason I didn't tell her. Also, I checked to see if there were any men in the class. Because I wouldn't mind if a few women saw a patch of my bare behind, but men would be a whole 'nother thing. Their imaginations are too vivid for my taste. Give them an inch of skin and, before you know it, they're picturing you totally nude and running through the grocery store singing Marvin Gaye, wearing pasties if you're lucky.

Of course I questioned my decision throughout the class, especially when she would twist around, looking for the hole when she felt a draft. Every time she twisted, the hole would close, so she never saw it. I thought about telling her so she wouldn't think she was losing her mind. I got very nervous as the hole moved closer and closer to the middle. I mean, bare skin is one thing. It looks the same all over, so a patch of bum could be an arm, cheek (face-type) or any other inoffensive body part. Not that a bum is offensive. It's just that you should only share it with certain people, like your doctor, your husband or that guy who wanted to take a cell phone picture of your bare bum for thirty dollars your personal waxer.

And it's not like I was the only person not telling her. There were several people who could see it. I know they could see it because, like me, they were trying to monitor it without seeming like they were staring. Besides, doesn't the end justify the means and all that? The hole never made it to the fifty yard line. It settled around the thirty five, not close enough to inspire real panic. And that girl got to finish her exercise for the day, which makes the rest of us practically saints. Or guardian angels, since we were all keeping an eye on the progress of the hole.

I sincerely hope, when that girl got home and realized she hadn't imagined the draft, that she didn't feel mad at everyone behind her. I hope she understood our careful consideration. There are some things that aren't covered in Emily Post and it's hard to know just what to do. And, by the way, if you see me with a hole in my pants at the gym, tell me after I finish exercising, but before I go out to lunch, okay?

Namasté, y'all!

New Article in the Free Times

I have a new article in the Free Times today. Here it is, if you want to take a look. It's the recipe for Perry's Quinoa Salad, which is on the Daily Digress already, but it's always rather thrilling to see something I wrote in print! I do have to wonder why they replaced my picture with one of a pile of grain that looks like white lentils or barley. I'm no super model, but I think I'm more fetching than a pile of grain.

Speaking of my Free Times piece (which I know you all are!), they are so nice down there that they're going to let me write more. Do you have a favorite Daily Digress recipe? I'd love to know, so I could include it in a future column. By the way, I *heart* the Free Times, because thanks to them, I can call myself a writer when people ask what I do. And "I'm a writer" sounds, like, way smarter than, "Not much, yo!"

Namasté, y'all!

Trying to grow grass.

We don't enjoy it as much as we used to, but the kids love it. And all of our neighbors are growing it. When we bought our first house, we claimed to love the outdoors and looked forward to caring for our new, enormous yard, but it turns out we just like the outdoors as a backdrop. Gin tonics on the lawn and that sort of thing, as long as the mosquitos aren't biting. We've killed more grass than Cheech and Chong.

It seems like all of our neighbors are good at the whole grass thing. We've tried outsourcing it, but we're not rich. Recently, tired of the small bald patches complete lack of lawn cover, we got an estimate from some professionals. They were maybe a bit too professional. I could have bought a decent car with what they charged. So I called my Dad and got a recommendation from him. I don't know why I didn't do that to begin with; my husband calls Dad "Mr. Columbia" and I think it fits. So, Dad's guy agreed to re-sod the lawn and fix the existing sprinkler system for the price of a 1993 Buick LeSabre (still a fine car, incidentally, but nothing flashy). So far, so good. The sod is in and the pro scheduled the sprinklers for us, so we haven't managed to mess it up (yet).

Everyone on our street has beautiful grass and I'm starting to suspect it's not by chance, because I see them out in their yards, doing very complicated looking stuff, like weeding and watering. The real reason we re-planted our lawn was because I couldn't take the pitying looks anymore. And apparently, people did notice the sorry state of our lawn, because I've gotten emails from as far as two blocks away complimenting the new look.

Soon, the lawn will be tested. According to the sod guy, he planted something that's both shade and traffic tolerant. I've already forgotten the name, because I'm just not a nature person. The lawn will be used for soccer, biking, running and gin tonic drinking. And we'll have to make sure the sprinklers aren't scheduled to go off during happy hour when we want to play soccer with our darling children. We'll see how that goes.

Speaking of playing with children, sometimes I think my neighbor is taunting us by playing baseball with his children in his obscenely grass-covered front yard. It seems like they're always out there when I'm leaving or coming home. Do you think they're trying to tell me something? Yes, I do think everything is about me.

Our neighbor on the other side suggested we cut down all of our beautiful old trees to let the grass get more sun. We couldn't possibly do that, such environmentalists are we. Never mind all the water we're using to nurture what I pessimistically believe will be a short-lived lawn. Maybe that's the problem. I need to believe in the lawn. Maybe I should talk to it, or sing to it. Then the neighbors might not mind when it died.

Namasté, y'all!

So, what is Twitter?

Well, all the kids are doing it. And, yes, Mom, if everyone in the world jumped off a cliff, I would, too. I wouldn't be the first, I wouldn't even be in the first half, but if everyone was doing it, I would assume it had some validity.

You may (or may not!) have noticed the new thing in the sidebar on the left side of this page, "Twitter Updates." As far as I can tell, it's like a tiny blog. And I can post from my cell phone, which means I could digress, for real, all day long and everyone would know it. I think maybe I shouldn't take my phone with me if I'm in a bar, because the world doesn't need to know every single thought I have, unfiltered. If you've ever seen me in a bar, you're familiar with my extremely low tolerance for alcohol. Now that we no longer have mini-bottles in South Carolina, free pour reigns and I'm terrified I might accidentally charm a bartender and get some whopping drink I can't handle. Some whopping drink that'll make me start Twittering about "this one time, at band camp..."

So, I sincerely hope I can handle this Twitter thing with maturity. We'll see. If you're curious, I liked this article about it. And if anyone notices any particularly embarrassing Twitter, will you please call my husband and tell him to take me home? And put me on phone restriction? Thank you!

Namasté, y'all!

Whine.

I hate buying toilet paper, hate it. There's nothing fun about it, it's not all that cheap and it's a hassle to carry, especially when you buy enormous quantities, like I do, because I don't want to have to go back to buy more for a long, long time. One of the happiest times in my life was when I bought something like 144 rolls of paper and didn't need more for almost two years. That was great. So, yesterday, I had to buy toilet paper. It was definitely time, because we had been passing one roll from bathroom to bathroom and, really, each bathroom should have its own roll, for convenience. I try to avoid big box stores, but I try to avoid buying toilet paper even more, so I get it wherever they sell the biggest package. I had to take Baby J; it was not fun. I was feeling put out.

I love that phrase, "put out." I'm pretty sure it's exclusively Southern. It's used to describe someone who acts like they're being asked to do something entirely unreasonable. When I was younger, and whining about cleaning my room or something even smaller, like putting my own dish in the dishwasher, my mother would say,

"Oh, stop acting so put out."

Like many things my mother used to always say, that's become one of my catchphrases, because I've become my mother. Anyhow, yesterday I was feeling put out, after having to buy toilet paper in a big box store with Baby J. Still feeling put out, I went to my favorite non-hippy grocery store to buy a mix to make cupcakes for the X-Man's birthday today. The big box store didn't have lemon cake mix, which is what he wanted. I am ashamed and embarrassed about what happened next.

I wasn't concerned about going into the second store*, because every grocery store in town, including that one, has free cookies for kids and shopping carts with trucks on the front for toddlers to ride in. The truck carts are hard to push, but well worth the effort when you have a toddler who likes to be held every moment of the day. Baby J loves trucks and cookies and started talking about them as we pulled into the parking lot. I was really looking forward to peeling him off of my neck, strapping him into the truck and quieting him with a cookie. When grocery stores first started putting the cookies out, I whined about it to anyone who would listen.

"Why must we reward kids with unhealthy food just for doing something they have to do anyway? It's normal to go to the store and they have to accept it. When I was little, they had broken cookies every once in a while, but it was a special treat and a surprise, not a given. Ugh."

Which is why my behavior yesterday is so embarrassing. When will I learn that acting superior never, ever pays? Baby J was in the truck, chanting,

"TOOKIE! TOOKIE! TOOKIE!"

There were no cookies. I waited at the deli, thinking for sure they would give me one. I was going to buy one if they had no free ones. I'm not an unreasonable person. I thought everyone behind the counter was busy. Baby J got louder. And I noticed one of the employees pouring himself a Mountain Dew and poking at it with a straw. That really got my goat (another Southern expression for you). I marched over and said, "Excuse me!" rather aggressively. I asked about the cookies. I got a long, boring explanation about people taking more than one and how they just couldn't put cookies out anymore because of blah, blah, blah, blah. I said that was fine, but that I was switching grocery stores, forever.

I was going to buy the cake mix anyway when Baby J informed me that it might be best if we left the store, right that second. On my way out, I ran into L, a nice, polite lady from my church. I needed to vent, so I told her why I was leaving. L. has three (redheaded) children of her own and sympathized with my plight. She thought I should talk to a manager, but Baby J was about to lose it, so I had to go.

The very efficient L. sent a very brave grocery store employee out to my car to explain the cookie situation and ask me to continue shopping at the store, which I will. Mainly because she told me the cookies will be there in the future.

L. and the grocery store employee should start a PR firm; they saved the day. I called her on my cell phone and left a message, apologizing for my temper tantrum and thanking her for talking me down off the ledge and saving me from having to find another store. She left a message back saying that she hadn't noticed any sort of tantrum and that she had done similar. Did I mention what a kind person she is?

Namasté, y'all!

* I should have been concerned. It was five o'clock and I have three children. When will I learn? maybe next week. *sigh*

Tuesday is the worst day.

Tuesday is terrible. It shouldn't even be allowed, because it messes up the whole week. Tuesday is the day on which I have no childcare: no drop-in nursery, no sitter for Monday afternoon homework party with the big kids*, no Big Yoga Thursday sitter**, nothing. And, to add insult to injury, my husband often plays tennis in the evening. He goes there from work, so I don't see him until really late, when he's in a great (read: tired from playing tennis and drinking beer) mood and I'm ready to scream. I almost feel bad for him when he walks in the door and straight into my seething wall of resentment and self-pity.

Womens' magazines can be really annoying, like when they write articles about how to get your husband to have more sex. I wasn't aware that it was that difficult, but maybe there are some husbands who like to play hard to get. Not mine, or anyone else's that I know, according to me rudely asking people when I've had too much to drink my extensive research. Those articles could be summed up into a sentence:

"Honey, you want to do it?"

Most husbands will say yes, even if they have the flu and you're wearing sweat pants. You probably don't even have to call them "Honey." According to a lot of those articles, busy couples, especially new parents, should set aside a specific time for...ahem...marital relations. I had a friend who did that once. She and her husband had three young children, two full time jobs and one full time house guest. Her husband picked Tuesday. What a moron. As a result, she began dreading Tuesday a full six days in advance, on Wednesday.

Tuesday is the worst day. Sunday might be good, especially if one was raised in a church, because it has the bonus of seeming naughty. Monday might not be so bad, because it would feel like a way to extend the weekend. Wednesday, well, they don't call it the Hump Day for nothing. Thursday could work, because that's basically the weekend and "Thrilling Thursday" has a nice ring to it. Friday is date night for a lot of people so the mood is right, as is the level of intoxication. Saturday is good because you can sleep in a little bit the next morning. But Tuesday? Nothing is good about Tuesday. Sex should never be a chore and, if you try to do it on Tuesday, that's exactly what it'll feel like. Trust me.

Instead, I suggest that you take this day to reflect, perhaps on how you can help me on Tuesday, which is the worst day of the week, officially. Happy Celibate Tuesday!

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup, I actually have a sitter for the baby so I can spend the afternoon with my big kids getting them started on their homework. It's more fun that you would think.

** Yup, I actually have a sitter for four hours in the middle of every Thursday, so I can go do Yoga. I know: My life isn't hard and I promise to try to complain less. Or, at the very least, complain in a way that is entertaining.

And good morning to you, too.

"Unh! That crêpe was awesome! And that tickle from Edward's snake's tongue was awesome! I can still feel it. Is today Monday? Because that tickle was from Friday!"

These are the things that a six (almost seven!) year old must tell you, before you've even finished your first cup of coffee. That must have been quite the tickle.

Namasté, y'all!

I feel sure there is a third raccoon.

The big kids and I were going into the library the other day and, lo and behold, we saw a raccoon across the street, carrying something smaller and dead in its mouth. I didn't look too closely, because I wasn't sure if I wanted it to be a squirrel or a rat. Squirrels are cute, so that would have been sad. But I don't like to think about the fact that rats even exist so close to my house. In any case, squirrels and rats are the same thing in France, so I guess the clarification isn't all that important.

Later that night, a strange thing happened, although I didn't find out about it until the next day. My husband was driving home and hit a raccoon, who took a chunk out of his car. He wasn't going to tell me about it, because I once blamed him for hitting a dog. The dog ran out in front of his car, on the highway in the dark, but still. He was probably speeding. The dog cracked the car's gasket, whatever that means. All I know is it made the car stop and cost a lot of money to fix. The raccoon just took a small chunk out of the bumper.

The only person that day who didn't see a raccoon was Baby J, and these things come in threes, so I feel kind of scared. Maybe the first two raccoons were warnings. Beware the Third Raccoon! You know what they say about the Third Raccoon, don't you?*. I don't really care for raccoons in my neighborhood. They remind me too much of possums and I'm really afraid of possums, because they look so muscley and they hiss. I did see two dead possums yesterday. Is it possible that two possums equals one raccoon? There was a fox in this neighborhood one time that attacked a jogger, but I don't jog, so no worries there. Anyhow, I sure hope a third raccoon doesn't happen**!

Namasté, y'all!

* And I don't. What do they say about the Third Raccoon?

** I stole that line from one of my favorite Saturday Night Live sketches. I'd love to share it with you but, for some reason, NBC hasn't posted the video and they selfishly made anyone else who had posted it take it down. Anyhow, Justin Timberlake plays a Target employee who burns his lips on cheese bread and develops and allergy to lip balm. He says (in a really funny voice that, thanks to NBC, you can't hear) :

"I sure hope a third thing doesn't happen!"

If you want to, call me and I'll do an imitation. It's a riot. Trust me. And if you ever find the video online anywhere, under the NBC radar, please let me know.

Slow Food!

Have you heard of Slow Food? I first heard of it years ago when I was rambling on about my philosophy on food and someone, in a polite attempt to shut me up, said,

"That sounds exactly like Slow Food. Why don't you check out their website?"

Which I did and I've been a fan ever since. Although I'm sure they could give you a far more sophisticated explanation, I would describe their philosophy like this:

"Let's be good to the environment and thoughtful about our food choices, so we can keep all these plants and animals alive...SO WE CAN EAT THEM."

Precisely. The other day, I had lunch at the Happy Bookseller with Cerelle Centeno, a stylish, charming woman who's also the founder of a Slow Food Convivium right here in Columbia. You can email her or you can go see her, live, at the All-Local Farmers' Market today at Gervais and Vine, where she'll have a table set up with more information about Slow Food. And here's a picture of the lovely Cerelle. If you look to her left, you can see part of her Nana Purse, by local Sally Peek. It was super cute!


Namasté, y'all!

Emergency Broadcasting System

Well, it's not an emergency, but it is very exciting. The very beautiful shoe designer Ginger Goff and her dashing husband, Greg, are at Kicks! today. They'll be at Lola this afternoon, in case you can't make it right this second. For more info, click here. It's the ultimate in guilt-free local shopping, because Ginger is from Hilton Head, South Carolina. So, you're not just buying shoes, you're supporting local business, which makes you a real do-gooder. To top it off, Kicks! is still using re-usable shopping totes instead of paper, which will help you be environmentally conscious and stylish at the grocery store. By the way, I didn't buy them, but Ginger is wearing a super cute pair of flowered wedges. Maybe you will buy them for me. I wear a seven and a half. Ahem.

Here's a picture of Ginger and Greg, with some of the shoes they brought:

I bought a pair to wear to a wedding on Saturday with one of my Laroque dresses. Ginger autographed the bottom. How fun is that?

Namasté, y'all!

Brilliant.

I found a note from the X-Man today in my husband's sock drawer. What was I doing in my husband's sock drawer? Getting his checkbook, of course. What? Did you think I was putting his laundry away? Ha!

The note was from a while ago, when the X-Man was first learning to write. He carried a little notebook and a pen with him, in case he had any important thoughts. This is what my deeply spiritual kindergartner had written:

"IN. CHURCH. THEY. TALK. ABOUT. GOD. JESUS. CHRIST. IS. THE. SON. OF. GOD."

There was a second note, folded inside the first.

"MONKEY. CACA."

Just what are they teaching in Sunday school these days?

Namasté, y'all!

Darn weather.

I live in South Carolina, not Canada. I went to college in Canada and it was great, but I couldn't live with being cold in April. Apparently, moving back to South Carolina was not enough, because it is freezing*. In an attempt to count my blessings (gag), I'm making Extreme Grouper Chowder for dinner, which would be totally inappropriate if it were warmer. But my mind is on summer meals. In the spring and summer, my family lives on appetizers, because appetizers pave the way for drinks! Drinking at four thirty in the afternoon is trashy...unless there are appetizers. As soon as it gets warm, every day is a party and we eat accordingly: nori rolls, dips, boiled shrimp, crab salad, quinoa salad, artichokes with bagna cauda, Thai salad rolls, anything that we can eat with our hands. Classy, huh?

This weekend was warm and I made a new salad. The weather didn't last, but the salad was good.

Quinoa Salad with Roasted Arugula and Dried Figs

First, make three cups of cooked quinoa (one cup dry quinoa and 2 cups water). I used to hate quinoa, but that was before I had it at Perry's Restaurant in Washington DC. Instead of tasting like a watery, health food-y mess, it tasted nutty, crispy and chewy, always an excellent combination. The secret: they take the cooked quinoa, drizzle it with olive oil and bake it in a 450° oven for 10-12 minutes, until it's nutty, crispy and chewy, all at once. So do that to your cooked quinoa. For this salad, I used a delicious lemon infused olive oil I bought at Perrone's the last time we were there. You should try to hook up with some of that. I haven't checked, but I'd be shocked if you couldn't find it at the Gourmet Shop, Cloud Nine or relative newcomer Simply Savory.

When you take the quinoa out of the oven, turn the temperature down to 350°. While the quinoa is cooling in a big bowl, spread about eight cups of fresh arugula on a baking pan, drizzle it with olive oil and sprinkle with a little bit of salt. Put it in the 350° oven and cook for about five minutes. Keep an eye on it, because it cooks fast. Take it out when it's almost dry. While that cools, add the following to the bowl of quinoa:

1/2 cup chopped, dried figs. Get the good, unsulphured ones from the bulk section at your local health food store. Rosewood Market has them.

1/2 cup slivered almonds.

Now fold in the crispy arugula. Eat a few pieces before you stir it in, because it's really good.

Add a dash or three of balsamic vinegar.

Serve the salad with goat cheese sprinkled on top. I used a delicious one from Split Creek Farm, also found at Rosewood Market.

Eat it, and don't forget the cocktail! You can substitute a nice glass of white wine (or three) for the cocktail if you prefer. Maybe you could have a Stoli Oranj and soda while you're cooking and white wine with the meal. Just sayin'.

Namasté, y'all!

* I know, slight exaggeration. But still.

Goodbye, Friendly Liquor Store.

Although I voted in favor of allowing the sale of alcohol on Sunday in the recent election, I didn't feel all that great about it. I voted in favor because the law prohibiting it was discriminatory. Even down heah in the Bible Belt, not everyone has accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior. Can you believe it?*

I was tempted to vote "no" for purely selfish financial reasons, which would have been un-Christian of me. As a devout Christian, I had to vote, "Heck yes, we should be allowed to buy beer on the Lord's day!" I've always enjoyed the Friendly Liquor Store, even though it was only open one day a week.

"Dad, it's me. Do y'all have any red wine?"

"Sorry, can't help you."

"No biggie. Thanks."

My husband was aghast. He wasn't used to my family's brevity on the phone in times of dire need. But we didn't need words to communicate. Dad knew we were having people over and we'd forgotten they were red wine drinkers. He knew I wasn't trying to score free wine just to save money. He knew we had already bought white wine and beer. My one question told him everything he needed to know. Because it was Sunday. And I knew he wanted me to quit tying up his phone, because he's a realtor and they get a lot of calls the day the big real estate section is in the paper. On Sunday. It was the only day of the week I could shamelessly call my parents and beg for free alcohol without explaining myself.

I remember another phone call (Forgive me. I need to reminisce since these calls are a thing of the past.)

"Dad, it's me. Do y'all have any Scotch?"

"Hold on."

Much clinking ensued. A list of all sorts of Scotch-y sounding things** soon followed.

"What do y'all need it for?" He knows we're not Scotch drinkers.

"The babysitter."

"Um...what kind of babysitter is that?" He doesn't normally like to question our parenting, but there's a time and a place.

"My mother-in-law."

"Sounds good. Do you want me to bring it or are you picking it up?"

A. and I are firm believers in providing free babysitters with their cocktail of choice. My Dad understood that, because he's enjoyed more than one Coors or Amstel Light while looking after our little darlings. My mother-in-law, like many French women, only drinks red wine, Scotch and coffee. That is why they don't get fat. We had coffee and red wine.

I really don't have any need to buy alcohol on Sunday. I've never had an alcohol emergency that couldn't be resolved by a short trip to Mom and Dad's Sunday Liquor Emporium. According to this story, there are a lot of people in town who haven't figured out they should just call my parents. I particularly like the guy who claims he likes "the continuity of going to the store Sunday and getting my beer." Which would indicate that he buys beer every single day. And I thought I was bad. It should be noted that he was interviewed on Saturday, buying a case of PBR and a 12 pack of Schlitz, which must be a two day supply for him, since he goes to the store six out of seven days in a week. His parents must be so proud. That article, by the way, is worth a look if you're concerned about your drinking habits. It'll make you feel better, because those people are in a whole 'nother drinking league. And if you relate to them, well...ahem...your parents must be so proud.

The victory is bittersweet for me. Thanks to the voters of this fair city (and it is fair, that alcohol should be available every day of the week, regardless of the religious views of a portion of the population), I'll be a few dollars poorer. A small price to pay for justice. I might buy beer tomorrow, just because I can, even though I don't even drink beer. I'll be headed to the store early though, to beat the church crowd, of course.

Namasté, y'all!

* And can you believe that a Sunday school teacher like me would be so sarcastic about the tiny Baby Jesus? I can't help it. Everything is funny to me. I love my kids and I make fun of them all the time, so why not the Baby Jesus?

** You know, my generation could really take a cue from our elders. Those people know how to stockpile liquor. Maybe because they remember Prohibition.

My friend Earl.

Earl called this morning. I knew it was him, because his name showed up on the Caller ID*. I figured he was calling to ask me to take the day off and go fishing on his pond, because that's what guys named Earl do. But then I remembered I don't have a friend named Earl. I do have a friend whose husband is named Earl, although he goes by another name. But he shows up on Caller ID as Earl. It's funny how names come in and out of fashion; I assume my friend's husband was named after an old guy with a pond. I was at the soccer field recently and caught the end of a girls' game.

"Go, Pearl!"

"Run, Ella, run!"

"Ruby, keep your eye on the ball!"

"Go, Rose!"

I did a double take, thinking they were being awful hard on a bunch of old ladies just trying to get some exercise. I was also surprised the YMCA sponsored a Senior Soccer League, given the high risk of injury. As it happens, those were the names of four and five year olds, probably with brothers named Earl, Barkley and Harold.

I wish I did have a friend named Earl with a pond and a lot of time on his hands, because I used to really like fishing with my Dad. Earl would like me, because I know the rule about never letting your mouth close all the way when you're fishing. I'm sure Earl would have his own set of rules and I would follow them, too. As an oldest daughter, I am not a rule breaker. If he said not to use the word "banana" on the boat, I wouldn't even think about bananas. I wouldn't touch his lucky lure and I wouldn't dream of wearing a red shirt if he said blue shirts attracted fish. You have to trust Earl. Earl is solid.

The mouth open rule, apparently, doesn't apply to other sports, such as Left Right Center. My so-called Bunco group is too drunk and chatty busy discussing politics to play Bunco and we usually resort to Left Right Center. For almost a whole round, I kept my mouth open, not by too much, just enough to be lucky. My lips got very dry and I drooled a little. I couldn't participate in the political discourse because my jaw was cramped. It dawned on me that my dad might have made that rule to keep me from talking. And I lost. But the woman next to me won and my very superstitious friend K. observed that I didn't do the mouth thing from the beginning, so that might be why it didn't work. She believes that to look away from the table during a game is the kiss of death. She lost, too, so I'd take that one with a grain of salt.

Today is so nice that me and Earl might just sit on the porch and have a few beers. It's real purty out there right now, with all the Wisteria. 'Course, Earl and me know we better enjoy it now, because in a few days we'll be pressure washing it off the dang driveway. Good thing we put tarps over our trucks.

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, I'm ignoring my own advice and admitting to having Caller ID. I'm a terrible actor, so everyone knows I have it anyway.

Spring break is officially over.

I thought I could avoid my trainer for a few days while I tried to undo some of the damage of Spring Break. I did do some exercise, mostly bicep curls, with these weights:

And I did some Yoga, too, mostly keg stands handstands after all those bicep curls. I wish I had done Yoga back in the day, because I would have been seriously awesome at keg stands. My sister claims she can still do them, but I haven't seen it. Maybe I'll have a keg party next time she comes home. And I don't even drink beer, so it would be a selfless act. My classy, classy family has indulged in the occasional Plank-Off* during a party, which means keg stands are only one or two drinks away.

My trainer left me a message yesterday, looking to schedule a session. I left her a message in return. I waited a while to call back, hoping someone else would have snapped up her available times and I could pretend to be disappointed. No such luck. When I got to the gym, she snapped at me to jump on the treadmill, at a one incline and 5.5 miles per hour. I should have done that, but I am so, so stupid. Of course I had to go faster and at a higher incline. Of course. And she wasn't even finished with her other client yet. She seems so nice, my trainer, but she is not nice. She once poked me under my arm with her fingernail, repeatedly, to point out some fat that was displeasing to her. I didn't even know about that fat, because I don't make a habit of looking there.

She made me do really hard stuff. And she was smiling. She told me I should ask my husband if he'd let me do two sessions a week. I would do that, but I'm deathly afraid he would say yes.

I'm going to see her again on Friday, not because I want to, but because we're going to some ballet Champagne/perfprmance/dinner thing Friday night and, duh, there will be scrawny dancers there. I want to have fun, not feel like a hippo. Therefore, all the Goldfish crackers I just scarfed in Target notwithstanding, I will not be eating any carbs this week. Now you know just how very, very shallow I am!

Namasté, y'all!

* Confession: I'm the one who instigated the Plank-Off, which I lost on purpose, dear baby brother, to save you. My brother was 19 and I was pushing 30. I looked up during the Plank-Off and, seeing his grim look of concentration, decided to give up, because I knew he would give himself a hernia before letting an old mother of two win. And I so didn't want to get in trouble with mom.

"Look what you've done now! You gave your brother a hernia! GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

To be honest, I probably would have lost in the end to my cousin, a recent Citadel graduate who looked completely at ease during the whole, short contest.