Local 10 Year Old Has Best Week Ever

A local 10 year old boy is having what will quite possibly go down in history as his Best Week Ever.

On Monday, he tried out for a soccer team on which, unlike previous teams sponsored by the YMCA, he was not assured a place. Frankly, this made his mother very nervous, but he approached the situation with confidence. What made his mother even more nervous (and guilty for sort of rooting against her son) was what she learned form another, more on-the-ball parent at the try-outs, namely that the team cost an a** of money to join. The 10 year old boy was unaware of this conflict however, and was thrilled to learn on Wednesday that he had made the team. He made the B Team, but any disappointment was alleviated by the fact that the team will be playing in an older age group, because there weren't enough kids for a team in the boy's actual age group. This worries his mother, but the 10 year old has no fear. The numerous practices each week also worry his mother, but she has decided to simply cross that bridge when she comes to it, because the team means a lot to him. She's already scheming and planning to sucker other parents into driving her kid a carpool with several of his teammates.

Also on Wednesday, the former 9 year old actually turned 10, celebrating the night before with a casual dinner for family at his home. This casual dinner for sixteen was prepared by his mother, with no small amount of stress. Thursday brought more birthday fun for the now officially ten year old, with a pizza and cupcake party at school. By this time, the 10 year old boy's mother was really dragging, after staying up late the night before making the cupcakes, from a mix but kind of a pain nevertheless.

Thursday afternoon, brought more excitement for the 10 year old boy. His mother, in a panic, typed his six-page, single-spaced autobiography, which she had promised to do, but forgot. Time was of the essence, as Friday was the last day of school. Although she enjoyed reading the story of his life, she was floored upon reading a sonnet he had also written and wanted her to type. He was thrilled when it was chosen for publication on The Daily Digress. Because his mother is so ridiculously proud of him, you can read it now.

Sonnet 10

Love is so very wrong for me.
I do believe it is wrong for you.
So I will tell you, you will see
It is like an animal zoo.

All you do is kiss and hug.
Isn't that quite boring?
Maybe your girlfriend gave you a mug.
Isn't romance for night, not morning?

For a date you go to a play.
Your girlfriend simply loves your shirt.
She says, "Your eyes are like a Blue Jay."
"Thank you." And you and your girlfriend flirt.

So romance is weird, you see.
If you do, you're just like me!

His mother, although possibly biased, believes the sonnet demonstrates a wisdom and humor beyond his years. She particularly enjoyed hearing him read it out loud, with humorous inflection.

Friday was the final day of school for the ten year old boy. He enjoyed a pool party with his school friends afterwards at one of their houses. Although his little brother, by virtue of being related to him, was invited, their mother still felt pretty guilty for being "that mom." "That mom," in this case ditched her seven year old at the party to be watched by other parents so she could go home and sit around while her baby napped. In her defense, her seven year old is a strong swimmer, she more or less asked permission before leaving him and he would have pitched a fit she couldn't handle if she hadn't let him stay. Thankfully, the other parents at the very small school understood.

Late Friday afternoon, as his mother took her first shower all week in preparation for the company coming for dinner that evening, the ten year old was taken to Game Crazy by his slacker father, who allowed him to purchase a game rated "T" for Teen. Although the ten year old boy is most definitely not a teen, he was allowed to keep the game after a phone call to Game Crazy yielded the information that the "T" rating was for bad language (which the ten year old has heard, recently) and a little bit of blood when a skateboarder falls. The ten year old boy is familiar with blood resulting from falling. Plus, it's fake blood and his mother was too tired to argue.

To finish his Best Week Ever, the ten year old is leaving for a trip today on an airplane with his maternal grandparents. This is very, very exciting, but his mother, father and two little brothers who idolize him will miss him very, very much for the three days he will be gone. Bon Voyage!

Ever so slightly better...

First of all, thank you from the bottom of my heart to those of you who commented, emailed or even just sat there and thought good thoughts for me. I got all sniffly feeling the love. And I'm not even being sarcastic, which as you may know is highly unusual. Anyhow, thank you.

In an attempt to drag myself out from under the dark cloud yesterday, I decided to actually get in the car and take O's medical form for camp to his pediatrician's office to get it signed. Surprisingly, it wasn't all that difficult and I felt a small weight lift off my shoulders. It's amazing how one little, mildly annoying task can bring you down. I thought of Michael Crichton who, when asked how he managed to write so much, answered that he uses a technique called BTC*. Or AIC**, as the case may be. Actually doing stuff really does help. Funny, that.

During my long drive to the pediatrician's office, my mind wandered to other authors I admire. I admire Crichton for the sheer volume he produces, but these others speak to my soul. For the curious, they include:

• Nora Ephron, particularly in essay writing mode. I found her book "Crazy Salad" at my grandparents' beach house when I was about ten years old. My parents, distracted by their younger brood, didn't notice when I read the whole thing, twice. "Crazy Salad" shaped so many of my views on feminism, food, politics and life in general. And it was really, really funny. I had a fairly sophisticated sense of humor for a ten year old.
  
• Amy and David Sedaris. "Me Talk Pretty One Day" is one of the funniest books ever written. I was almost kicked off an airplane because I was laughing so hard. Amy's book, "I Like You" is an inspiration. She is the hostess I strive to be. The Sedarises are Southern, like me, which makes me feel clever by association. I'll take what I can get, yo.
  
• Jeffrey Steingarten. This man is a genius. Since 1989, he has somehow managed to get Vogue to pay for all sorts of things he wants, like fifty pounds of some imported thousand million dollar obscenely expensive bacon he wanted to experiment with in the kitchen. But he burns the sh*t out of his shins on the open oven door and drops the fancy bacon. Then he cries, because the bacon is ruined. Too traumatized to start over, he instead writes a brilliant, humorous and informative piece about recipes on the backs of boxes, like Snickers Pie. Brilliant. I don't even want to guess how much he got paid for that, because I would probably explode with jealousy.
  

My mood also improved because my awesome editor at the Free Times, Ron Aiken, changed the online version of my article back to how I wrote it. Now if I sound stupid, I have no one to blame but myself! Hooray! Coincidentally, Eva Moore, author of the "Chew on This" column and other things at the Free Times, put a different crab salad recipe on her blog. It sounds delicious and I can't wait to try it. Also, it's simpler than mine, which my ever supportive mother-in-law claims has "too many ingredients." Oh well, you can't please everyone!

And here is some excitement to usher in the weekend, a video installment of the Grass Cam, with a twist! See if you can spot the Roly-Poly as he navigates the lush and mysterious forest! Listen for the sounds of nature, including a woodpecker, some random birds, the neighbors' air conditioner and the trickling water of our Koi pond, which is devoid of fish because we kept killing them! Fun for the whole family!



Namasté, y'all!

* Butt Bottom To Chair.

**A** In Car.

Mama said there'd be days like this...

Well, not my Mama, at least not in so many words, but it's still a great song. Do you ever have months weeks days like this, where you feel like the worst person in the world? The fattest, ugliest person, worst mother, most pathetic wife, not to mention crappiest friend, sh*tiest daughter and stupidest daughter-in-law. And you can't name anything specific that's making you feel that way. Small things happened. You waited an hour and a half for an appointment with your dermatologist and had to leave (after offering five times, meekly, to reschedule if they were too busy) so you wouldn't miss your son's school play. You weren't late, but your toddler was so loud your Dad had to take him outside and miss the play. You almost cried when your husband told you later they sent a note home before the play requesting that no toddlers attend. You were too lazy to read it. Or maybe you read it and forgot, because you're an idiot.

You got a note from your child's teacher the night before, because she didn't realize you emailed her because you found it funny that your child asked for "a bunch of balloons and safety pins" to make his costume for the play the next day. At least it seemed funny, until you realized what a loser she thinks you are. She thought you were emailing her, at 9 at night, to tell her she needed to make the costume. Are you really that bad?

You feel pathetic for buying a mix to make cupcakes for your son to take to school for his birthday (why didn't it feel pathetic when you did it a month ago for your other son?) And it gets worse when you realize the chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing look like little piles of poop. And the M&M's you bought to decorate are some Indiana Jones kind of M&M's, in colors like off-white, diarrhea-orange, dried blood-red and brown. Ew.

You are fat. You are ugly. You are worthless. But somehow, you weren't like that a month ago and, when you think about it honestly, nothing much has changed. But all of a sudden, you have to force yourself to smile when your baby is singing,

"Walk back down! Stand my ground!"

which he learned from the movie "Barnyard," which he calls "Bombarn," which you normally find too adorable for words. And you don't laugh as hard as you normally would when you find this note, from your seven year old to the Tooth Fairy.

Normally, you find his materialism funny ("Remember I don't need money I need toys.") You aren't even happy that he's actually telling the truth this time about losing his tooth, unlike the last time, when he tried to con the Tooth Fairy. The note just makes you feel like a crappy parent, raising children who are never satisfied and destined to be miserable, just like you.

You had an article published, but they edited out a sentence or two, which resulted in you sounding stupid. Or so it seems to you.

The fact that you still haven't gotten your child's medical form signed for camp is sending you into a panic. There's the guilt, but also the rage that no one has to worry about it but you. And you dread the packing involved before camp. Now you feel like a jerk for not just being excited for your kid about camp, which he loves.

Your husband falls asleep when he's with you and forgets everything you say because you are boring, boring, boring. Everything you do is lame and boring and no one wants to know about it. It's not them, it's you. Probably no one likes you, including your husband, because you're fat.

I'm just so tired. If I could just get three good nights of sleep, I think everything would be better. I should go to sleep now, but I'm too wound up. Now I feel guilty and pathetic for whining. So, how was your day?

I want to help you make fried squash blossoms.

I want to help you do it without losing an eye. That's why I deliberately did some stupid stuff...so you would know what not to do. You're very welcome.

We went to the All-Local Farmers' Market on Saturday. Among other things, I found top sirloin and New York Strip from Eubanks Farms (can't wait to compare and contrast!), broccoli, salad galore, eggs, eggs and more eggs from Wil-More, luscious green onions, zucchini, summer squash and squash blossoms. About a year ago, one of the farmers had squash blossoms and I didn't buy them, probably because I was intimidated by the frying factor. She suggested I batter and fry them in oil. I'm terrified of hot oil. I once owned a Fry Daddy I used for the adrenaline rush. Wheeee!

Anyhow, I'm more mature now and I felt ready to fry stuff, so I bought just one bunch of the blossoms. I later regretted not buying everything she had, because Oh. My. God*. Those things were so damn good. When I got home, I made my first mistake.

I put them in water, because I thought it would keep them fresher. And they looked pretty.

Quite possibly, you are smarter than I am and you see what's coming. First of all, they wilted. I could live with that. I did not care for what happened when I put the water saturated stems in hot oil. Damn. But I'm getting ahead of myself. For the curious, here is a closeup of the wilted squash blossoms. Since they looked a bit drunk, I took a picture of them with the beer I used in the batter. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself again.

I left the blossoms on a towel, hoping they would dry while I made the batter. In a bowl, I whisked the following:

• 1 cup all-purpose flour.
• 1/2 cup corn meal.
• 1/2 teaspoon salt.
• 8-10 shakes Slap Ya Mama Cajun Seasoning, available at Hiller Hardware, of all places.
• An entire Michelob Ultra I found in the fridge. I have no idea how it got there, because we don't indulge. However, in the end, i think it was the right choice. Michelob Ultra has a slight sweetness that is an unpleasant quality in a beer, but quite charming in batter.

The batter should be pretty thin, but not watery. Leave it in the fridge for at least 30 minutes before using. I don't know why, but everyone else says to do it and, as I've mentioned, I'm not the sharpest knife in the block, so you should do what they say. When it comes out of the fridge, you may need to add a splash of water (or more beer) to thin it.

In a big frying pan, I heated about a half-inch of grapeseed oil until it was ready. A good way to know if it's hot enough is to slide a piece of bread into the oil. If it looks like a crouton within ten seconds, it's ready. Go ahead and eat the crouton, but let it cool first. Don't test the oil with your finger. That's stupid, so stupid.

I held the first blossom by its nice, long stem, quickly dragged it through the batter and slid it into the oil. Although the oil was snapping and popping and burning the sh*t out of my arm, I continued. I was on a mission, a very stupid mission I now realize. I screamed at my husband to keep the kids out of the kitchen. I wanted to die alone. There was oil everywhere. My kitchen floor is very shiny now.

It dawned on me that the water contained in the stems had something to do with the huge welts that would surely develop on my arms. I'm too proud too lazy to count up the mistakes here, but let's just say that stubbornness will inspire you to make one after another in your refusal to acknowledge your own stupidity. There's a life lesson in there somewhere, but I probably won't learn it just yet.

I thought of my three beautiful children (and this pocketbook that I really, really want) and knew I wasn't ready to die. For the next batch, I removed the stems. Miraculously, there was no more exploding oil as they sizzled and browned politely.

When they were done, I put them on a paper towel to absorb some of the oil. A fancier person than I am might have served them in a pretty way, like, not on a paper towel, but we ate them too fast. They were meant to be appetizers for the steak and roasted vegetables I was making later for company. By the time our guests arrived, all we had left was a greasy paper towel. I didn't even bother serving the greasy paper towel. That would have been rude. I did put out some olives and nuts, though.

Namasté, y'all!

* And I'm not taking the Lord's name in vain here, Mom. I'm actually giving Him thanks for such a perfect food.

And it only took me three years.

I'm slow. There are two things I've learned in the last two weeks. Two things that have loomed over my head since we moved to this house.

1. Turns out, I don't need to borrow a really tall ladder to clean the fans in the bathroom. I can just stand on a short stool and vacuum them with the long attachment thingy on the vacuum. This may have taken so long because I don't actually use the vacuum, I sweep. Not really an excuse, but...
2. I don't have to empty out the contents below the kitchen sink, put on old clothes and slide on my back into the cabinet to unscrew and re-fill the soap dispenser. Since I no longer have to do that, I also don't have to slide back under there to screw the damn thing back in, which takes forever because I can't see what I'm doing because it's dark in there. And...I no longer have to wash my hair every time I refill the dispenser to rid it of under the sink crud and dish soap that spilled on my head during the process. Because I can just lift the pump out from above and pour soap into it, no screwing involved*.

Life would have been so much less stressful if I had figured these things out sooner. I wouldn't have had to feel guilty and unworthy every time I looked at the dirty fans. I wouldn't have had to feel irritated during the week between the soap running out and my re-filling it every time I had to reach under the sink for the aesthetically displeasing bottle of dish soap.

Is anyone else like this or is it just me?

Namasté, y'all.

* That's what she said. You had to have seen that coming.

Yeah, I didn't, like, make this video...

But I love it. I laughed so hard, I cried. And I've only had one glass of wine. Or maybe two-ish.



By the way, I would shave my head in exchange for the ability to sing "Midnight Train to Georgia" really awesome. I mean, I'd have to be allowed to grow the hair back, because I'm fairly vain, so the shaving would be a one-time thing. But I would so do it.

Namasté, y'all!

Grass in Action

Grass in Action
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Here it is, yo. Our grass is still going strong. The yard guy came again. I detect a new hint of respect in his eyes. I no longer drive around the block until his truck is gone to avoid his pitying stare. In this picture, you can see the grass enduring some pretty hard-core traffic. Will it survive? At least we don't have a dog... Stay tuned!

If you're really into grass, here's a nice unadulterated shot of the grass covered in fake morning dew from the sprinkler system.

Namasté, y'all!

Why not just tell her the truth?(Alternate Title: There are some kooky people on television.)

I can't remember what the show was called. It was a variation on the Regis and Perky MILF Show. There were two hosts, one an older, sort of goofy guy, the other a younger, hot-but-in-a-non-threatening-way mommy-type. The subject was Dating Boot Camp. As usual, it was directed towards women who, you know, are terrible at picking up men in bars. Frankly, you have to be pretty horrifying to be unable to pick up a drunk guy in a bar, but the experts weren't divulging that little tidbit. They had all sorts of excellent advice.

• Don't use big hand gestures. Small ones are more feminine (Translation: Not too scary for the drunk guy.)
• Personal space is something to be micro-managed. Move in close. Now back away. Not so fast. Move in one half of one inch. Now back up one inch. (This could backfire. You might end up looking like you have to go to the bathroom. Or worse.)
  
• Look at him. Look away. Make a coy face, like you're all,"Oops! Silly me got caught checking out your fabulous face! Teehee!" Now do it again. Advanced technique includes, but is not limited to, blushing on cue. (I seriously doubt most men would notice all this drama. Or maybe they just weren't that into me.)
• Don't make unattractive faces. Try to look pretty.

Which reminded me of my friend in high school, who was not the nicest friend ever.

"You know," she kindly informed me, "The reason boys don't think you're pretty is because you make funny faces when you tell stories. I mean, I know it makes the story better, but everyone thinks you're ugly."

Well, actually, I did not know boys didn't think I was pretty. I thought they were just intimidated, at least that's what I told myself as I stumbled through adolescence, more or less dateless until I was old enough to drink legally. And my stories were funny, although those ugly faces might have something to do with the fact that I crave Botox now. Eventually, I found boys who were man enough to laugh at my jokes and quick enough to see a flash of pretty in between the ugly faces. Or maybe pretty just wasn't a priority. Who cares? In any case, I think my friend was just jealous or maybe a bit self-centered. Another time, when I was crying over an enormous zit, she comforted me.

"Well, you're lucky. Your skin isn't super smooth like mine, so people probably don't even notice when you have a zit. Everyone notices when I do, because my skin is so perfect."

She was full of insight. It was great to know I was so hideous that a monster zit made absolutely no difference. I didn't keep in touch with her after high school, but I hear she turned out very pretty. It's not always wrong to employ subterfuge. Sometimes it can be genius. A friend of mine in college once found an excuse to bring up the Mariana Trench in a conversation with a boy she liked. As she brushed her fingers against his face, she said,

"Isn't is scary to think about all the creatures in the Mariana Trench? It would be so dark, you would have no idea what they looked alike. You could just feel them brushing against your face. Unless one of them bit you. Then you would be in horrible pain and probably die!"

As if you wouldn't die just from wandering around the bottom of the ocean. I hear the water pressure's pretty hard-core down there. This was a great technique, by the way. As far as I know, they're still together. I'm sure she wouldn't mind any of you single ladies using it. Boys love smart girls who are into creepy stuff like unimaginable sea creatures.

Anyhow, the subject of Dating Boot Camp was a very obnoxious woman. She talked too loud, interrupted everyone and spit a little when she talked. Also, she needed more lipstick. No one told her any of that, though. They just stuck her with a bunch of rules she had already forgotten by the time the show taped. Then again, I talk too loud and interrupt (and very occasionally spit when I talk) and I found a hot boy who likes me anyway. So maybe she should just stay out of bars and hope for the best. And learn some funny stories. Boys like funny stories, ugly faces and all.

Namasté, y'all!

What to do with the leftover Krispy Kremes

Delicious Krispy Kremes
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

My (almost) ten year old son O. had to sell Krispy Kremes to raise money for his choir trip. We could have just made a donation to alleviate the guilt, but I thought it might be one of those teaching moments. I try to be a decent parent, really. He needed to learn the lesson of hard work and earning the money to do the things that matter to him. So, twenty minutes before the order was due, I called all my relatives, threatened them and ended up with a very respectable order of 25 boxes, none of which they actually wanted. They wanted to just make a donation, but I forced them to buy doughnuts. To teach my kid a valuable lesson. Then I was stuck with a bunch of doughnuts, so I drove around our neighborhood, wasting gas and pawning them off on unsuspecting friends. Wisely, I turned that into a lesson about family members helping each other, because O. was home playing basketball and I made the X-Man take the doughnuts to our friends' doors. I gave him a script:

X-Man: Happy Doughnut Day!

Friend: [insert confused response from friend here]

X-Man: That's all you need to know! [run back to car]

We were still stuck with a lot of doughnuts. But I bet my kids really learned their lesson. Are you as confused as I am?

One of my friends enthusiastically accepted two boxes of doughnuts. She said she'd been wanting to try to make Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding. So I had to try it. A quick Google search showed that a lot of people make Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding and they all add sugar, which I thought seemed unsophisticated. The subtle sweetness of a Krispy Kreme doughnut must stand on its own. Here's what I did.

Sophisticated Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding

Butter a casserole dish and fill it with a dozen randomly torn Krispy Kremes. The beauty of this recipe is it's okay if they're a little bit stale. That's what bread pudding is all about. Sprinkle the following on the doughnuts:

1/2 cup golden raisins

1/2 cup chopped pecans

the zest of one lemon. You can just zest the lemon over the dish.

It should look about like this:

In a separate bowl, mix the following:

a 12 ounce can of evaporated milk.

2 eggs.

2 teaspoons lemon extract.

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon.

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg.

Blend that until the eggs are beaten. Pour that mixture over the Krispy Kremes.

Behold Exhibit 2:

Cook it for 30 to 40 minutes in an oven preheated to 350&def;. It's best served hot, although I had no problem finishing it off over the course of the day, spoonful by spoonful, right out of the dish. A dollop of not-too-sweet vanilla ice cream would have been a nice addition, but I didn't have any, which is probably a good thing. I would not add any sugar to the pudding, because that would be disgusting. Seriously.


And that is what you do with the leftover doughnuts you didn't want to begin with but I made you buy. To teach my kid a lesson.

Namasté, y'all!

These are really inappropriate, Mom.

These are inappropriate, Mom.
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

That is what the X-Man said when he saw these drinks at Starbucks. Wouldn't it be fun to be that easily shocked?

Namasté, y'all!

This for you, Aaron.

Look at that Grass, Man
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

You may have noticed something new in the sidebar on the left right. Or maybe you haven't. It's been suggested to me that there are some complete lunatics out there with too much time on their hands my more sophisticated readers would appreciate a Grass Cam, a chronicle of our attempt to grow grass. While I deeply regret not starting sooner, like before the grass even went in, I see no reason not to start right now. I added some pictures of barren spots to give you a feel for what our yard was like BG*. They're dramatizations and not pictures of our actual yard. If that's not enough, just ask our neighbors how bad it was. The picture above is our current, lush lawn. We'll see how long that lasts.

This is the Grass Cam. Some time in the middle of April (I can't be expected to remember when), we decided to attempt to grow grass. We've tried before and failed, but life is a gamble, right? I wrote about it here. The creation of the Grass Cam is also a nice way for me to get to know Flickr, which I'll be using on my new blog eventually.

I think the Grass Cam is classier than the one I had planned, A** Cam, which would have chronicled my experiments with Yoga, cellulite cream and self tanner as a means of improving the look of my a**. Just be thankful you were spared.

Enjoy the grass, dude!

* Before Grass. Duh.

Prom!

After last night's Black and White Ball (a.k.a. benefit for the museum a.k.a. Prom for Grownups), I really don't need another drink for the entire week weekend day, which isn't to say I won't have one... I like to stick with a "light vodka and soda." When I say "light," I mean it. I want a cup of club soda with a sip or two of vodka and a lime. My current lifestyle (glamorous writer and mother of three) doesn't allow for drunken sprees, but if I stick to the light vodka, I can have five or six drinks, the equivalent of one or two of anyone else's, and feel like I'm some kind of rock star. Without the hangover.

While writing my column for Free Times this week*, I was reminded of one of my favorite drinks of all time, the Vodka Gimlet. I started drinking it for it's style and kept drinking it because I rarely stop at just one. Question: How cool is it to casually say,

"I'll have a Vodka Gimlet, please."

Answer: Very cool. Almost as cool as ordering a Vodka Stinger, which is a much less versatile drink. By less versatile, I mean it's only appropriate as a nightcap, apéritif or any other time you're just having a single drink, because more than one of those just wouldn't be fun. And much cooler than ordering an Old Fashioned, a drink I flirted with in college before realizing it wasn't that stylish and it tasted nasty. And bartenders hate to make it, because it's kind of a pain.

You could make the gimlet with Rose's Lime Juice, like most bars, and it would be just fine. In fact, it goes down like Kool-Aid on a hot summer day. But if you want a much fancier and better version, try this.

Fancy Vodka Gimlet

In a bar shaker or tall glass, mix a healthy shot of vodka (an ounce and a quarter or more), an ounce of fresh-squeezed lime juice and a teaspoon of powdered sugar. Shake or stir rapidly with a sterling silver ice tea spoon that you got for your wedding and only use to stir drinks**. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a strip of lime zest if you have time. If you need to start slurping it down right away, skip the zest for your first one and add it to your second.

You should use fancy vodka, by the way, something nice and smooth. For a sweeter drink, try Stoli Ohranj or Vanil. I'll be happy to host a gimlet party if anyone wants to bring the vodka.

Namasté, y'all!


* I know you're excited, but you'll have to wait until May 28th to read it. Mwah!

** A sterling silver ice tea spoon that was given to you, in fact, by one of your awesome, fun aunts with the instructions, "You'll never use this for ice tea, but it's perfect for stirring drinks." She was right!

Wow.

A repair person came to my house yesterday and he wasn't crazy, judgmental or generally annoying. I was really afraid to call, because I've had bad experiences in the past. And, honestly, this time I thought it might be my fault. The internet disappeared after my housekeeper had been there and my toddler had been left alone with a sitter for several hours. The possibilities for accidental bumping (the housekeeper) and deliberate-not-visible-to-the-naked-eye destruction (toddler) were endless. But Barry (or was it Gary?) didn't make me feel judged. He made me feel like a competent human being with feelings...and a brain. Wow.

A day earlier, I called my internet service provider in a panic when I couldn't get online. Oh, how quickly we become addicted to these things... Somehow, I got stuck in an automated system that only understood voice commands. More accurately, it did not understand voice commands, but kept demanding them. I'm not inarticulate and I hadn't been drinking, so it shouldn't have been a problem. The voice command system, however, does not allow for the loud toddler who manages to yell "B'TRUCK!" at the precise moment when the system wants to hear a simple yes or no.

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Please answer. Yes. Or. No."

And she said it in this overly sympathetic voice, like she was pretending to feel my pain. That fake sympathy really cheapens the experience, if you ask me. But I would try, because even I know that "B'TRUCK!" is not the answer to any question regarding the internet. I hid in the closet while Baby J hurled himself at the door and steadily answered "blink. ing." to the following question,

"Please tell me. Is the ready light on your modem blinking. or. steady."

"Blink. ing."

"I'm sorry." I'm sure you are, you patronizing b*tch. "I didn't understand you. Please answer Yes. Or. No. Is the ready light on your modem blinking. or. steady."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Please tell me. Is the ready light on your modem blinking. or. steady."

Huh? We went on like that for a while, my "yes" responses alternating with "blink. ing.", my voice becoming more hesitant and strained with each round of questioning. I just didn't feel, you know, understood. I hate that they record those conversations, or so they claim, because I eventually ended up screaming something I can't repeat here. No wonder Baby J cusses so much.

I was rewarded, though. My outburst did get me to a human being, who was very nice, even though I was a quivering mess by the time I talked to her. They must be used to it. I bet they all hate that automated lady. I bet they talk about her in the break room.

As it happens, B'Gary had to go around the corner to check some box that has something to do with our phone and internet connection. I appreciated his non-technical explanation. I can't stand when someone tries to give me a long, advanced speech about how they fixed a problem. I trust the experts. I have no intention of messing things up more by trying to fix it myself, so I don't need a fancy explanation.

"There were like a thousand things plugged into this box. One of them was unplugged. To be fair, whoever did it probably thought, 'Oops! Where does that one go?' "

But B'Gary knew. And he made me feel better when even he had trouble getting through to a human in customer service. And did I mention he wasn't crazy, judgmental, generally annoying or patronizing? And he fixed the damn thing with no drama or over-explaining. It was refreshing.

Namasté, y'all!

Doh!

My mother emailed me this morning after reading about Southern Dish. I'm tickled (or terrified) that she reads my blog, but I guess she knew she was going to be in it, so that might have been a factor. Actually, she likes my blog, although she has suggested I clean up my language and my history. Hell, you can't please every damn person that reads your damn blog, can you*? Anyhow, this is what she had to say:

You forgot the paprika, and I do always add onion, Miss Super Fancy Pants. And I definitely don't have a breathy voice -- a growl, maybe. Hope your trip was not too long. Love, Mother

Oops! I did forget the paprika. So sprinkle some on top of Southern Dish before cooking. And my trip wasn't any longer than it had to be, but it was too long. Thank you for asking. For those of you who don't know, I'm working on my application for Mother of the Year, so I'll have another trophy to display next to the one for Meanest Mommy Ever. My oldest son's class left for their yearly trip yesterday morning, to an island two hours away. He had a recording session for his choir last night that he didn't want to miss, so I offered to drive him to the island after choir, at 8 pm. Two and half hours there and two and a half back. When I dropped him off, I didn't even get out of the car to go to the bathroom. I figured I'd be able to stay awake on the drive if I was also struggling to control my bladder. I'm no love-sick astronaut. It worked and I got home just before one in the morning. I'm exhausted and I can't stop eating these chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe's, but other than that I'm okay. Thank you for asking. And I'll take my new trophy any time now. I hope it's big and flashy**.

Oh, and, Mom? I said "breezy" not "breathy." And you did attempt a breezy tone. So there. And I'm sure you do always add onion. And is there a trophy for Miss Super Fancy Pants? I bet there is and I bet it is very sparkly! I think I need a bigger trophy case.

She sent me another email, just two minutes later.

And I use the low fat small curd cottage cheese, and I don't think I even put it into my mini-food processor last time. Only when I have chunky cottage cheese do I do that. I did mean cheddar (there are other kinds$) -- EXTRA sharp.

I probably blocked out the "low fat," because I like fat. For the record, Mom likes low fat stuff and her Southern Dish is excellent, so it must work. I'm glad to hear the food processor is unnecessary, because I love skipping steps! I think that dollar sign is a typo, but it might be a comment on the fact that Mom thinks I spend too much on food. But I love food! I agree with her suggestion of Extra Sharp cheese; that would definitely add something to Southern Dish.

Namasté, y'all!

* Although I refuse to clean up my language here - this blog is for grownups, dammit! - she might have a point. Baby J has started saying something that sounds suspiciously like "sh*t" every time he drops something. He must have picked it up from those harlots at the church nursery. Crap!

** That's what she said.

Do not read this while eating. Seriously. Maybe don't read it at all, you delicate flower!

I can't remember the exact moment I knew I needed to be more careful about reading food labels. It may very well have been the time I saw this on the label of some potato chips with fake fat:

"Warning: May cause anal leakage"

That's pretty serious. Cramping or bloating, I wouldn't enjoy, but they wouldn't destroy my social life. Anal leakage? Leakage? As in uncontrolled? That reminds me of the time I was pregnant with my first child and unfamiliar with the immediacy of pregnancy-induced vomiting. I worked in a hospital where, one morning after quickly downing a banana to treat pregnancy-induced constant starvation, I got onto an elevator. At the next floor, a hospital worker got on with a rolling rack of about thirty trays of hospital food. Hot, smelly hospital food. I thought to myself, with no particular urgency,

"Hmm...I might just have to vomit. Maybe pretty soon."

Before I had time to blink, I could feel the banana trying to escape the churning depths. The food trays just barely made it off the elevator before I spewed banana all over the elevator panel. In my defense, I had turned toward it and was about to start desperately mashing the "Door Closed" button so I could get to my floor faster. I haven't thrown up anywhere other than into a toilet since I was a child (sorry about that one time in the back of the cab when I was two, Mom!) I stumbled out of the elevator, thinking it was over, but the Hardee's biscuit that had been cushioning the banana wanted out too. I reeled down the hallway towards the bathroom, holding my hand over my mouth, as vomit seeped out around it. How gross is the word "seeped"? My stomach turned just writing it.

Anyhow, that was bad enough. But out the other end? With no warning? Just not worth it. In fact, the details don't really matter, because I don't want to eat any food that has the a-word anywhere on the package, in any context. And package is a key word, because the more I stay away from food in packages, the better I feel.

If I do eat a food that comes in a package (and we all do, sooner or later, unless we're super mommies, which you may have noticed, I am NOT), I at least make sure I recognize all the listed ingredients. Things found in nature are good. Things created in labs are not. They may cause anal leakage.

I think we've lost all common sense in terms of food. It's just not that complicated to eat healthy. When I was little, my parents didn't read about nutrition and obsessively count fat, protein and carbohydrate grams. They just fed us, you know, food. Maybe it had a little too much salt, maybe it was a bit overcooked (sorry, Mom, you know I love you!), but it sure didn't have plastic in it and it didn't cause anal leakage.

Speaking of recipes from my childhood, my easily-confused-by-those-wacky-Americans French mother-in-law recently referred to something as "Southern Dish." We thought she was talking about grits, until we saw it. The mysterious Southern Dish is just Squash Casserole. I hated Squash Casserole when I was a child and continued to hate it as a grownup, in spite of my mother's insistence, every damn time she served it, that she "made it different this time! You'll like it! I promise!" I did not like it, ever. Until recently. My mother finally discovered the secret, totally by accident.

Southern Dish

In a pot, boil as much sliced yellow squash as you want. 8-10 squash should be enough to fill a casserole dish. Add a chicken bouillon cube to the water and a tablespoon of chopped onion. Yes, I know those cubes come in a package. Just make sure you get the kind that doesn't have any weird stuff in it. I use a powder, made by Frontier. It has the advantage of being vegetarian, to suit my freaky vegetarian kids. I'm not sure if the chopped onion is strictly necessary. Mom only mentioned it after I told her this recipe was going on the blog. From her suddenly breezy tone of voice, I suspected she was just trying to sound fancy.

Drain the squash and dump it into a casserole dish. In a mini food processor or blender, process (or blend!) a cup of cottage cheese until it's completely smooth. This is the secret! Mom had to use it one time when she was out of sour cream, which is a typical ingredient of Southern Dish. For the first time ever, we all ate and liked the hated Squash Casserole, so it's been cottage cheese ever since. Beat an egg into the cottage cheese and add a little salt and pepper. Mix that into the squash (and onions, Miss Fancy Pants!) Mom sometimes adds grated carrot or bell pepper, for color. There are, in fact, health benefits of adding vegetables as color to your meals, so hooray for that.

To the top of your squash, egg, and cottage cheese mix, add the following:

1/2 cup bread crumbs (or cracker crumbs if you're out of bread).

1/2 cup grated cheese. Mom said to use "sharp." One may assume she means cheddar.

Dot the top with butter.

Cook it at 350° for about thirty minutes. Mom added, in her breezy voice again, that that's an estimate and "I'm pretty loose about these things!" I say cook it until it's a little brown on top, probably about thirty minutes. Southern Dish, incidentally, can be made with other vegetables, like green beans, overcooked asparagus, zucchini or (blech) canned peas.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Please read this amendment to Southern Dish.

These are much better than that poem that creep wrote for me when I was 16.

Mom is a Flower

Mom is flexible
as
petals

Warm
as
Anthers

Sometimes
Angry
as
Pollen

But I
still love
her
like
a
flower

by my oldest son O, age 9

I Bet You Love

I bet you love Rosemary
More than me!
Psyche!
You love me
More than anything.

I bet you love olives
More than me!
Psyche!
You love me
More than anything you've seen.

by The X-Man, age 7

Happy Mother's Day!

Dooce is a real celebrity.

And I know this is true, because I just watched the segment of The Today Show with her and found myself thinking,

"Hmmm...she's wearing a loose dress. Maybe she's pregnant!"

Which is not to say she looks pregnant, but this does further my theory that, once you've had one kid, if you leave the house in anything that isn't skin tight, someone will ask if you're pregnant. Fun times. Heather Armstrong, a.k.a. Dooce*, looked hot, as usual. And I loved her dress. She kills the stereotype of the blogger as a pasty hermit in sweatpants. And I'm as hot as she is. You'll have to trust me on that one, because I don't think the Today Show will be calling me any time soon.

Dooce and I, by the way, are practically best friends, because she and her husband once stayed at the house of some friends of ours for the wedding of some friends of theirs who I don't know but my husband knows one of. I realize that was a run-on sentence that might not have made sense, but I had to try to impress y'all with my celebrity connection. In case it wasn't obvious from the grammatically traumatic run-on sentence, I've never met Heather or her husband. But, if she is pregnant, I'm happy for her,even if I won't get invited to the shower. Am I the only one that has to stop herself from feeling happy for celebrities when they get good news? Like when Celine Dion finally got pregnant. Or J. Lo. It's so unsophisticated. Although there are many unsophisticated things about me, that might be the most embarrassing one.

Namasté, y'all!

* A.k.a. "Mother of Us All." I put that in a footnote because I don't think you should have more than one "a.k.a." in a paragraph. Plus, I think Dooce might hate being called "Mother of Us All." I think it was Nora Ephron who said Betty Friedan hated being called "Mother of Us All." What mother wouldn't? Whoever originally said that was not a mother. Can you imagine how much cleaning and bottom wiping and humiliation would be involved in being "Mother of Us All"? I shudder.

Sunday Man Pasta.

Every Sunday, my husband does a very nice thing*. While I go to Yoga, he hangs with the kids, cleans the kitchen and makes dinner. Yes, I am the luckiest woman alive. I think he'd admit, though, that there's an element of self-preservation in his actions. He knows I'll be a lot more fun to be around if I don't have to destroy the magic of Yoga by coming home to a messy kitchen and hungry kids. And he likes pasta, which I rarely cook, because I don't like it so much.

Not that I'm complaining, but he always cooks the same meal. I'm really not complaining, because the kids love it and I don't have to make it or clean it up. He found the recipe on the back of a box of spinach pasta. It was called "Lumberjack Pasta" and was more complicated than his version. I'm pretty sure an actual lumberjack wouldn't bother "straining the nuts." I have no idea what that's all about, but my husband seemed particularly proud of the fact that he skips that step, which was in the original instructions. What is a lumberjack anyway?

Sunday Man Pasta

Melt some butter in a pan and crush a couple cloves of garlic into it.

Put 1 1/2 cups walnuts on a pan and toast them. My husband didn't say 1 1/2 cups, he said, "about 3/4 of that nut chopper thing." He's referring to one of these:

In fact, he was referring to that very one, which is ours. And it's terrible, so please email me and tell me about your favorite nut chopper. Or just send me one to try.

Anyhow, he uses that one, so I filled it 3/4 full with water, which I then dumped into a measuring cup so I could give you, dear reader, a precise measurement for the nuts**. Sunday Man Pasta is usually made with walnuts, although any nuts you happen to have around will work. Pecans, almonds and cashews come to mind. My husband claims he sometimes likes to add pine nuts, but I think he was just saying that to sound fancy.

Once you've toasted your nuts, chop them in the chopper, preferably a better chopper than ours, which chops unevenly. Chop, chop, chop. Sorry, just wanted to make sure I had enough "chops" in this paragraph.

Remember your melted butter and garlic? Stir the nuts in with that. According to my husband,

"The nuts'll eat up that butter pretty quickly."

Okay. Cook a package of spinach noodles, whatever shape you prefer. Drain the noodles, return them to the pot and stir in the nut mixture. Add shredded Parmesan to taste. My husband, who is half French after all, recommends adding a spoonful of plain yogurt to make it "more saucy."

Attempts to add vegetables or (what was he thinking?) tuna were unsuccessful. Do not mess with Sunday Man Pasta. It is what it is, yo.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I don't think I've ever said "nuts" and "chop" so many times in one post.

* He does nice things on other days of the week, too, but I'm just telling about the Sunday thing today. Stay tuned if you want to hear more.

** That's what...never mind.

City kids.

"I know how to start a fire without using matches or a lighter," crowed the X-Man.

And I, his proud mother, thought that after one night of forced camping with his reluctant, Westin-loving father (and a whole group of similarly citified fathers and children) he would be excited to tell me about rubbing two sticks together and all that.

"Yeah, you just get a starter log and poke it with a stick."

"Wait," I had to ask, "Don't you have to use matches or a lighter to get the starter log started?"

"Nope. You just poke it with a stick!"

Some of us just aren't meant for camping. That's my boy!

Namasté, y'all!

The worst mother.

I knew something was up. When I went to the drop-in nursery to pick up Baby J, they were all smiling at me in that way that says,

"You are the worst mother, but we'll try to be sympathetic, because sure, it's hard. But, seriously? You are the worst one. And it's annoying."

I guess I am the worst one, because I was in possession of three pair of the "pants of shame." You know those pants, the ones they give kids to wear when they soil their own and didn't bring a spare pair from home. The pants aren't so shameful for the kids. In fact, at least one of my children used to pretend to wet his pants in kindergarten, because they had a pair he really liked to borrow. He would sneak and pour water on his pants and go to the teacher claiming to have wet himself. Brilliant, eh? Baby J's problem is not a lack of control; he's still in diapers. His problem is that his mother is too lazy to find a brand of disposable diapers that fits him.

In my defense, I use and have used cloth diapers for all of my children. The nursery requires disposable and I was overwhelmed by the choices. I called an expert, my friend who has four daughters, the oldest in kindergarten. That woman knows diapers. She wasn't home, but her equally knowledgeable husband told me what to get. I'm a lazy woman with no interest in the finer points of disposable diapers a creature of habit, so I keep getting the same ones. And they leak. So Baby J needs new pants, which I forget to pack in his bag, so they have to lend him a pair, which I forget to return, so they are now out of pants and mad at me.

Before I left, several people from the nursery made suggestions. I tried (and succeeded, more or less) to ignore the patronizing tone, especially because it was justified.

"When you get home today, put them in your car right away. Then they'll be there next time you come!"

This was offered with the kind of smile you give to someone who is mentally challenged, to show how proud you will be if they remember!

"You don't even have to wash them!"

Okay, that was crossing a line. Do I really seem like the kind of mother who doesn't do laundry for weeks at a time? As it would happen, I am that kind of mother, but only because laundry is one of the things my husband does willingly and well. I would do it if he didn't. I swear! For the record, the pants were clean and in the pile of clothes on top of the washing machine where we keep Baby J's clothes. I can't believe they hadn't noticed he'd been wearing two of the pants fairly regularly. Or maybe they had noticed and thought we were trying to steal them, which I guess we kind of were.

Apparently, Baby J had exhausted the entire stock of "pants of shame" and they needed them back. This is understandable, so I returned them the very next time. Well, not the very next time, but pretty close. First, the pants had to make the journey from the laundry room to the top of the piano, where they stayed for a few days. Then my husband, who hadn't a clue where the pants came from, put them back in the laundry room and I had to start the process all over. Within a week, they made it to the car and back to the nursery, clean. Pretty impressive, huh?

The day I brought Baby J and the pants to the nursery, I was so proud and the ladies were proud of me. I could tell from their big smiles and applause. Blushing at the praise, I left to enjoy my morning. When I came to pick him up, however, I got the sympathy smiles again, this time with a bit more of an edge. My offense? The baby needs a haircut. And the nursery is no military school. I think they're just grossed out that his hair gets caught in the congealing river coming from his nose. It grosses me out, too, but I'm hoping for a short allergy season and I can't bear to cut those sweet baby curls just yet.

I made an effort, though, to solve the problem. The next time I took him, I washed his hair first and used (sort of all natural, semi-organic Aveda) mousse to hold his hair off of his face. I explained what I had done and, while they weren't as enthusiastic as they had been about the pants, the ladies seemed satisfied. I remain, though, the mother that makes all the other ones feel better about themselves. Someone has to do it. You're welcome!

Namsté, y'all!