Big Yoga Weekend!

I had the great pleasure this weekend of spending two days doing Yoga. In Charlotte. Without kids. A friend and I shared a hotel room and spent most of Saturday and Sunday stretching, om-ing, expanding our unenlightened minds and indulging our total hippy sides. It was great, which I'll try to remember tomorrow morning, when I can't get out of bed.

Because Yoga is all about balance, we also had a scrumptious meal Saturday night, with plenty of wine and my first shot of Tequila, and we went to the mall today before coming back to Columbia. Even though I know Yoga attracts all kinds (like my own strange self), I'm still always surprised to see the number of fake bosoms at these workshops. I suppose they're no more distracting than the hot Yoga dude without the shirt. Or the Yoga dude in tight pants who likes to do back bends. Or the any-gendered Yogi who thinks deodorant is for nature haters. Or the person who can't carry a tune and insists on chanting louder than everyone else. But I digress. I was talking about bosoms.

Please understand. I'm not in any way criticizing owners of fake boobs. I know and love plenty of ladies who have them. I want fake boobs, even though I'm probably too chicken and cheap to get them. I agree with the guy who said,

"Hey, if I can see 'em and I can touch 'em, they're real."

Amen to that. But I just don't expect to see them in Yoga. I saw one set so large they must have challenged the balance of their owner. I saw another pair trying desperately to escape their meager sports bra container. I saw a few sets that led me to wonder,

"Did she or didn't she?"

I wish I knew a graceful way to ask that question, because if she did, I want to know who the artist doctor was. And how much they cost...and how long the recovery was... But you have to know someone pretty well to ask that question. In fact, if you know them that well, you probably already know the answer, because you brought them soup when they were recovering.

Yoga attracts all kinds, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Crazy people.
• People obsessed with their bodies.
• People who really like big boobs.
• People romantically involved with people who like really big boobs.
• People who do things for themselves, in a positive way, because they're in tune with their feelings.

Any of those people might also be people who would have boob jobs*. If I can ever figure out which one of those people I might be, I'll consider getting the boobs. I'll only get them if I become enlightened and realize I'm the in-tune-with-her-feelings sort. It will take a lot of meditating to find the answer. But, man, would I ever love some fancy boobs, the kind I could take anywhere and put into any sort of clothing without worrying where they might end up. The sort of boobs that didn't wander into my armpits or towards my belly button at the slightest provocation. The sort of boobs that wouldn't reach up and slap me in the chin if I went running without a bra**. Boobs 2.0.

By the way, if anyone ever sees me and wonders if I did or didn't, please ask. If I didn't, I'll be thrilled that they look good enough to be manufactured. If I did, I'll be happy to share. Not "share" as in let you touch them, but "share" as in tell you all about them. You'll wish you never asked. Eh. You could just wait to read about them on my blog.

Namasté, y'all!

* There's a lesson in here somewhere about sets and sub-sets, but you won't get it from me. Math teachers take note! Venn Diagrams could be involved. Venn diagrams of two sets look like fake boobs, so it would be a great visual reminder. I've always found Venn Diagrams very comforting. Maybe because I was breastfed. Yup, this is the stuff I think about.

** Not that I would go running without a bra. I'd be very protective of my fancy boobs.

Grass Cam. Free Times. Rock.

The X-Man got in the car after school a few months ago, choking back laughter, trying desperately to tell us about the funniest thing that ever happened. Apparently, when his class was on a field trip, the teacher did roll call. Each child, unsurprisingly, was expected to answer, "Here" or, for the fancier children, "Present." The X-Man's friend D, when his name was called, responded thusly,

"Rock."

First graders are easily entertained. I don't know if he meant rock as in Guns N' Roses* or rock as in something in a Japanese Rock Garden. I'm going with the first. Rock, y'all!



Another month has passed and Free Times has been gracious enough to print another article of mine. Here it is if you would like to read it. At the moment, I'm feeling pretty good about writing for Free Times because it got me invited to a Sangria tasting party tomorrow afternoon. Wheee!

As if all that rocking and writing wasn't enough to occupy my time, I made another video for the Grass Cam today. This is the grass right before a storm. There's some thunder and, of course, the woodpecker. It reminds me of that thing at the zoo in the bird house where they make it like a storm and all the birds make a lot of noise. I love that thing.


Grass Before a Storm.
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Namasté, y'all!

* What's up with the apostrophe after the N? If they mean "And," it should be 'N', I suppose. If they mean "In," which either makes no sense at all or is totally and completely filthy, it should be 'N. Discuss.

Book clubs are like museums.

I want to like them. I should like them. My parents paid a lot of money for my education, presumably so I could enjoy book clubs and museums. But I don't. Because they're boring. There, I said it. My mother-in-law was right: I'm simple. She, by the way, is in a book club.

It's not that I don't like to read, because I do. I even enjoy talking about a book I've read, if it comes up in conversation by chance. I can't deal with forced reading and study questions, though. I didn't love school, but I slogged through and finished, dammit. I have some nice pieces of paper to show for it, too. I even have a Masters Degree. Surprised? Don't be. Masters Degrees are the new high school. When you meet a new mom at the park, it only takes about ten minutes for her to mention her Masters. An un-used Ph.D. is wasteful. A Masters? Eh, not so much. I couldn't even cover the cost of all the new clothes I'd need with the salary that my Masters in Social Work would bring. And I'm not making fun of the moms who feel compelled to mention their graduate degrees at the park, apropos of nothing, because I've done it. I'm not sure why, probably to prove I'm at the park by choice, because I could be out earning a million bucks with my fancy degree. Huh. That is so embarrassing. As of right now, I resolve never to mention my degree again. Especially because I couldn't Social Work my way out of a paper bag.

There are risks to joining a book club. It's a lot of pressure. What if you have to read a book you hate? A lot of book clubs read Eat, Pray, Love. Hated it. I'll spare you my opinion of the first thirty pages, because that's as far as I got before I wanted to put my head through a wall. I settled for reading a passage or two out loud in a grating, whiny screech to my husband. He didn't like it, either*. Not only would you have to read it, you'd have to go discuss it, being careful not to offend anyone who loved it. Or you might be the person at book club that everyone secretly (or not so secretly) hates, because she shoots down everything. Or you might be the person I fear the most, the person of mediocre intelligence with no sense of humor who dominates the entire discussion. I had enough of that person in every English class I ever took. I might have been that person. Either way, I don't want to relive it.

And what about the study guides? Do book clubs actually use those? Scary. Almost every book marketed to women has them now, even those chick lit novels I love. They have questions like, "Do you think Amelia should have, like, broken up with the rich, hot guy and hooked up with the smart, but poor guy or should she, like, have rejected both of them? Why?" I solemnly swear that, if I ever write a novel and it gets published, there will be no study guide at the back. Well, unless I get paid a bunch of money and can't say no. But it would have to be a whole bag of money, like at least a thousand dollars. Or five hundred.

I feel more guilty about not liking museums. Maybe it's my ADD, but I just hate staring at stuff that doesn't move or do something. And museums are full of stuff I can't buy, so what's the point? I've been to the Louvre. I was far more interested in seeing if they had a café where I could stare at people than standing with the proletariat in front of the Mona Lisa. I like reading about artists. Their stories are usually chock full of drug abuse, sex and other interesting things. But staring at it? No thanks. Mona Lisa is just a person in a picture. I can't even remember what she's wearing.

Although I like to read so-called intelligent literature, I also have an affection for trash, the kind of books you buy on vacation when you can't go to the library, enjoy and never read again. The other day, I noticed about twenty such titles taking up space on my book case. Tonight, I'm hosting the Anti-Book Club. My party isn't anti-books, just book clubs. I've invited a bunch of ladies to come to my house, bring as many paper backs as they like and swap. These are the rules:

• Drinking, eating and yakking starts at 7 pm.
  
• Books will be dumped in a central location and book choosing will begin around 8 pm, or whenever I remember the point of the party.
• The books should be ones you've enjoyed but don't need to keep. Chick lit, mysteries, biographies of people you don't really care about, etc. No parenting manuals or religious study books, please. Cookbooks might actually be okay, especially if they include cocktail recipes.
• If you try to tell anyone about your book, you'll be kicked out. Immediately. And you won't be able to take your books with you, because we might like them.
• If you ask anyone about one of their books, you'll be kicked out. See above for procedure.
• The Book Swap is based on the honor system. Only take as many books as you brought.

If I forgot to include you as I was randomly emailing people, call me and let me know you're coming. I'd love to see you! But do not try to sell me on your book, m'kay?

Namasté, y'all!

* I wonder if any guy read that book. Not that they would admit it if they had.

Yeah! Still Got It! (In Honor of My Sister In Law's Thirty Eighth Birthday*)

This weekend was perfect. In order to secure our future reputation as cool parents, we took the big kids to their first concert. We left the baby with reluctantly willing doting grandparents who couldn't wait to stay up all night comforting him in between piecing together everything he had broken spend time with that adorable and perfectly behaved toddler. We loaded the big kids into the Prius and headed for Atlanta to see The National, Modest Mouse and...drumroll...wait for it...here it is...R.E.M.! We did this because, years from now, they'll be hanging out with college friends and having this conversation.

"What was your first concert?"

"Britney Spears." The other kids will laugh.

"The Wiggles." Boring!

"[Some Christian Band No One Has Ever Heard Of.]" Awkward silence or laughter, depending on who claims this one.

"Shania Twain." Eh. Then it'll be my kid's turn.

"Oh," he'll say with practiced savoir faire, "My parents took us to R.E.M. when I was 10 (or 7, if the X-Man is talking). Modest Mouse and the National opened."

Awe-filled silence will follow, broken finally by someone saying,

"Whoa. Your parents were so cool, man!"

Yeah, we are. And it was an absolute blast, by the way. The kids went nuts. The crowd seemed to be full of genuinely nice people, like the guy next to O. with all the tattoos who talked to him like they were both veterans of the music scene. Or the man on the other side who moved a few feet away every time he wanted to smoke. Or the people behind us who yelled, "Yeah! Those kids are out of control!" when security asked them not to sit on the backs of their seats. They yelled it in a way that made the kids feel like the biggest rock star rebels in the ampitheatre. It was so cool. And Michael Stipe seems like a damn good egg. He talked about music and politics just enough and it seemed like he really liked the audience. Refreshing, isn't it? I guess that's what it's like when you're so awesome you have nothing to prove. And I think it's fair to say that Michael Stipe is there and then some.

The next day, my sister in law V and I managed to talk our husbands into taking the kids back in one car, so we could stay in Atlanta to explore everyone's favorite Scandinavian shopping Mecca, Ikea. It was as cool as I remembered, but that's neither here nor there. We left an hour or so after lunch. After driving around downtown Atlanta for forty-five minutes trying to find the highway, V really had to go to the can. I'm always up for going to the can, so we stopped at a gas station about an hour outside of Atlanta.

There were some warning signs in the parking lot. A creepy looking couple (perhaps a pimp and one of his employees!) waiting in a car, for no apparent reason. A truck or two, and signs advertising "Showers," but not "Clean Showers." While V was in the bathroom, I went in search of my favorite road trip chips, Jalapeño Cheddar by Cape Cod, and a bottle of water. As she exited, she informed me, under her breath,

"There's a paper towel on the floor by the toilet. It is Not. Mine."

She shuddered as she said it. I'll spare you a description of what was on the towel.

I do so hate one-uppy sort of people, but the paper towel was nothing compared to what I endured while she luxuriated in the flickering fluorescent light of the filthy toilet. As I was looking for my chips, a man in sweat pants approached me. He wasn't particularly sleazy looking, nor was he particularly attractive. He extended his card.

"I'm a bouncer at [Insert Not-So-Vaguely Suggestive Name of Club Here, Such as "Booty Shakers" or Perhaps "House of Totally Nude"] If you want to come by with any of your lady friends, I could hook you up."

I was torn. At my age, it's oddly flattering to have someone even hint at the possibility of me becoming a stripper...or something. Less flattering when the offer is being extended at a truck stop by someone in sweat pants, but still. Then there was the fear thing. I didn't relish the idea of being abducted and forced to shake it (or worse) in the back room of a truck stop in a small town. And I don't think the nicer gentlemen's clubs are hiring pallid ladies with saggy bits and c-section scars. I do apologize for that visual, by the way.

"Thank you so much," I said with a friendly smile, because I hate to be rude, "But we're from out of town!"

I didn't take the card. The exchange was oddly unscary, so maybe he was just a nice guy who wanted to buy us a couple of Amaretto Sours while we watched the dancers. I'll never know. I made my way into the bathroom and there were several things that made me suddenly not need to go all that bad. We left quickly. I made V. pay for my chips so we wouldn't have to go to the cashier twice. And I wanted to save two dollars. How cheap is that?

I also wanted to leave as quickly as possible so I could tell V. about our job offer. She wasn't interested, either. She did point out a coincidence I completely missed. Right before we pulled into the gas station, we had been talking about a conversation I had the other day with the X-Man.

"Mom, do you know what 'pimp' means?"

"Yes. Do you?" I'm not embarrassed by this stuff yet. I suspect our conversations will feel more awkward a few years from now.

"I think I do. It means 'colorful.' That's what O. told me."

I explained that, while some people may use it that way, originally the word referred to a man who sells women. I saw no need to get more specific, as slavery is clearly wrong in the eyes of a seven year old. I explained that pimps used to be known for wearing colorful, flashy clothes, which is why people use the word "pimp" to mean colorful. I told him it wasn't even accurate, because pimps often wear sweatpants and stained t-shirts and hang out at filthy truck stops. I didn't really tell him that last part. I also didn't tell him that it's wrong to stereotype people, even pimps, some of whom might dress very tastefully. I thought that might confuse the issue. In conclusion,

"I don't think we should use that word, even if we just mean 'colorful,' because the original meaning is hurtful."

He agreed. That was easy. I'll save my lecture on using nouns as adjectives or verbs for another day. That's just too scary for a little kid to handle.

Namasté, y'all!

* Hmmm...hope she isn't one of those people who likes to keep her age a mystery. If she is, I may edit that later!

Business Pajamas.

In preparation for the weekend, my husband dresses more and more like a slob. Today, he's sporting the ultimate in sloppy business attire, what I like to call "Business Pajamas," otherwise known as the Seersucker Suit. He used to rock it with an edge. He'd wear black Doc Marten's and a fairly severe tie. It looked cool, for pajamas. Those days are over. Today he rocked every Southern gentleman's favorite summer suit with a pink shirt, a monkey tie and...shudder...white bucks. I really was okay until I saw the white bucks. Why? Why? This is not the man I married. Also, his previous, hipper Business Pajamas had flat-front pants. These have pleats. Ew. Marriage is hard and I'm at a loss on this one. What do I do? I think I'm going to have to let this one go, because he's digging his white buck-clad heels in. Oh, well. I suppose I should just be happy it wasn't a bow tie.

He met us for lunch at the Happy Café, which is when I was inspired to send this text via Twitter:

My husband is rockin' his business pajamas with a monkey tie. Stand back, ladies. He's all mine!

I was being sarcastic. Did you get it? Did you? You probably did. He, however, is blind to any criticism of his new look. His response?

Too late. My seersucker a** is burning for all the ladies checking it out.

I sincerely hope he was being sarcastic, because if he thinks that is true, I feel sad for him. If you see him, tell him he looks hot. Try not to use the same voice you use when you pretend to believe a three year old in a Super Man costume is the real Super Man.

In other news, terrible mother that I am, I made the X-Man stand in the grass for the Grass Cam to demonstrate...I don't know what. But his feet are cute and the grass is still lovely. And never fear, the woodpecker can be heard. Wheee!



Namasté, y'all!

Even my baby is sarcastic. No idea where he got that.

Ahhh...summer. We spent yesterday afternoon at the pool with friends until the kids were all cracked out from sugary snacks and had rumbly tummies from drinking chlorinated water. Then we debated whether or not we needed pants to go to Casa Linda, decided shirts and shoes were enough and headed straight there. Although Casa Linda is our favorite, I'm fully aware of the fact that we are probably not theirs. But they're nice to us anyway. We sat at a nice big table; I could sense the dread in everyone around us. Frankly, if I was enjoying a meal out and found myself suddenly confronted with a table of eight adults and far too many kids, all in bathing suits, I would probably ask for a to-go box. But I digress.

I was very happy and proud to give our waiter my entire family's order at once, which makes it easier to keep the bill separate. Dinner out with children isn't like a civilized dinner with like-minded adults who can just split the bill down the middle at the end. There are too many variables to do that: number of children (we had the most), age of children (the older ones eat more), behavior of children (the naughty kids' parents drink more), level of bribery to children (some of them get dessert for good behavior).

Without thinking, I ordered a quesadilla for Baby J. What's not to like? It's cheese. It's a tortilla. It's fried. And this is where one of my obnoxious parenting thoughts comes back to bite me in the a**. I've been known to wonder (sometimes aloud to my husband and a select few others) why kids can't order Mexican in a Mexican place, Mediterranean in a Mediterranean place, Japanese in a Japanese place...you get the picture. Every culture seems to have some sort of plain dish involving beans, rice and/or chicken. Must we always feed them chicken nuggets? Must we? Insert superior sigh and mild eye rolling here.

Across the table from Baby J, his friend N. had been granted chicken nuggets. Although Baby J has eaten and enjoyed the dang quesadillah in the past, he loves him some chicken nuggets. And (yeah, I know I'm getting defensive here), it's not like he eats them all the time! His big brothers are vegetarians, so he doesn't see them eating chicken nuggets. But it was love at first bite for Baby J. All we have to do is say "chicken" and his little face lights up as he chants,

"Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN!"

One look at N's plate of nuggety goodness and Baby J is all,

"MY CHICHEN! MY CHICHEN!"

Who am I to argue? Lucky for me, N's parents understand the occasional necessity of appeasing a toddler, at any cost, in public. Their son also happens to be an agreeable sort of kid and happily shared his bounty with Baby J. Maybe N. just sympathized with the overwhelming desire for chicken nuggets. Anyhow, my baby proceeded to eat most of his lucky friend's food. As these things go, N. didn't seem particularly enamored of his own food anyway, so it wasn't a huge drama. Thank goodness.

When he was almost finished, Baby J calmly picked up his previously untouched quesadilla, balled it up in his fist and dropped it onto my plate, raising his little eyebrows with disdain.

"Thanks, Mom."

It was subtle, but I could hear the dripping sarcasm. He's not even two yet. How wrong is it that I felt kind of proud?

Namasté, y'all!

Wacky Deviled Eggs

In general, I don't think food should be wacky. I have no use for purple ketchup, obscure vinegars or smiley shaped fries. But I was bored yesterday and also craving deviled eggs. I really love deviled eggs. I love them so much that I need everyone to love them. I went to college in Canada, where they eat many weird foods, such as poutine and hot chicken sandwich with peas. They do not enjoy many normal foods, such as grits, boiled peanuts and deviled eggs. I think I did a very good thing by introducing those foods to my friends from the North, although I suspect they have no recollection (those were some wild years...) One time, in the middle of the night, I learned that one of my sheltered Canadian friends had never heard of a deviled egg, much less eaten one. Dutifully, I went to the kitchen and made them. Incidentally, the deviled egg is probably an excellent finish to a night of over-indulgence in alcohol. The extra fat and protein might prevent a nasty hangover.

The basic deviled egg is easy to make. You probably have the ingredients in your fridge right now. For the truly ignorant (and Canadians), here are the rules.

• Hard-boil a bunch of eggs. My favorite method is to cover the eggs in a pot in water, about an inch over the top of the eggs. Put the pot on the stove and heat it until the water is boiling. Don't watch it, because it won't boil. Seriously. When the water is at a rolling boil, turn off the heat, cover the pot and let the eggs sit for 15 minutes, just enough time to ask the baby if he would like you to pay his big brothers to play with him. You should have a few minutes left to negotiate price with the big brothers. If you don't have any money, cry a little and give them a speech about it being Father's Day and how all Daddy wants is some deviled eggs (Lie #1) and you can't make them unless they help with the baby (Lie #2). Make them play outside so they can't see you looking at cool shoes on the internet while the watched pot boils. By the way, I hope you remembered to get organic, cage free eggs from Wil-Moore Farms at the All-Local Market Saturday. Aren't they pretty?

• Drain the water and shock the eggs with ice. Let them cool.
• Peel the eggs and slice them in half, long ways. Dump the yolks in one bowl and arrange the empty, boat-like whites on a platter. Advanced deviled egg makers (or posers) will want a platter made specifically for the serving of deviled eggs. I have a nice white one from the Gourmet Shop. Do not get confused and buy an oyster platter, although you should have one of those, too, because you never know when you might need it.
• To the bowl of cooked yolks, add a big blob of mayonnaise, preferably Duke's and definitely not Miracle Whip. A heaping half cup should do for about a dozen egg yolks. Add enough mustard to make you happy, maybe a tablespoon or two. Sprinkle in some salt and white pepper and mix everything together until it's smooth. You can use a hand blender, but I find a fork does the trick for a small batch.
  
• If you are very fancy, put the mixture in a plastic bag and squirt it, cake decorator style, into the egg boats. I just chuck it in there with a spoon. I use my fingers to get the extra off of the spoon. Sometimes I even lick them (my fingers, not the spoon, which shouldn't be licked until the end.) Are you grossed out?
• Purists should sprinkle the tops of the finished eggs with Paprika. If you want to get wacky, try dill or celery salt.

Yesterday, I made some regular deviled eggs. Then I decided to experiment, since I had sent the big kids to their room for not watching the baby enough. The baby was occupied with a baby appropriate movie, AAP be damned*. The ingredients for Experimental Round #1 are as follows:

• A dozen egg yolks.
• 6 tablespoons sour cream.
• 3 tablespoons mayonnaise.
• 1/3 cup sliced black olives.
• A small blob of anchovy paste.
• Garnish with fresh chives.

To be honest, I didn't love these, even though they looked cool. Something about the olives wasn't quite right. I asked my husband if he liked them and, after a second of thought, he said he did. I asked him if he would eat another one if he had them at a party. After more thought and a moment alone, he said he would eat another one. Take that for what it's worth.

Experimental Round #2 was my favorite (and his). I added ajvar, a Serbian relish made of red bell peppers and eggplant. Stick around and I'll try to make it eventually. This time, I used some from a jar. This is what I added to the yolks:

• Equal parts mayonnaise and ajvar, about 6 tablespoons each for a dozen yolks.
• Salt to taste.

Simple and good. I garnished them with parsley, mostly because it made me feel cool to use something I actually grew.

And here are some serving suggestions, for those of you unfamiliar with deviled eggs. Perhaps you would like to serve the deviled eggs during a long night of drinking grape brandy with Serbs. They will need the eggs to cushion the alcohol. Well, they might not, but you will, if you want to try to keep up.



Maybe you would like to spend the late afternoon and early evening trading stories with a French person, in which case you might like to serve the eggs with pastis. Although the photograph below features Pernod, I should mention that my husband and I much prefer Ricard, because Pernod tastes kind of soapy.



Perhaps you are planning a romantic evening. Deviled eggs are perfect for any occasion. They have the added bonus of being high in protein, if you need energy for any sort of acrobatics. Ahem. Taking a cue from the food photographers of the seventies, I've included a lit candle and a bottle of cheap bubbly in the picture. Nothing says "romance" like a lit candle and some cheap bubbly. This one is a cava, and actually quite good. I should know, I've certainly had a lot of it.



For those of you who are into close-ups of food, and I know you're out there, here are the three different types of eggs. From left to right, you can see traditional, ajvar infused and anchovy and olive deviled eggs.



And that is what I did yesterday, so the kids would think I was too busy to play Apples to Apples or Monopoly.

Namasté, y'all!

* For the record, I think it's awesome that the AAP had the huevos to issue a statement just saying no television for babies under two. Obviously, I agree, since we don't even own an actual television. But it's summer, I have three children and no nanny and I needed wanted to make the damn eggs without a baby on my leg. "Nemo" is my friend, okay?

All-local Farmers' Market Today!

It's the All-Local Farmers' Market! Today! At Gervais and Vine! I'll be Twittering what I find. Hope to see you there!

(And can you please stop shouting, because I stayed up too late and had maybe one too many glasses of adult beverage. Which is another great reason to go to the All-Local Market. The breakfast. Local eggs, local grits, local bacon...and loads of hot coffee. Where else in town can you get that?)

Hope to see you there today, 8 am to noon.


Flowers from Floral and Hardy Farms in Lexington, SC
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Namasté, y'all!

What is it with me and dudes who fix the internet?

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

What is it with me and internet repair guys? Why do they all say this to me? Don't they know how that makes me feel? Like I'm about to get dumped, that's how. In this case, by some guy I'm not even seeing. Just how can you get dumped by someone you've only just met?

"It's about your husband..."

Well, that certainly took it up a notch. I considered the possibilities and there were only two:

1. The guy was a sexist jerk who assumed my husband had tried to fix it himself and screwed it up worse. In fact, I am far more likely to attempt such a thing, although in this case I had not. But I've been known. And it works about 50% of the time.
2. My husband had done something to offend him that was so awful I would be compelled to leave him...and run away with the internet guy, who wasn't really my type.

I suppose it was the second, although there was no invitation to run away together. Guess I wasn't his type either. My husband's unforgivable sin was neglecting to save his card and call him when the internet broke again. It had broken a week or so before and the same guy came to fix it*. Apparently, when our evil empire ISP gets another repair request within two weeks of the first, the initial repair person gets a "bad report." I guess this is like the opposite of a gold star. Maybe they put a little frownie face sticker in his file. It sounds like a horrible way to evaluate employees. The second problem had nothing to do with the first one. The most recent was caused by lightening busting up our surge protector or some such nonsense. As far as I can understand, the surge protector died in the line of duty. The computer was saved. Hooray! But I digress.

The guy was very upset with my husband for not saving his card and calling him. But we didn't know the rule of the evil empire! Frankly, I don't think it's my problem. I would change phone companies, but I've only heard of one other company. And only one person I know uses them and she's crazy, the sort of person who, whatever she does, you should do the opposite. I don't think the guy should have bothered me about it. I think he needs to take it up with Toby, or whoever the HR person is at his office.

I told him what he wanted to hear so he would go away. I promised to save his card and made a big show of putting it somewhere safe. He went on and on about how my husband should have called him. It was late and I just wanted him to leave so I could pour myself a glass of wine, which felt awkward with him standing there, even though it was already seven in the evening. I thought adding alcohol to the mix might send the wrong message.

When he finally left, I relaxed by watching this video of my grass, over and over again, with a nice bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. The video was so relaxing I didn't even finish the bottle. Please enjoy the following thirty seconds of freshly mown grass in the morning. Don't miss the soothing sound of the Woodpecker about halfway into the clip. I freakin' love that guy!


Thirty Seconds of Freshly Mown Lawn in the Morning
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Namasté, y'all!

* Incidentally, this was not B'Gary, who remains my favorite internet dude of all time. This second guy had potential, too. The first time he fixed the internet, he was charming in his lack of desire to explain how the magical internets work.

Seriously?

In South Carolina last week, seven people were arrested after cheering for friends or family members at high school graduations. Arrested, like by the police. And you know who wasn't arrested? This lady, an Aiken County Magistrate whose granddaughter accidentally shot herself in the chest when she pulled her grandmother's handgun out of her purse in Sam's Club. She wasn't arrested because she had a license to carry the gun. Although she must have taken some sort of required safety class, I guess they didn't mention the rule about not letting a four year old hold your purse with the gun in it while you peruse industrial sized jars of pickles. So...where I live...it's okay to let a four year old play with a gun, but if said four year old makes it to high school graduation in spite of your pathetic lack of supervision and judgment, you can't even clap.

Parenting is so hard now. The rules just aren't clear. In the seventies, things were different. These are some neat things Seventies Mom could do with little to no guilt:

• Ignore the kids at the pool while she talked to her friends. I wasn't allowed within ten feet of my mom if her friends were around. My mother didn't give a rat's a** about my self esteem and I turned out fine. Right? I mean, don't you think I turned out fine? I just want you to like me. Do you? Are you mad at me? I have a tummy ache.
  
  
• Feed the kids non-organic food. There weren't as many scary foods back then, so organic was just extra credit.


• Breastfeed. Or not, without discussing it with anyone.


• Tan, on purpose.
  


• Drop the kids off at Bible School all over town, not volunteering to help with a single one.


• Smoke. In fact, smoking was essential, because if some kid got stung by a bee at the pool, all the moms would reach for their cigarette packs, so someone could cover the sting in wet tobacco. I guess the nicotine numbed it. So what if it did go right into the kid's bloodstream?


• Lie to the kids. "We can't go to the pool today. It closed early because someone went to the bathroom in it yesterday. You don't know who that was, do you?"


• Hang out at the pool all day without accomplishing anything.


• Let the kids hang out at the pool all day, neglecting to sign them up for a single educational camp. In fact, those camps weren't essential to a mother's sanity like they are now, because Seventies Mom could just...


• Drop the kids off at the pool as soon as it opened and leave them there for hours, marginally supervised by teen-aged life guards and other parents.
  


• Cram all the kids that got left at the pool when it closed into the car, seat belts be damned, and drive them home without even asking their parents. Seventies Mom couldn't get permission, because she didn't have a cell phone.


• Wear whatever kind of bathing suit she liked without getting a boob job, tummy tuck or bikini wax. To be honest, having spent my childhood eye level with the result of Seventies Mom's lack of attention to waxing, I'm kind of in favor of the bikini wax.


• Drink during the day, as long as it was in a cup.


• Have her friends in for Bridge Club, where everyone was allowed to smoke, drink and cuss in the house because the children weren't allowed downstairs.
  


• Cheer wildly at graduation, because it was one step closer to an empty nest.

I'll admit to indulging in some of the above, but not without a certain amount of guilt. At least I can still carry a loaded gun in my purse...

Namasté, y'all!

ACDC moves me to say inappropriate stuff.

Especially when I've had a drink or two, as I had last night at the party at our tennis club. I wasn't the only one, or even the most offensive.

Brian Johnson (singing): She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean...

Fun Lady: Hi!

Me: ACDC always reminds me of the time when I was a teenager and I [insert mildly illegal act here. Pretty much everyone you know has done it. And it's not as bad as some of the stuff our current president has done. So there.]

Other Lady: [walks off in a huff.]

Fun Lady: You can't say stuff like that around her! But you can around me! Whooo!

Brian Johnson (still singing): You shook me aaaaaaall niiiight looo-ooong!

For a moment, I felt some major, chest constricting anxiety. You know that sinking feeling you get when you think you've done or said something really, really wrong? Or maybe you don't know that feeling, but I know it well (Surprised?). But then I remembered how old I was. And it's not like I asked her when the baby was due.

I don't get people like Other Lady. Is she afraid that hearing about something some random lady she doesn't even know did twenty (or so) years ago will make her go out and do it? If that's the case, she must have been drunker than I was. I find adultery totally offensive, but you better believe if someone at a party was all,

"I cheated on my husband with this guy at the gym!"

I'd be all,

"Wow! Was he cute? Where'd y'all do it? You can tell me. I won't tell a soul."

And I'd remember all the details, so I could tell my husband about that trashy lady at the party who told me all about her filthy affair. I certainly wouldn't walk off in a huff, missing all the dirt. What do she and her husband talk about in the car on the way home?

I suspect Other Lady also voted for our current President, George W. Bush*. He's admitted to doing worse than what I did. He had to, because there were public records. Maybe she could live with that because she didn't hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Or maybe I reminded her of her ex-girlfriend from her wild days in college...

By the way, I do have standards. I no longer [insert mildly illegal act here. Pretty much everyone you know has done it. And a lot of people you know still do.], because I have children and I'm no longer willing to accept the mildest of consequences. And I won't print the name of the mildly illegal act here, because I don't want my children to have proof that I did it. I used to be in favor of making the darn thing legal, until I married and had babies with a criminal defense attorney. If it was legal, we might not be able to pay our mortgage or even dream of sending our kids to college. Maybe you think I'm morally reprehensible for having such a double standard. Hey, if the President can, so can I.

And by the way, earlier in the day by the pool, Fun Lady gave me a koozie** with her business name on it in lieu of a business card. I think she might be my Best SPF (Summer Pool Friend). Whooo!

Namasté, y'all!

* This is one of my many faults, by the way. I suspect that anyone who seems uptight, boring or in any way unpleasant must have voted for him. There must be some explanation.

** I believe that's a "hugger" or "huggah" to those of you living north of the Mason-Dixon.

Sprinklers are awesome!

Please enjoy the soft sounds of the sprinkler intermingling with the peaceful sounds of the Woodpecker. That's what she said.

Namasté, y'all!

Ooh! Controversy!

"Penis! Penis! Penis! Penis!"

That's what the random three year old at the pool was yelling when Baby J escaped mid-diaper change and streaked across the deck.

"That's a funny penis! Penis! Penis! Penis!"

And I cracked up laughing. I have no desire to make my kid feel embarrassed, but he's not even two and, frankly, it was hysterical. The pool was pretty quiet right at that moment (Why is there always a lull in conversation right before your child says something embarrassing? Why?) I noticed that no parent claimed the heckler. I, too, have turned my head and pretended not to know my child in public. No harm in it, as long as you take them with you when you leave.

Sounds like someone's mommy and daddy made sure he knew the anatomically correct term for his junk, but neglected to inform him that current circumcision rates in this country are at about fifty percent. What that means is about half of the little boys look like elephants and half look like mushrooms. Neither elephants nor mushrooms are particularly humorous in general, but I suppose they can be in certain situations.

Circumcision rates among my friends' sons are about the same as the national average, but I really don't know for sure. The reason I don't know is because I hold this very controversial opinion: The elephant or mushroom decision is personal and the most important thing is that both parents are at peace with the choice. There are so many more hard parenting moments ahead. If a couple can't resolve this one, they're in for a long and difficult road. Frankly, so is their child. Given that the rates are about fifty percent, no child is going to spend much time worrying that he might look funny, unless his parents suggest he should. Confidence is everything.

My husband and I made our choice and stuck with it. I've never made any judgments* about other parents' choices on the circumcision front. Well, except for one time. And I was provoked. At the time, I was a volunteer breastfeeding adviser and I was invited to speak at a childbirth class about breastfeeding newborns and any potential problems that might arise. As luck would have it, they were covering circumcision the same evening. Fun times.

There was one guy (there's always one, isn't there?) looking for a fight. The teacher presented both sides as diplomatically as possible. Several students expressed strong opinions, as un-diplomatically as possible (as parents-to-be tend to do). This guy wanted to talk about everyone's penis. He was obsessed. It wasn't enough for him to control the fate of his own child's foreskin. He wanted everyone on his kid's team. He wanted to be the coach. He kept polling the class, many of them still shell-shocked from the video**. He turned to me. I felt scared. I hadn't opened my mouth or even made eye contact with anyone during his tirade.

"YOU HAVE TWO SONS! DID YOU CIRCUMCISE 'EM!?"

Well, no. I'm neither a mohel nor a doctor. Oh wait, he wanted to know if my sons were elephants or mushrooms. Stunned, I answered the question. Then he wanted to know about my husband. It was so seriously creepy.

When he learned that my husband and my children didn't match, he freaked. He accused me of ruining my husband's life. Interestingly, he assumed the decision had been all mine. He wondered aloud (very loudly) if my husband cared that our sons would be freaks and how he felt, knowing his children looked different from him. That's when I got mad.

"Well," I said with a dirty little smirk, "Thing is, my husband doesn't need any reassurance in that department. He's got plenty reason to be confident about his p-"

I think I even managed to manufacture a little blush, but I didn't get to finish my sentence, because the guy left in a teeny bit of a huff. And I was left feeling violated, but oh well...

Namasté, y'all!

* At least, not out loud.

** It was the breastfeeding video that freaked them out, by the way. The circumcision one was tame in comparison. There was a lady in the breastfeeding video that had the most freakishly long nipples I've ever seen in my entire life. They were disturbing. And I don't get disturbed very easily.

Overgrown Grass on Monday June 2, 2008

Grass on Monday June 2, 2008
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Is it really wrong of me to wonder why the lawn dude hasn't been by to mow our grass? I mean, I know, over the years, we've proved to be 100% useless in the yard, but we weren't getting paid for it. Technically, he doesn't get paid for it if he doesn't do it because he bills us after it's done, but I'm so worried about the grass! It's such a mystery to me. If it grows too long, could it become suicidal and choke itself to death?

This is just one of the things I worry about at night, when I can't sleep. One of the other things I worry about is something Charlotte said in the Sex and the City Movie. I'm paraphrasing, but when she was asked if she was happy all the time in her marriage, she answered,

"We're happy every day. Maybe not all day, every day, but every day."

Yet a third thing that worries me is that I took a line from that movie so seriously that it makes me lie awake at night, pondering the health of my marriage. I think my husband is mad at me every day. Maybe not all day, every day, but every day.

Speaking of the third thing, my cool friend and neighbor Colleen sent me an email a while back with some excellent news. She found the elusive "Third Thing" skit from Saturday Night Live with Justin Timberlake. One of the funniest skits of all time, if you ask me. Check it out. I dare you not to die laughing when JT says the line about the "third thing." Thank you, Colleen!

Namasté, y'all!