In which the boy almost got the long board.

"So, X-Man, what's the best part of your summer so far?"

"Can it be something that hasn't happened yet?"

"Sure."

"Pottery Camp!"

He was so excited about it. He started taking orders from friends and family weeks in advance, planning all sorts of projects. My children have confidence that I never had. It makes me feel like I might have done something right. He started camp Monday.

Oddly, he didn't have much to say about it that night. Usually, he has something to say about everything. He follows me around the house telling me about his day, his favorite book, his Lego project, whatever. The next morning, he told me in a tiny voice that he didn't want to go back to Pottery Camp. When I asked him why, the dam broke and he wept.

"I can't do the wheel. Everybody else could. I'm awful!"

Seven year olds are big boys, or so they think. He tried to control himself, but he was too sad. My heart broke. I explained the obvious, that other beginners were probably having trouble, too, and he would be able to do it soon. He sobbed.

"Everyone could do it...even L...he's a beginner and he's younger than me!"

My sweet seven year old, who almost never sits in my lap any more, curled up in my lap. The top of his head still smells like the toddler he just was. After a while, he trudged upstairs to talk to his older brother.

"Well, you think I'm really stupid," I heard him say.

He and his brother talked while I sat at the top of the stairs in my pajamas and tried to listen. I couldn't hear much, but I did hear this.

"I used to suck at Level 2, but I got better."

I figured this wasn't the time to explain that we don't say "suck" and that video games are not worthy of that much effort, because O. was too busy talking his brother off the ledge. It was working and I didn't want to interrupt. Also, I get kind of emotional when I hear my kids being that sweet to each other, when I haven't even threatened them.

He sounded like he was doing better, so I abandoned my hiding place and went upstairs, so grateful to his big brother, who doesn't really think the X-Man is stupid after all. He looked so tiny, lying face down on the sofa in the Kids' Lounge. I could see my older son, years from now, as a father, trying to comfort his own son. I told the X-Man I thought he should give it another shot and, if it didn't work, he didn't have to go back.

"Well..." he sighed, "The worst part is I ruined my shoes!"

No big deal, I promise, I can wash them.

"Well, I can't even find them!"

Well, a ruined pair of shoes we can't find isn't really ruined, it's just lost. And I happen to know he left them at his cousins' house. And that I can wash them. And that they're a pair of ridiculously worn flip-flops, so the fact that they're lost, ruined or both is no big deal.

It's funny how one disappointment can turn into a dark cloud that makes everything worse. How many times have I done that? I finish an assignment a day late, so I'm a loser. Which means I'm also ugly, have no friends and can't cook. I don't get invited to a party, so no one likes me, I'm still ugly and I'll never accomplish anything. And my ankles are really, really fat. Huh.

I know you won't be surprised to hear it all worked out in the end. He went, promising to try for one more day. My sister in law picked him up and sent me this text:

"X-Man is very happy. He made 4 pots on the wheel. He says he didn't realize it would be so hard, but now he can do it."

You probably also won't be surprised to hear that I got a little bit weepy over that text and forwarded it to my husband, who was also relieved. I just want my children to be happy. And it destroys my soul when they're that sad about something. It's almost more than I can take. I totally get why parents spoil their children. They want them to be happy and they don't know how else to do it.

I came closer than I'd like to admit to buying the long board while he was at pottery camp, so he could have it when he got home. The long board would make him forget all about his inability to do pottery, right? And he would be happy. Until he had trouble riding the long board and abandoned it for something else, which he might also have trouble doing. And on it would go... I didn't buy it, of course. Even if he hadn't enjoyed the second day of Pottery Camp, I wouldn't have bought it. Happy things don't cancel sad things. At best, they might work as a distraction. I did the right thing...and I saved a hundred and nine bucks! Hooray!

But I think I am going to let him buy it this weekend, with his own money. My sister in law talked me into it, because she said you can't do tricks on them and it's very hard to fall off. And I can't stand for my kids to be sad or get hurt. Bet he'll manage one or twice though.

Namasté, y'all!

And he's the smart one.

Conversation between me and the X-Man.

"Mom, I need ten dollars. No, nine."

"Why?" I knew why, because he's been talking about it for days.

"Because I have a hundred dollars and a long board is a hundred and nine dollars."

"What about tax?"

"I have that in my wallet."

"Do you know what tax is?"

"No, but I think it's something good and I'm broke in my wallet."

Not sure where he got that idea, considering we don't even get tax returns.We just have to pay and pay...and pay. I always remind my husband that we should be happy to pay taxes, because it means he made more money. But I still hate to pay them. But I digress.

"I don't know about letting you spend that much money on something. Maybe it should be a Christmas present," I babbled.

He gave me a puppy dog look. Argh! This was getting tough. That kid is seriously cute. And he really, really wants a long board. Real bad. And it's his money. And I shouldn't be controlling. But I should teach him to make responsible choices, shouldn't I? This was my final answer:

"I'm not sure about this. It's a parenting issue. I need to ask my friends."

And he totally accepted that answer. So...it's up to you. Should I let him get it? From his perception of tax, it's obvious he's clueless about money. But he really wants the thing, and he does have money in the bank, even if he is "broke in his wallet." If I do let him get it, do I give him the nine dollars (and tax) or do I make him pay me back? Does the fact that I forgot to get him a present while I was in DC make a difference? My husband seems to have little to no opinion. Help!

Namasté, y'all!

Things I have learned on my vacation so far.

I'm in Washington D.C. this weekend, to get some sleep, visit my sister and see my son sing with his choir at the National Cathedral*, not necessarily in that order. These are some things I have learned:

• Not everyone has coffee at their house.
• If you eat a turkey wrap from Subway on the road, rather than a big chicken biscuit and fries, you don't get horrifying gas a tummy ache.
• It's very easy to embarrass married dudes who are staring at you. And also very funny.
  
• With few exceptions, men in Washington are (1) gay or (2) creepy and married. And there are exceptions. If you know of any, email me. My sister is currently more or less single and open to suggestions (and pretty hot, I think!) She would like someone handsome, preferably with a job and a good personality (i.e. laughs at her jokes. And mine.)
• Women in Washington aren't necessarily as mean assertive as I am. I, for example, would make fun of my husband mercilessly if he stared at other women when he was with me. I wouldn't pout about it, either. Those simpering ladies need a blog. If you have a blog, your husband knows he's only one ogle away from total humiliation.
  
• Christian Louboutins really are more comfortable than mortal shoes.
• I think it's really pretentious for a restaurant in the United States, in the middle of the summer, to serve water at room temperature. Give me a break. And some effing ice, while you're at it.
  
• I think about my family a lot when I'm out of town, especially my husband.

That's it for now.

Namasté, y'all!

* Ahem. Not to brag, but did you know HE SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL? And LOOKS LIKE ONE, TOO? I love him so much!

Drinking and Blogging..Part IHaveNoIdea...

Big Day. I haven't updated the Grass Cam in a while, because I've been scared. The Sprinkler Man came by recently and adjusted the system.Our precious grass is no longer being watered three times a day. It is only being watered once every three days. At 4 in the morning. So I have no idea if it's actually happening. I just have to trust the Sprinkler Man. This feels like the first time you leave your baby at the drop-in nursery. Scary!


Grass Cam. After the Big Storm.
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Please note that this is a panoramic view of the grass after a huge storm. We are not in the habit of having such a junky lawn. You can still hear the woodpecker! And the neighbor's air conditioning unit!

Also, I have another article in the Free Times. Read it if you love me.

Also, I just completely rocked out to this, in front of my husband, who has never heard it. He looked at me like I was some kind of an idiot, because he totally doesn't get it. I felt really sad for him and I don't want you to miss out, because The Jets are, like, my favorite band ever (as of a few minutes ago, when I Googled a snippet of nearly forgotten lyrics and found them.) Check it!



And, um, just one more. Rock it!



I can't say anything about those videos. They speak for themselves.

Namasté, y'all!

Thank you, nice young man.

The older I get, the easier it is to take a compliment, probably because I'm desperate for them. Go ahead, make my day. I'm impossible to offend...as long as you think I'm pretty. I was leaving Target one glorious Saturday morning when I noticed a large Suburban slowing down behind me. Assuming I was being stalked for my parking spot, I turned and waved, motioning to my car. The Suburban pulled up beside me. The driver leaned out of his window.

"I'm sorry. I just had to tell you... you do have a sexy walk."

No apologies necessary, sir. He drove away as I sashayed to my car, feeling like one hot mama. Maybe I should have been offended, but why? It's not like he was following me down a dark alley. It was the Target parking lot. What can possibly happen in the Target parking lot on a Saturday morning? Wednesdays are more dicey.

Speaking of being a mama, is "Ay mami!" a compliment? I think it is. Or at least I'll take it as one, much as an alcoholic grabs the first beer he sees when he gets released from the drunk tank, even if it's actually a bottle of Listerine.

How about this one?

"No offense to your husband,"

Like I care if he's offended.

"But, you look really great. Especially for having all those kids."

And, um, is it bragging to say that he went on for a little bit? And that I was wearing my Yoga shorts? Whatever. It made my day. And reliving the moment is giving me a warm fuzzy feeling all over again.

To all of you charming young men out there: Don't be shy. Chatting up old, married mamas is a great way to develop mad complimenting skillzz. And there's no risk of rejection or harassment. We won't follow you home, we won't try to be your girlfriend and we won't ask you to father our children. We don't want any more children. We might, however, make you some cookies or buy you a hot dog or something. Bring it on. Please? I feel ugly.

Namasté, y'all!

Miles to go before I sleep. But who needs to go?

While my family was out of town, I slept like a baby. Well, that's not strictly true. As my husband wisely pointed out after a particularly harrowing night with one of our demon offspring darlings, "sleeping like a baby" would mean waking up and crying every thirty minutes to an hour, wanting to be held and rocked all night and soiling one's pants, occasionally so much so the sheets would have to be changed before you went back to sleep. That isn't at all how I slept when my family was gone.

I went to sleep whenever I wanted, one night at around eleven, the next night at around two a.m., after blogging in bed. Sexy, huh? I woke up between eight and nine in the morning, refreshed. I didn't feel like I would die, or at the very least weep, if I didn't get a cup of coffee within seconds. I know there are people out there like me who understand that I'm not joking. They know how physically painful it can be when someone tries to talk to you when you've just woken up and haven't had enough sleep. There's a rage that can be hard to control. I feel that way most mornings and I really don't know what to do about it, short of moving out. And moving out isn't really an option, because I love this house and, okay, the other people who live here with me.

Yesterday, my family came home. Last night, I went to bed around eleven, with my husband. Baby J, more toddler than baby, has finally started sleeping upstairs. Guiltily, I watched two episodes of "Coupling"on the laptop in bed. I know, I know. You aren't supposed to bring the computer to bed and all that. And you definitely aren't supposed to bring it to bed to watch a show that probably annoys your husband to no end. He didn't say anything, but laugh tracks make him feel the same way I do when I get woken up in the morning, livid. And I'm sure it didn't help that I was adding to the annoying laugh track with my own inane giggling. In spite of all that, he managed to fall asleep, like he always does (lucky b**tard). I was getting sleepy too, so I turned it off and drifted, for a few seconds.

I was woken up by the sound of his snoring. And slurping. Yes, ladies, he slurps in his sleep. I hope I've prevented any infidelity by admitting that. Can you really have a steamy affair with a married guy with three children who slurps in his sleep? I know he's hot, but is it really worth it? To seal the deal, you should know that the slurp reminds me of another slurp that used to keep me awake, years ago. That was the slurp of my best friend's dog, who slept in her room, and liked to self-soothe by licking his...you know, what dogs lick that humans can't reach, but totally would if they could.

So the slurping and snoring kept me from going into a deep sleep, but I drifted off a bit, not enough to survive an exclamation by Baby J. He was probably dreaming. His dreams are pretty realistic, so he yells things like, "MINE!" and settles immediately, probably after grabbing the thing back in his dream. Unlike me. His short noises manage to startle me out of my hard-won sleep. I lie awake, heart racing, for at least fifteen minutes before I start to drift again. And the snoring recommences. Are you sensing a pattern here?

At some point, I had a horrible, terrifying dream. It involved me being hired to play stand-up bass for an orchestra. I was on stage and couldn't find the sheet music. Never mind that I've never played bass in my life, nor do I have any musical talent, unless you count rocking out alone in the car, after ensuring that all of the windows are closed. There was a gospel choir singing and I couldn't enjoy it, because I was shuffling through all these papers in my chair on the stage, where I was about to play. There were moments of calm, like when I thought I could just pretend to play, but then I realized I was the only bass, and people would notice. And no one was helping me. They all had their parts memorized, knew how to play their instruments and were relaxed and eating sandwiches. I didn't even have a sandwich, or a drink. I was crying as I shuffled through all the garbage by my bass. I finally woke up, heart racing. It took me a few minutes to calm down.

I tried to go back to sleep once everyone was awake, but that never works. I feel guilty and I know my husband is irritated with me, because he actually got up with the baby. I was too groggy. And when I get up with the baby, I can never go back to sleep. Neither can Baby J for that matter. My insomnia rubs off on him*.

Some women have post-partum depression. I have post-partum anxiety and it lasts for years. I get better as the baby gets older, usually around the time they sleep through the night. When people say a baby sleeps through the night, they usually mean for five to seven hours at a stretch. That is not my definition. I need to know that, once the kid goes to sleep around seven or eight o'clock, he won't wake up until morning - my morning, seven or eight a.m. - unless he has a stomach bug. In my limited experience, this usually happens by the time they're three. We're two thirds of the way there. Obviously, I'm a light sleeper. I think my anxiety is triggered by lack of sleep. But what can I do about it, short of running away from home?

We've tried, by the way, having my husband sleep in the far-away guest room with the baby, since they are the two things most likely to interrupt my sleep. That's not an option at the moment, because it's occupied by a young French woman. Don't worry about our marriage, by the way. She's my husband's cousin, here for a short visit before she goes to work at a camp in North Carolina.

I'm going to Washington next weekend to see my oldest son sing with his choir and to visit my sister, but I really just want to sleep. As much as I like her, I'm looking forward to the rest more than her company. Will someone please tell me how to fix this? I don't know if I can make it another year.

Namasté, y'all.

* This footnote is just to see if anyone reads these. The other day, a friend and I were talking about a couple we know. The husband is nuts. And I said, "I think his 'nuts' has rubbed off on her." Now say that sentence out loud, with a real country accent. Please tell me that's as funny as we thought it was.

Wow. This house is huge.

At least it feels huge, with everyone gone. My husband has had all three of our darling children in the mountains for two days. This is nice for a number of reasons. I love being alone in my house and I haven't been alone in this house in years, since before I got pregnant with Baby J, who is almost two. And I hate the mountains. My children love it, so I really, really want them to go, but I hate it. I'm not quite sure why. It might be that I get nervous when I'm more than a five minute drive away from a decent Brie. I'm also not an outdoorsy sort of person. I like having cocktails outside, on a patio. I like the beach, as long as there's an air-conditioned house nearby, with a bathroom (or four). I like eating on restaurant patios, as long as they're covered. In addition to enjoying the outdoors, albeit on a limited basis, I also like exercise. Indoors, of course. I like sweating, but only if I can control it. I don't like combining my love of the outdoors with exercise. I hate hiking and I think nature is boring. I'm an environmentalist. I think we should leave nature to thrive in peace.

Being an adult is the best, because you get to do whatever you want. My house, my rules and all that. But it isn't really my house*. I can't do whatever I want. These are some things I've been able to do with everyone gone:

• I walked to get a pedicure. No worries about wasting precious babysitter time. I meandered home.
• I ate an enormous bowl of popcorn. I never make popcorn, because the baby could choke on it and I don't like hiding in my closet to eat. I freaking love popcorn.
  
• I played music that I like, like show tunes, without anyone making fun of me. And sang along.
• I took care of my friend's toddler for four hours and it didn't put a kink in my plans, because other people's kids are always much better behaved.
• I made a really complicated thing. I forgot how much I enjoyed doing that. I also forgot that once you've made the complicated thing once, it's much easier the next time. And the thing was yummy. I had plenty of time for the optional leek lining. Just so you know, I used shrimp instead of salmon and I served it with a gribiche sauce. I didn't use this recipe, but I will next time, because it looks better and easier than my version.
  
  
  Fancy Seafood Terrine


• I had friends over to eat the really complicated thing and it only took me 15 minutes to shower, dress and clean up the house. Because no one was there to stop me or mess up behind me. And the house wasn't even messy to begin with. Guess why?
  
• The friends and I polished off more than one bottle of wine, because I knew I could sleep in the next morning. When you're a lightweight, you have to plan ahead by at least 24 hours if you plan on having more than two drinks.
• The friends and I were really loud and said cuss words**, because there were no children around to hear them. It was like being in a bar, without the smoke.
  
• I took care of some much-needed waxing, without the interruption of children or husband knocking on the bathroom door. Why is my bathroom the most popular room in the house? Especially when I'm in there with a pot of cooling wax and a spatula? Why? By the way, I did not wax my lady business while my friends were over. That would have been very weird, even for me.
  
• I'm now lying in bed, blogging and watching a show on Netflix that my husband would hate. I love it. And I can be as loud as I want and stay up as late as I want, because I get to sleep in tomorrow! Hooray!

I can't believe I forgot how much I loved cooking over-complicated stuff, staying up too late, drinking too much and being really loud. But I'm relieved my family saves me from doing those things too often. And I miss them, because the big kids are a riot and the baby is a snuggly-wuggly moo-moo bear. And the husband has really good jokes, even if he does snore. As much as I miss them, I fully intend to enjoy the hell out of tomorrow morning. Maybe a walk to the Gourmet Shop for breakfast?

Namasté, y'all!

* Actually, I think it is. The deed is in both of our names. The mortgage is entirely in my husband's name, because I make about twenty dollars a week teaching Pilates. Ergo, the equity must be mine. He's still paying for his part. Right?

** Okay, fine. I was really loud and said cuss words. My friends are nicer than that. Really.

Sometimes I wish he had a twin to distract him.

It's no secret that Baby J is a wild man. My own mother made me come get him after she kept him for twenty minutes, during which time he broke one thing, then broke two or three more while she was fixing the first, smiling sweetly the whole time, I'm sure. He's not unpleasant, just "busy," as little old Southern ladies like to say. Very, very busy. I never understood the magnitude of the busy child before this one - and I sympathize with parents of children out there who are even more industrious. Some people aren't sympathetic. At a birthday party recently, I said, to no one in particular,

"I'm not used to taking care of him all by myself!"

No one in particular answered, "Your own child?" And laughed, adding an eye roll for effect as she walked away. I was reminded of the very funny blog someone brought to my attention recently. I'm not the Best Parent Ever. But did I really deserve eye roll for that? And...wait... does my sympathy for other parents make me the Best Parent Ever? I hope so. And I hope there's a big, shiny trophy to go with the one I already have for Meanest Mommy Ever.

I don't think children were meant to be brought up in a vacuum. I say, the more grownups involved, the better. That way, when they ask you a hard question like, "Have you had Botox?", you can direct them to a mature adult.

My husband has been in the mountains since Sunday with our two oldest children. To Baby J's immense relief, he got back today. He didn't bring the brothers with him and I know Baby J is disappointed. This week has been hard. Almost everyone he sees on a more or less daily basis is out of town, Daddy, his brothers, my parents, his aunt, uncle and cousins. Even the neighbors and our regular babysitter are out of town. I thought this would be a good week for her to take off. I mean, how hard can it be to take care of one child?

Answer: Very hard. Especially when he's used to constant companionship. Every time I go to pick him up out of bed after a nap or in the morning, we have this conversation.

Baby J, smiling, "Mommy!"

Me, "J! I wubs you sho mush! Chan I pich 'oo up?*"

Baby J, ecstatic, "Yay!"

Then he switches to a serious face, "Where Daddy/O/X-Man?" He chooses one of the three at random.

Me, "He's in the mountains."

Baby J, mad as hell,"NOPE! NO THANK YOU!"

Wouldn't it be nice if we could just say "no thank you" to answers we didn't like? Lucky for both of us, Daddy came back today. Baby J went to the drop-in nursery this morning, insisting on carrying Daddy's newspaper with him. He dragged it in from the driveway and wouldn't let go of it, even when he went into his classroom. With the newspaper tucked under his fat, wittle arm, he looked like a tiny version of Daddy on the way to the bathroom. What kind of kid uses the New York Times as a security blanket? A cute, wittle boo-boo bear who wuvs hish daddy, that's who!

Namasté, y'all!

* I talk like this to all my children and they don't seem to have lingering speech problems. So there.

I don't want to get my husband pregnant.

There are those, according to some dubious sources, who find pregnancy sexy. I'm not one of them. Amazing, fascinating, thrilling and glorious? Absolutely! Sexy? Hell no. Since when is weight gain sexy? How about mood swings? Think those are hot? As if pregnancy wasn't bad enough, at the end you get a baby. Babies are great. Toddlers are adorable. But every (honest) couple in the world will tell you that sex after children is...different. I'll leave it at that.

This guy got pregnant and had a baby, which prompted me to ask my dear husband,

"What have you done for me lately?"

Washing the dishes or even rubbing my back won't cut it anymore. Thomas Beatie has raised the bar. Sure, he sort of still is used to be a chick. And I have yet to read anything about what kind of male equipment he has, but since there's not much sex after baby anyway, does it really matter*? The idea of my dear husband carrying another kid or two to add to our gang is intriguing.

But he's getting kind of old. In the world of obstetrics, he would be known as an "elderly primigravida," a person (must use gender neutral term here!) over the age of thirty five and pregnant for the first time. That's not sexy, especially not with whiskers and a receding hairline. And he's not used to struggling to lose a few pounds. Guys can take off five pounds in two days by switching to light beer. Wouldn't pregnancy change that? Listening to him complain about his weight would not be sexy. And he probably wouldn't even exercise through the pregnancy, since his fitness routine consists of Men's Tennis Night at the club followed (and enhanced) by a bunch of beer.

And how would I get him pregnant? I don't think I would get into the method that Beatie and his wife used, not even with candles and Barry White on the stereo. She inseminated him with donor sperm, using a syringe purchased from a veterinarian. The syringe, without a needle of course, was typically used to feed birds. Wow. That's hot. Not! By the way, do you like that the sperm was donated, but they had to pay for the syringe?

Speaking of weight, I seem to have put on a few pounds in the last year. It is very annoying to take off all the baby weight and have even a fraction of it sneak back up on you. So I'm going on a diet. I like that low carb thing, because I hate to feel deprived. I probably won't lose any weight, but I'm probably exaggerating my weight gain, so what does it matter? I'm starting this new, healthier way of eating right now, with a crustless(!) leek and mushroom quiche. With Brie. And heavy cream. Those are two very diet-ish foods, aren't they?

Dietetic Leek, Mushroom and Brie Quiche

Start with a few leeks. Mine were not too big, so I used six.


Slice them into half-inch pieces while you heat a chunk of butter and a splash of olive oil in a pan. Add the leeks to the pan and let them cook for about five minutes, stirring occasionally so they don't stick.

Add 2 or 3 cups of sliced fancy mushrooms (like crimini, portabella and shiitake) to the pan and cook until they're tender, about three more minutes. Sprinkle chopped fresh chives and thyme over them and add a few shakes of salt and white pepper.


Dump that mixture into a quiche dish. Cut an eight ounce wheel of Brie, rind removed, into chunks and put them on top of the leek mixture. Don't throw away the rind. You can start your diet early and nibble on it while the quiche is in the oven.


In a bowl, mix 4 eggs, 1/2 cup of heavy cream and a dollop of good mustard. Pour that over the leeks and Brie.


At some point, you will have turned your oven to 375°. So cook your healthy meal. Check on it after 30 minutes. If it's nowhere near set, cook it a few minutes more. If it's close, pull it out and let it cool on the counter. It'll continue to cook for a bit.


And here we have a dinner that will put you well on the way to losing that last few pounds. At the suggestion of my trainer, I served it with a shot of Vodka and a glass of white wine**. I photographed the meal with flowers because, much like pregnancy, dieting and white wine, flowers are for ladies!


Namasté, y'all!

* Please know, dear childless reader, that I'm exaggerating. There is plenty of sex after baby, even if it isn't quite what you remembered. Or as often. And you have to drink a little more to be talked into it.

** To be fair, this is not quite what my trainer suggested. In fact, she would not endorse this quiche. Something about the fat content. I don't understand all that nutrition mumbo jumbo, do you? She did, after much pressure from me, admit that white wine and vodka are the only two options for ladies who want to drink more than average and stay thin. She didn't recommend serving them together. But she didn't say not to, either.

In which I sacrifice my husband's dignity for a cheap laugh, immediately feel guilty and subsequently sacrifice my own dignity for the same purpose.

Let me start at the beginning. Actually, let me start with a warning: This post is gross and, as my mother would say "uncouth." My sons would call it "inappropriate." So.

In our family, we call a fart a fart. I don't see any need to come up with a cute euphemism for the word because I can't think of a single situation when I would need a polite way to say "fart." It really shouldn't be mentioned in polite company at all, so who cares what the kids call it? One of my friends was taught to call it a "windy." The upside of this is that she never craves fries, cheeseburgers or even Frosties. The downside is that she gags every time she passes by one of the ubiquitous fast food joints by the same name. She and her husband use the word "gas" as a verb, as in,

"Which one of you kids gassed in the car? I knew we shouldn't have let y'all eat those Frosties!"

I can't support the transformation of a perfectly good noun into a verb, so this one makes me shudder. Neither of those are as bad as what my mother's mother someone who shall remain nameless called sh*t. Toto. That's right, Dorothy's dog. She had no way of knowing her children would be incapable of enjoying one of the most popular movies of all time. Therein lies the danger of choosing your own word for something gross. You never know when someone else will make it a household name. I'm pretty sure a secret word for private functions doesn't fool anyone, either.

"Mom, can we please leave? I'm about to Toto in my pants."

But I digress.

The other day, Baby J and I were in my bedroom. A loud noise erupted exploded happened.

"Oh!" exclaimed Baby J, little eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling, "Wuzzat? Dat scare me!"

I was honest*.

"That was Daddy's fart."

Baby J is at that age where everything belongs to him. His favorite babysitter? "MY Jo-nanne!" Your cell phone? "MY phone!" Headed outside for a breath of fresh air? "MY outside!" Predictably, upon hearing someone was in possession of something, he responded,

"MY FART!"

Sure, kid. It's all yours. Own that fart, baby! I worry about him. Is his self esteem so low, is he so disenfranchised, that he's compelled to claim even the lowliest of farts? And how long will it be before he's old enough to be embarrassed by this story? Am I ruining his life? Already?

Speaking of being inappropriate and ruining my children's lives, I was on the radio the other day. Marti Bluestein, local attorney, model, mother and radio personality, asked me to join her for her regular segment on Frank Knapp's show, U Need 2 Know. I sound like a man, but otherwise I think I did okay. Frank and Marti are brilliant, because they made me feel really relaxed. After much swearing, I think I figured out how to post a link to the segment. Let me know if it works!

Download Frank Knapp and Marti Bluestein - Chick Chat


Namasté, y'all!

* I was not honest. It was me. I farted. Yup. Aren't blogs all about normalizing the collective human experience? You're welcome!

I'll probably regret this and, no, Mom, I haven't been drinking...

But I might have a drink around 3 pm. That's not too early for a Friday, is it? I'm going to be on the radio at 3:25 this afternoon on "Chick Chat," a thirteen minute segment on WOIC (1230 AM on your dial, for the interested). We'll be talking about blogging, my career in the adult entertainment industry and civil war reenactment*. You can listen to it live here. If you want to. I sound like a man when I talk, so I'm hoping my nervousness will raise the pitch on my voice just a bit. What should I wear?

* Except for those last two. We won't be talking about those. I just threw them in to get your attention.

My husband has funny hobbies.

Funny hobbies like tennis. And reading Craig's List for "Missed Connections." Maybe he spends his days making googly eyes at random girls hoping one of them will try to find him...on Craig's List. Maybe he just has the same sense of humor I do. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have told me about his little hobby at all, but he likes to make me laugh.

First of all...what are these poor saps thinking? I would love to know how many of these postings result in actual meetings and how many of those meetings result in normal human human interaction. My guess is 0.0% When will people learn that life is not a cheesy romantic comedy? In real life, if someone wants to talk to you in the grocery store, at a stoplight or "on Taylor Street about 2:30 pm last Thursday. You were wearing a short khaki skirt. Great legs!" they will. That coy smile that "made me think you wanted to meet?" You imagined it. And she probably doesn't read Craig's List, at least not that section.

Second, why do they all drive Saturns? I mean, I know it's a decent car and all, but I don't actually know anyone who owns one. If I did, I might have more insight as to why Saturn drivers are disproportionately targeted in the Missed Connections section of Craig's list. Saturn should figure out an angle and use this for advertising...or not.

Third, isn't it interesting that the biggest section is men who felt they missed a connection with a woman? There are about the same number of entries there and in the man to man section. There are quite a few less in the women looking for men section. Guess how many are in the women looking for women section? Zero. That's right. Not a single one. I guess we women speak up if we think another babe is hot. I know I do, and I'm straight and married. When a lady looks good, you should tell her. She might let you borrow that top!

Perhaps this is part of our country's need for a message of hope. It's pretty darned optimistic to believe that, yes, she did think you were hot (in spite of the way you, you know, actually look) and was too shy to chat, and yes, she does read Craig's List every day, hoping to hear from you and, yes, she thinks your Saturn is the bomb.

Maybe I'm the loser. Maybe this stuff does happen to other people. I feel like when people want to talk to me, they do. They say stuff like,

"Get off of my foot."

"You're being too loud."

or

"Please stop throwing bread at my mother."

On a really, really good day, I've heard,

"I love your blog."

That's my favorite, just so you know. Maybe I need to start reading Craig's List. Keep an eye out for this one:

"Saw you at a stoplight on Rosewood. You were in a black Toyota SUV with tinted windows. You seemed to be yelling at yourself. I liked how you alternately banged the steering wheel and swatted at something in the backseat of your car. Thought I might have heard kids yelling. I love crazy old chicks with kids. I was the guy..."

Frankly, I can't imagine the last part of that. "I was the guy in the Saturn with a Mrs. Robinson (minus the glamor) fantasy?" "I was the guy honking at you to go already because the effing light was green?" "I was the guy in the Prius. Why didn't you recognize me and why were you yelling at our kids? Do you need more money for babysitters?" I like the last one. I'll be looking for it.

Although the missed connections are funny, especially if you read them with a friend - out loud in funny voices and with vulgar asides - they're also just pathetic. Have we become so addicted to the internet we're afraid to just talk to people? People do meet in random places. But Craig's List is not a place, it's a website. I used to answer emails for a big website. It was kind of a joke, since I knew even less about computers and the world-wide internets then than I do now. My job was to choose the right form letter and click "send". The ones I wanted to actually respond to, though, were the ones who would freak out when the message boards or e-mail were down for 20 minutes. They said things like, "I can't get in touch with any of my friends!" or "i seriously need advise [sic] about this oosing [sic] rash RITE [sic] NOW [sick!]" I wanted to explain to them that internet "friends" aren't the same as real life friends and everyone should have a primary care physician. But I sent them a form letter about when the stuff would be fixed instead, because I wanted to finish work, get my paycheck and go out into the real world.

I love the dang internet, by the way. It's great for entertainment, convenience and information. And even making real life connections. I've been really encouraged by other freelance writers I've "met" on the internet. But it shouldn't take the place of humans. But y'all know all this, because anyone who reads my blog is obviously socially savvy and has a brilliant sense of humor! Mwah!

Namasté, y'all!

Road Rage is so 1992.

I was driving through Five Points yesterday, looking for a parking spot. It was around lunch time, but the parking situation wasn't too bad. I didn't anticipate more than one loop around Saluda Avenue, maybe two, but I was listening to the radio, so what's a few more minutes?

I found a spot and pulled in. I didn't get far, because there was a rather intimidating woman standing in the space. I don't know why anyone would want to park in a parking space meant for a car, but she seemed determined, so I waved apologetically and moved on to a space a few yards away. As I was getting out, I saw her wave a friend into the space. I know they were friends, because they were wearing matching garnet shirts and khaki shorts, a combination far more unforgivable than parking space hogging. I mean, ew, the shorts had pleats! And grown women do not need to be wearing matching outfits. Twins shouldn't even wear matching outfits after the age of six or so.

Was it really worth the bad karma incurred? Her friend would have found a spot within minutes, without interrupting the flow. And the ladies seemed to derive some great satisfaction from sticking it to the other would-be parkers. They were laughing and fist bumping, high fiving or whatever the kids are doing these days.

I used to have road rage, until I realized it was more effective to just change lanes. I'm too lazy for road rage. Unlike this lady I know, who shall remain nameless because of what I'm about to share. This energetic lady, we'll call her Ursula, which isn't even remotely similar to her real name, always seemed a bit off. It was hard to say how. She was nice enough and able to form sentences like a normal human. She didn't have freaky hair. But there was something. My husband calls it "snakes behind the eyes." My sister in law calls it "like that time in high school I tried to be enthusiastic."

Anyhow, I was driving to the gym one day and, while drinking coffee, putting on lipstick and talking on my cell phone, swerved ever so slightly into the lane beside me. Someone honked to let me know and, as they passed, I put my coffee and lipstick down before turning to do the sheepish wave of thanks. I know how small this town is, so there was a 98.2% chance I would know the honker. And, it was true, I had been driving like an a**hole and earned the honk. I turned to wave and saw the driver, hands on the wheel, foot to the accelerator, body flung across the passenger seat, eyes bulging. As I contemplated how someone could remain seated in the driver's seat, driving, and simultaneously press her face against the passenger window, I realized I knew her. Ursula! Now I had proof.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, I called a few choice friends to let them know what we hadn't been able to prove before. Ursula is a stone cold loon. There was still a slight chance she was normal, I guess. If she had called later or said something the next time I saw her like,

"I'm so embarrassed! I can't believe I lost my temper like that the other day. You must think I'm a nut!"

I could have responded, after politely pretending not to remember the incident, of course,

"Oh, my goodness. That was you? Oh, we all have days like that...bless your heart. Don't give it another thought!"

And she could have told me about the bad day that lead up to her acting like a raving lunatic. Maybe the dry cleaner lost her favorite shirt. Maybe she had to wait three hours at the doctor's office. Maybe the grocery store was out of olives. But that didn't happen. Every time I've seen her since, she's been about the same, maybe slightly more nervous. She doesn't need to be nervous around me, though, because public rage isn't my thing. Too tiring and not fun enough. I'm more into public hysteria and streaking.

Namasté, y'all!

"Is it really that hard to water plants?," asks the plant killer.

I don't have plants or a television, so take this one with a grain of salt. I'm at the beach with a television, which I watch obsessively to make up for the long, lonely hours without one at home. At times, I tend to over-generalize television, much as a visitor to our country might extrapolate from just one sighting that citizens of the United States all take their families to McDonald's on special occasions and dress their six year olds like skanks. Life without television tends to magnify the inanity of it.

I saw a commercial yesterday for what looked like a more or less useful and attractive product. It was a pretty glass bulb with a stem that one could fill with water and cram down in a houseplant, if one was so inclined. The houseplant would subsequently receive the exact amount of water it needed. Lovely! Especially for someone like me, who kills all plants. But I was disturbed by the commercial. At the beginning, there was a woman watering dead houseplants. That seemed kind of stupid, but I could forgive her, as I have watered dead plants myself, hoping they would magically revive. What struck me as a little off was her attitude. She was quite the actress. Without uttering a word, she conveyed her utter irritation with the whole plant watering scene. She looked like a method actor who had asked,

"What's my motivation?"

and been given the answer, by an overzealous director,

"You're changing the colostomy bag of an ex-husband's mother. An ex-husband who cheated on you, drained your bank account and had a horrible mother. By the way, she's a hypochondriac and doesn't actually need a colostomy bag. And, oh yeah, for some reason, you have the coordination of a two year old. Go!"

It was like watching a high school drama group read The Grapes of Wrath, with more melodrama. She was shown attempting the horrifying task of watering at least four different plants, including the un-killable philodendron. She spilled water all over herself. She tried, in vain, to mop up the excess water with some useless paper towels, similar to the "other brand" in Bounty commercials. She cried. She tore out several chunks of her hair in frustration. She poured ashes over her head. And the plants still died. By the end, I was weeping with frustration on her behalf. "How?" I asked myself, choking back tears,"How can one be expected to maintain houseplants in this cruel world when it is so, so difficult?"

And along came Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy to save the day! For, like, $14.99 (plus $7.95 shipping and handling)! Hooray! The original actress is shown lovingly placing the thing in her healthy plants, looking as if she's spent a week at Canyon Ranch, had two years of excellent psychotherapy and is rocking a healthy dose of Xanax. Then a feeble old person is shown using Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy, with ease! Even a feeble old person can use it! Old people love plants and can't deal with the stress of watering them! Hooray!

Will someone please tell me what ever happened to just going to an actual store and buying something more or less useful and attractive? Pretty Glass Water Bulb Thingy does seem like it would work and it's ever so nice when things that work aren't ugly. Rumor has it that the thing can be purchased at Woodcreek Farms Nursery, so why not get one there and pick up a few plants and some excellent advice while you're at it? Just saying. What I really want to know is how much the actress got paid and how I could get that job, because I could do it really well. I freak out over nothing all the time. Easy-peasy.

Namasté, y'all!

Oh. So that's where it goes.

This is how much Wednesday cost:

Babysitter for the big boys $50

Movie, snacks and lunch for babysitter and two big kids $50

Babysitter for Baby J because he's too wild to go to the movies $25

Pedicure to help me relax from my difficult life $30

Lunch with friends because my life is so hard I need a break $20

Dinner out with kids because husband has tennis on Wednesdays and restaurant is much easier than grocery store followed by cooking $30

Money saved on tip because waitress brought back a ten and a five for $24.72 tab $3-4*

Snacks at the pool for big kids $2

Tennis lessons for the big kids $12

Housekeeper Decided not to count this in the total because she comes every Wednesday. Plus, I don't want to tell you how much we pay for housecleaning. For some reason, that feels private. Very odd, considering the other things I've shared, gleefully even, right here on this very blog.

Grand total: $219**.

The exact same amount we would have paid last night to the two thirteen year old babysitters we found at the last minute down here at the beach. I love how everybody knows each other in South Carolina. Hours from home, I can find a babysitter (or two) that I totally trust, because at least ten people I know can vouch for her parents. For the record, we didn't pay those girls $219 for the four hours we were gone. But we would have. Thirteen year old girls really need to learn how much they can squeeze out of desperate parents their worth.

Speaking of worth, a woman I admire recently told me I really need to get paid for my other blog. She's a business owner who knows the value of what she does. As a matter of fact, I am planning to start selling ad space soon. I'm just waiting for the web designer to finish the final version of the site. I really appreciated her saying that, though, especially since she's one of the people I hope will advertise with me.

And speaking of women giving each other advice, will someone please open a private cocktail club for ladies? Just a small space, maybe on Devine Street, a place for me to go on Tuesdays. Kristy and I figured out all the details the other day. We'll be glad to share if someone will finance! Men have had private clubs for years. I want one, open every day from 3 pm until closing. Maybe Dianne needs a new venture... If anyone decides to do it, call me. I'll be the first to join!

Namasté, y'all!

* The tab was $24.72. I had $40. She brought back a ten and a five, because I forgot to ask for fives and ones. I left five, but when I'm with kids I like to leave more than twenty percent. I call it the kid tax. But I didn't want to leave ten, more like eight. And the devil toddler the kids were getting too restless for comfort, so I was afraid to wait around for more change. After I left, I felt guilty and wished I'd just left ten.

** Chump change, of course, to you big city folk, but quite a bit down heah. And is this where I say how grateful I am to be able to have days like that? Thank you, dear hard-working husband.

Nice is the new mean. Simple is the new complicated.

This is an exciting day. I'm getting a new tire. I'm actually posting from the tire place. That's how up to the minute the Daily Digress is. Oh, wait, they're finished already!

Here's how it went down:

I came in. I told them it looked as though one of my children had bitten a chunk out of one of the tires and that the spare was actually a blown tire from a while ago. They suggested two new tires and told me the exact price, with tax and all. I didn't want to spend that much today. They suggested I keep the bitten tire as a spare and get one new tire, which cost exactly half of what two tires cost. They told me how long it would take and...it took exactly that long, maybe a little less. They had free wireless internet. When I went to pay, the price was exactly what they told me earlier. And everyone seemed happy enough. Nobody threatened me or tried to make me feel guilty about not getting two tires. I don't need therapy to get over the experience. Wow.

I had two other nice, uncomplicated experiences recently. The other night, my husband and I went to Blue Bar in the Vista. We went with some trepidation, as we're really a hair too old to go to places like that. Sometimes, if you're too old or uncool to be somewhere, they make you feel as awkward as possible. Not so at Blue Bar. The bouncer asked to see my id and put up a gracious fight when I offered my crow's feet as proof of my age. He didn't over-do it. The bartender came over right away, even though the bar was crowded. When I asked for a glass of dry white wine, he didn't bore me with the details. When my husband changed his order, the bartender was unfazed. He didn't try to make us feel like we had violated some sacred code.

We asked at the hostess stand if we could take our drinks outside and they said, "Absolutely!" and asked if we wanted a server out there. We didn't and they let us know it would be fine to change our minds. Why isn't it always that easy?

The other night we ate at Dianne's and found more joy. Not a single server seemed sarcastic, irritated or too fancy to wait on us. And we are not so fancy. When my family gets together in a restaurant, we do everything short of playing Quarters. In fact, we may have done that at Garibaldi's* once. I just don't remember. Big surprise. Also, we change our orders, drop our forks, need extra napkins and are loud. Very loud. Sometimes we argue and swear, in a good natured way, of course. They made us feel as though our behavior was not merely normal, but admirable (which it may very well be in some circles, like circles of frat boys or drunk circus performers.) And, oh yeah, we've I've been known to make special orders. At a place like Dianne's, they don't bat an eye. If it's possible, they'll do it. If not, they'll tell you, nicely.

Sarcasm is so '87. I think everyone should just be nice, like I tell my kids. What's that saying? No one will remember exactly what you said. No one will remember exactly what you did. But they will remember how you made them feel. True, true and true. Why be the person that makes people feel bad? That's a rhetorical question, but I'll give you an answer anyway: Because you hate yourself. At least, that's why I've done it. It's a vicious cycle, too. You hate yourself, so you're mean and sarcastic. Which makes people hate you. Which makes you hate yourself more. And so on.

You don't have to be syrupy nice, like the woman my funny, funny sister in law said reminded her of "the time in high school when I decided to be enthusiastic." Fake won't work, but why don't we all just shoot for decent and straightforward? And if you can't muster that, let's just play Quarters. S'fun!

Namasté, y'all!

* It should be said here that they are also very friendly and accommodating at Garibaldi's. We just didn't happen to go there the other night. Other nice places to go are Mr. Friendly's, Baan Sawan and any of the Miyo's Group restaurants. There are others, of course, but those come to mind immediately.