Dear Diary,

He doesn't think he did anything wrong. He's mad at me for being mad at him. I'm a loser.

Me

Dear Diary,

Worst night ever! I feel like a complete idiot. I should totally break up with my boyfriend*. We were supposed to meet a bunch of our friends for dinner and then go out afterward. Some of our friends were going to see our other friend's band, but he emailed us earlier and said it wasn't a big deal, so we shouldn't come. That was fine by me, because I don't like live music unless it's a concert with comfortable seats in a luxury box, no smoking and a stay in a nearby hotel afterward, preferably a Westin.

We were going to a casual place for dinner, but I dressed anyway, because we were supposed to go somewhere later. I actually dried and straightened my hair and ironed my dress - the blue one with the big black border at the bottom, which I wore with my awesomest red patent leather Christian Louboutin sanadals. Not that it mattered, because after dinner (a quick salad), I got ditched. My date decided to go see the band with two of his guy friends and I got to drive my brother in law and sister in law home. They didn't seem like they wanted to go home, either, but we didn't really have a choice**. It was very confusing, because before and during dinner, we talked about not going to see the band.

I would have called some other friends to see what they were doing, but my date had given me just enough cash to pay the sitter, who doesn't take checks. Or debit cards. And I really wanted to go out, because at dinner, I got stuck at the end of the table, with people I didn't know who were half my age. And someone spilled their beer at me. Luckily, I was standing up so not much of it got on me, but I hate drama at the table. And some of it did get on my toes, which felt gross. And I hate beer. And my dinner wasn't very good, so I was looking forward to having a snack somewhere else.

I can't explain how depressing it is to be all dressed up, looking forward to a night out, and end up with beer-sticky toes and your date handing you a wad of cash and leaving with his friends. And it feels terrible to drive your other friends home, knowing they wanted to go out and were counting on you to go with them. And you know it's all your fault because you're such a loser that your baby daddy would rather go to a part of town he doesn't like to see a band he's not into than spend one more minute with you. And it feels worse when he says, one foot out the door,

"I'll stay with you if you want me to..."

And by that point, you don't want him to. You want another date, preferably one who likes you or at least thinks you're hot.

I would have gone home and cried, and broken up with him the next day, old school-style. I'm not proud of this, but a couple of times, back in the day, I broke up with people by just never returnng their phone calls or speaking to them in public. I only started saying "hello" again once I was sure we were definitely broken up. Socially sophisticated, I was not. Anyhow, the whole crying/breaking up thing wasn't an option. The kids were awake, so I ended up watching "Ghostbusters" with them in my bed, until it got too scary and we switched to re-runs of "Leave It to Beaver," both excellent choices, by the way. I hate Barbara Billingsly - she is so skinny! And why did I never notice how hot Ward was?

Next weekend, I'm going out with my friends instead. How did this happen?

Love,
Me

*But we have three kids and I like our house, which I couldn't afford on my own.

** Boring explanation of why we didn't have a choice: I wasn't supposed to be the driver and I had already had two glasses of sparkly wine, which is my limit for driving. We could have gone somewhere else, but I would have been the sober third wheel. Can you imagine? It would have been so pathetic. I might have even been "the girl who cries." Don't you hate that girl? The one who cries at every party - and if you ignore her, which you should, since she does it every damn time, you look like a b*tch. And my in laws thought about going back out and driving themselves, but you know how it goes when you think you have a driver... The whole thing was just embarassing. I felt like we ruined their night. Nothing makes you feel like a loser more than bragging to the sitter that you won't be home until close to midnight - and showing up just after 9 pm. Also, all the kids are awake when you get home. At least 50% of the reason you get a babysitter is so someone else will put them to bed. I felt like a jerk. But I wasn't the jerk, now was I?

I like the way this kid thinks.

"When I'm a hundred years old, if I'm not dead, I'm going to do that."

That's what the X-Man said, watching a cartoon man walking on a tightrope. He's a quick thinker, that one. Instantly, he figured out, like, a bunch of stuff, including but not limited to the following:

• What tightrope walking is and that it's dangerous.
• How old is old enough that death is not that big of a deal. Sure, this number is different for everyone, but his is a hundred.
  
• That you can't walk a tightrope if you're dead.
• That his desire to walk a tightrope does not outweigh his desire to live to a certain age.

I guess one hundred was a nice easy number. When you're five, which he was at the time, it must seem impossibly old. But if you read fairy tales and go to Sunday School, you know that "life doesn't stop at a hundred!" or whatever those cross stitch pillows say. I suppose you really have to weigh the risks. Tight rope walking, especially for a hundred year old, has a pretty good chance of resulting in death, I would imagine.

I, on the other hand, want to smoke. Smoking doesn't always result in death. Some people even credit it for their longevity. Happiness is important to your health, right? And I really love to smoke. I don't do it any more, but I love it. I can live without the Nicotine - never did have to use the gum or patch or even drugs to quit. The hardest thing to let go of was the physical pleasure. I can still feel the light, but steady weight of the filter between my fingers. I can taste the glorious first pull of the day. It really opens up your lungs, you know? Honestly, back in the day, smoking refreshed me. My friend M, another avid smoker, put it best,

"It's like having twenty new friends every single day."

So, so true. Know what else? Don't tell the kids, but it looks mad cool, especially with the right outfit. Smoking in a vintage cocktail dress and sky high Christian Louboutins? That's hot. Smoking in a baby blue vintage Jaguar wearing big, expensive sunglasses and Louboutin flats would also be really cool. And I'm going to prove it.

I'm already planning my look, obviously. I'm saving these shoes to wear then. They're actually Loeffler Randalls, but I'll alternate them with Louboutins. I wear them already, but I'm very careful, because they need to last.

I don't have the car yet, because it's not so practical for a mother of three, but I'll get it. Maybe from my third husband. Or my girlfriend.

So, when I'm eighty seven, if I'm not dead, I plan to smoke like a chimney in my baby blue Jaguar and wear expensive shoes. I'll probably go for the head scarf, too (Hermès, bien sûr!) I'm going to be a mad hot great grandma.

Namasté, y'all!

Happy Birthday to you, Mom!

Of course, I already called her and sang the entire "Happy Birthday Song," loudly. Right into the phone, so she could hear me, of course. Old people like it when you're loud, because they can't hear so good. But sometimes they ask you to quiet down, especially in public. Old people are so fickle. Anyhow, I thought posting additional well wishes to my mom, right here on my blog, would really make her feel loved. It's important to make really old people feel loved, because they're like toddlers that way. I love you, Mommy! You're such a good girl!

On your birthday, you might enjoy reading my column in the Free Times, because it's kind of about you, one of the original Seventies Moms. They haven't put it online yet, so you'll have to wait for the link.

UPDATE: Here it is! I will no longer be the only site that comes up when someone Googles "Eggplant Mush Pizza" in quotes. Oh well.

You might also enjoy reading my article in the September issue of Jolie. For those of you who are not my mother, Jolie is a local magazine, published by the State Newspaper and available (for free) in a retail location near you! My article is about my oldest son, my sister's old t-ball shirts and my own insecurity. They don't have an online version, but I'll happily mail an autographed copy ($20, shipping and handling included) to absolutely anyone who asks.

Lastly, Mom, I made a special Grass Cam, just for you. There are no surprises, because old people are so sensitive. Please enjoy the grass and the sound of water from the barren Koi Pond trickling in the background. Even barren things can be lovely - like old people! I love you, Mom!



Happy Birthday, Mommy!

All the best husbands are funny, even when they're annoying.

My husband really irritates me. I'm happy for you if your life partner never annoys you, I really am, but I kind of think you're missing out. The laugh that kills your irritation is the best. I think it's similar to the feeling described by "some guy I used to hang out with." He said he liked getting tattoos and...um...even a brand* because it felt good. He claimed that the euphoria he felt when the pain was finished was incredible. So, yeah, my husband annoys me that much. Good thing he's funny.

Once (m'kay...maybe more than once), I told him I hated him. He giggled girlishly, twirled and shot out of the room, calling, "Ha, ha! I know you love me! Heeheeeeee!" There's actually no way to describe how funny it was. Well, there probably is a way, but I'm not writer enough to do it. You'll have to use your imagination. He was wearing a towel. Does that help?

My husband has a very annoying habit - more annoying even than my habit of telling him I hate him. Every time I say something**, he responds the same way.

"Huh?"

Even when he is listening, he assumes he's not. He's so sure he's not paying any attention to me that he's confident with the "huh" before he takes even a split second to consider whether or not he heard me. And sometimes he actually listens, maybe 17.6% of the time or so. A long time ago, I decided to experiment. After his "huh?", I count down from five, waiting. More than half the time, he responds to what I actually said, without the repetition. Cool. Huh?

I'm fascinated by the expression "Do what?" It kind of means "huh?" but there are variations.

"We're going to the store. Need some more ciggies?"

"Do what?" This is the "I didn't hear you. Could you please repeat?" type. Pretty much the same as "huh?"

"I was up at yer cousin Lula's place the other night and I mighta' had a few too many. But if you hear anything from Lula, she's lyin'."

"DO WHAT?!" Can you guess what that one means? Something like "I heard you and I didn't care for what you said. I do hope I misunderstood. Please explain before I have to crack this here fryin' pan over yer damn fool head."

Today after lunch, I informed my husband that "Do what?" is my new response to everything he says. I'm tired of him pretending not to listen when he's secretly fascinated with everything I say. "Do what?" is the new "Huh?" So, he said something - I don't remember what - and I responded.

"Do what?"

And he responded.

"Huh?"

This made me laugh so hard I could hardly drive. Guess you had to be there.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup. Like a cow. There are many, many reasons I'm glad I ended up with my husband and not some of the other possibilities.

** Really. Every time.

Yay! Food and wine!

We went out to eat last night with three other couples. It was supposed to be an intimate dinner for us and one other couple, but I invited my sister-in-law and she brought her husband. Then she invited our friends S and M. I know what you're thinking: Oh no! No one will ever get a drink! No worries, because they were warned, not only by us, but by the original couple, one of whom (the smarter one) reads my blog and knew all about S and M's problems. Also, I threatened them with using their actual names, including their home address and making them sound much, much worse.

We went to Motor Supply, which I always love. I've realized, though, that I don't like that big table they reserve for large parties. It's got a great view of the door, so you can see who's coming and going, but you can't see most of the rest of the restaurant, including the bar, which is where all the interesting stuff happens. I'm immensely entertained by the Human Parade and I hate to miss it. Oh, well. We moved to the bar after dinner for a - one thousand percent unnecessary but yummy nonetheless - final drink. Wait. It was actually the penultimate drink, because everyone came to our house afterwards for the final drink.

S and M were very well-behaved - and very gracious, considering how rude I was for writing about them before. I may have exaggerated, just a little, for effect. The other day, it dawned on me why it is that frowning over food and wine bothers me so much. You know - when the person tastes something and frowns, brow furrowed, deep in thought, trying to decide if it's worthy of further tasting. By the way, because I owe them this much, S and M do not frown over food and wine. I wasn't talking about them, I just switched subjects suddenly. It happens. Pardon the sappiness ahead - I'll try to avoid this becoming "A Very Special Daily Digress..." We have so much. The fact that we can go out to dinner on a Saturday night with minimal planning and be faced with a choice of a hundred different wines and twenty amazing meals is...unreal. When you think about the rest of the world, and what some people go through just to secure the minimum amount of food and water they need to survive, it's hard to frown about food. Even harder to frown about wine.

Another reason to smile is that frowning over food that someone else cooked for you, served to you and cleaned up for you is just plain bad manners. Would you do that at someone's house? I sincerely hope not. If going out to eat is so hard for you, maybe you should stay home. It's not a mitzvah for anyone to cook for you or serve you. It doesn't bring them closer to G-d. If you were homeless and eating in a soup kitchen, it would be a different story, but that's hardly the case, now is it? So be nice.

Maybe I'm being hypocritical. Maybe I should shut up and quit going out to eat. Well...I'm a selfish little piece of fluff and I'm not going to do that. Besides, isn't supporting local business a worthy pursuit? By cooking at home, I'd be instrumental in starving local waiters and business owners. Can't have that, now can we? So I do what I have to do. But I won't frown about wine or food. In fact, to prove my point, I have adopted an overly enthusiastic face, just for tasting. The face is so extreme it can be seen across any restaurant. My friends love me. I am so much fun!

I had the Salmon, by the way, and it was incredible. How do restaurants do that thing where they make the fish crispy on the outside and tender (not over-cooked) on the inside? I suspect it involves sugar and an open flame, but if anyone has any tips, please share. And we shared a bottle (or two) of Sancerre. And a cheese plate. And a yummy piece of cake that involved chocolate and peanut butter. But I smiled the whole time.

Namasté, y'all!

My friend Angela is brilliant.

Do you ever kick yourself for not thinking of something first? Not literally, of course. My friend Angela happened to mention the other day that she was sipping her regular afternoon iced coffee while we were talking on the phone. Every morning, I have a cup of coffee or three six. The final cup usually gets ignored until it gets cold. So I heat it up in the microwave. But I forget about it, so I have to heat it up again. When I first got this microwave, I thought that problem was solved, because it beeps periodically until you open the door. Much like people who set their clocks ahead to combat lateness, I've outsmarted the system. I open the door after it beeps the first time, without removing the coffee. Then I close the door, planning to return in just a second for my coffee. Thirty minutes later, in search of my now cold coffee, I find it, right there in the damn microwave where I left it. Angela is smarter than that. Rather than let her leftover coffee fester, she freezes it in ice cube trays. In the afternoon, she adds milk. Voilà! Undiluted iced latté!

By the way, the rumors are true. All us lazy*ss stay at home mothers do is yak on the phone and drink coffee all day. While painting our toenails. While the kids are parked in front of a movie. True, all true. I know, as an avid reader of my blog (you are, aren't you?), you thought I did fun stuff all day long. You probably think I drink all day long. I know my mother thinks I do, because she recently told me to lay off the booze. Incidentally, she still hasn't offered to keep my kids, even though they would be in serious danger if I drank as much as she thinks I do. In truth, those three glasses of wine I claim are somewhat of an exaggeration. Except those times when the three glasses are actually a hair more. That's denial. But I digress.

I don't write about the boring times*. Who wants to hear about the time I woke up, made breakfast, had a boring semi-fight with my husband, went to the gym, went some other places and did boring stuff, went home and paid the babysitter, sat around doing nothing while Baby J napped, picked up the big kids from school, supervised homework, made dinner, ate it, cleaned it up, took a shower, blogged in bed while watching "The L Word**" and went to sleep? Or the time I talked on the phone to my friend, experienced mild jealousy over her iced coffee technique and decided to try it myself. Which I did, by the way. I froze the coffee this morning. I'll let you know how it comes out. I know you are on the edge of your seat!

I once met someone who only knew me through reading my blog. It was surreal and kind of difficult. I didn't feel entertaining enough. I also felt like an uptight nerd, as she regaled me with her own tales of partying with her kids. I found myself wanting to lecture her. And I also felt guilty, like I was encouraging irresponsible parenting. Public Service Announcement: The children come first. You should always behave responsibly. Really! Although it's okay to exaggerate on your blog for effect. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Speaking of rock star parenting, my husband and I are looking forward to the (sold out!) Slow Foods Benefit dinner at Terra tonight. I plan to drink too much, eat too much and cuss, all while wearing a skirt that's a little too short and a see through shirt. Whooooo! And the kids can just sit in the car, so we can save on babysitting. Guess what? That was a joke. We do have a babysitter and my poor husband is stuck, as always, being my designated driver. Now I just have to figure out how to get out of the house without the kids seeing my bordering-on-hookerish outfit. Anyone have a trench coat I can borrow?

Namasté, y'all!

* You might disagree. But I try not to be boring, so give a blogger a break, m'kay?

** Well, that's kind of exciting, if you're into the idea of straight housewives having secret lesbian tendencies. Whatever. I just like a good, stylish soap opera. I liked "Footballer$ Wives," too. Doesn't make me a coke whore. Or the wife of a hot, European soccer player. I wish.

In which the solution is as horrifying as the problem (NOT for the Weak of Stomach!)

So, I was gittin' my hair did (as we say down heah) the other day and my fabulous stylist casually mentioned his friend who had recently purchased eight Geckos. For roach control. Although I have no intention of trying it, I had many, many questions. First of all, just how bad of a roach problem do you have to have to justify the addition of eight crawly, poopy things to your household? His friend, as I recall, paid around $50 for her Gecko stash, but it might have been $200, which is a lot of money. No word on whether or not they can talk.

Geckos, according to random sources on Google, can grow up to a foot long. And they poop, a lot, probably more if they're hoovering up mountains of insects. Neat. And just how does one control a free-roaming Gecko? I would be scared one would crawl on me at night. What if a roach crawled into your bed (trust me, it happens to the best of us) while you were sleeping. Sure, that's vile, but you would never know. Unless a wild, crap-happy Gecko was in hot pursuit. And what happens next? How messy is the capture and consumption? Does the Gecko go elsewhere to relieve him or herself afterwards? I think not. So, you're woken up by an attacking lizard, maybe with a steaming pile of dung on your pillow. Fun!

Google also informs me that Geckos must live in a warm climate, between 84 and 88 degrees. So...your house will be hot and filled with crap. Lizard crap. Apparently, the Gecko also indulges in the occasional mouse, but isn't mouse poop fairly innocuous compared to foot-long Gecko poop? The Gecko, by the way is a foot long, not their poop. At least I hope not. Now that I think about it, I don't really know. But I feel sure it's bigger than mouse poop, which is starting to sound cute, given the alternative.

How do you keep the Geckos in your house if they have to be free range? Do you put them away when you have guests? What if you can't find one of them? Do you warn your guests of the situation? Do you even have guests if you have that kind of roach problem to begin with? Do you even have any friends? Do they eat children? Do they chew on couches? Do they burrow in furniture, attacking if they're disturbed? Do they bark? This is all too much for me.

I think you have to be a lover of Geckos to do this. Otherwise, you might just call an exterminator. Or move to a new house. I wonder if they have Gecko Rescue organizations, for trend whores who get tired of their Geckos and release them into the wild. Can feral Geckos survive? I wonder if Rescue Geckos would be cheaper. Do people actually use Geckos as roach control or is it just an elaborate internet hoax? I have a tummy ache.

Namasté, y'all!

Diet Soda Nirvana

One thing I love about our pool club is how cold the Diet Cokes are. And the Diet Dr. Peppers. The fact that they have Diet Dr. Pepper at all is pretty awesome. Diet Cheerwine would put me over the edge. I'm glad they don't have it, because that much joy in one lifetime would really be too much to handle. I think I owe a debt to all the carb-conscious tennis players out there - the ones who like diet drinks and want them really cold. They also have Mich Ultra and, lo and behold, Diet Canada Dry! I have recently discovered that Diet Canada Dry and Bacardi is really a nice summer beverage. But I digress.

There are things you share in a marriage, sacred things that no one outside of that sacred pair can ever understand. Many years ago, my then-boyfriend* and I were en route to a U2 concert in Clemson, South Carolina. We were coming from Rock Hill, South Carolina, traveling down small highways all the way.


View Larger Map

Before we got old and had to watch our figures, we used to always have cold Diet Pepsi's and Cool Ranch Doritos on road trips. It's a testament to our deep commitment** that we were willing to eat something so halitosis-inducing on the way to a public event. Obviously, we only had eyes for each other...and breath, I guess.

We stopped at a country store for our snack, my sweetheart reaching deep into an old, ice filled cooler for two Diet Pepsi's***. We opened them, with far less ceremony than we would have, had we known that they would be the Coldest. Pepsi's. Ever. They had thin flecks of ice across the surface. You cannot recreate those flecks in a freezer. I've tried, many more times than I should have. If a scientist could pinpoint the exact moment at which Pepsi becomes flecked with ice and could invent a machine that would achieve that moment, at the mere flick of a switch, they would win a prize. It would be a big, shiny prize, awarded by the Daily Digress for Lifetime Achievement. And I would pay at least $74 for a machine like that, but I would appreciate a little discount, since I awarded the prize and all.

The concert was pretty good, too, but we never talk about that. I vaguely remember some sort of grocery cart theme. We do, however, occasionally look at each other dreamily and think of the Pepsi's. Sometimes, one of us says it out loud. Other times it's understood. That, ladies and gentlemen, is love. Isn't it?

Namasté, y'all!

* Foreshadowing! I said then boyfriend, which implies he isn't my boyfriend anymore. But I was just talking about husbands and wives, so...guess who I married? Aren't I clever?

** More foreshadowing! Eh, I'll go ahead and tell you. My then-boyfriend is my now-husband. Awww...

*** This is bugging the crap out of me. I know that the correct plural form of "Pepsi" should be "Pepsis," but that doesn't look right at all, so eff it. "Pepsi's" it is. Besides, "Pepsis" is a bug genus. Ew.

Julia Child really was a spy. That's hot.

I plan to claim "food writer" as an occupation much more often, now that Julia Child made it sexy. Spies are so beyond cool. The nice thing about making little to no money is that I don't have to claim any one profession. These are some of the answers I like to give when asked, "What do you do?"

• "Not much." I say that one with a smile, because it's my favorite.
• "I'm a fitness instructor!" Proudly, with a maniacal* grin. I pull that one out when the person asking the question is being really freaking boring a little too obsessed with education and career achievement. If I'm really crabby, I'll even claim to have my GED. For the record, I do teach Pilates and I like it, but I can't say it's my life goal.
  
• "I'm a blogger." Blatant attempt to sound hip. Never works, but I still try.
• "I'm a freelance fashion writer." Blatant attempt to get a discount. Never works.
• "I'm a mommy." Blatant attempt to make people vomit. Works.
• "I'm a writer." Blatant attempt to prove to myself that I'm something other than a mommy and a fitness instructor. Has a 50/50 chance of working.
  
• "I'm a food writer." Bringin' Sexy back! Thank you, Julia Child!

Food writing is hot. Know what else is hot? Columbia's own Craig Melvin, who is now up in the big city, looking like he's been working out. Here's his first clip in Washington D.C.**

Namasté, y'all!

* I freakin' love the word "maniacal."

** I wish I could have been all fancy and embedded the video in this age, but "Web designer" will not be making it on to my resume. Damn.

Sprinkler vs. Rain

If the sprinkler system is so smart, why is it triggered by rain? If I'm so smart, why can't I figure out how to fix it? Huh? Huh? Answer me that! And why am I freaked out by this? It's set to go off every few days, at four in the morning. I know this to be true. But if it rains, the sprinkler starts going, all on its own, like that scary car in that movie. Maybe it's just very competitive.



Seriously, though, doesn't the grass look pretty? Make sure you watch the whole thing. There's a little surprise around the 21-second mark. And, don't worry, you can still hear the woodpecker. Sometimes he hides in the rain, but not today.

And, yeah, I stood out in the rain under my big yellow raincoat that I haven't worn since college to take this video. Why? Why?

Namasté, y'all!

Community Service.

I'm a civic minded sort of person and I do a lot of volunteer work. One job I do, on my own time with no thanks or compensation from those I serve, is to act as public birth control for young people. Yesterday, I donated hours of my time and some of my dignity, just to help the young people avoid becoming parents too soon.

My friends A and A, recent transplants from the low country, are camped out in an apartment with their two daughters while they search for the perfect house. If you know of anything in Shandon, Rose Hill, Wales Garden or the surrounding areas, please Email Me. They're getting pretty desperate, but not desperate enough to overpay, so don't get any ideas. But I digress, big time.

Their apartment complex has a pool. Pools are nice. They make the apartment feel more like a hotel, so A and A's kids think they're on a fabulous vacation. We went to the pool with them the other day and I only brought one extra kid, a very well behaved kid at that. Their apartment complex is right near the Sonic (they really need a house, y'all) so we stopped by on the way to pick up styrofoam cups full of something that is more or less liquid crack artificially flavored with watermelon syrup some delightful treats for our darling children. After sucking down the sugary drinks, half listening to my motherly warnings "nodiving...blahblahblah...no horseplay...blahblah...no peeing in the pool...blahblahblah...," they jumped in.

There are young people living in these apartments - young, fertile people. I know what you're thinking - what a great crowd of babysitters. You would be right, of course, but keep in mind they have now seen my children in action. As if my stretch marks and saggy bottom weren't birth control enough, they were treated to a constant, repetitive stream of instructions. Believe it or not, nobody really listened to my speeches during snack time, or the in the car, or at the house before we even left. And they wonder why I yell. BECAUSE NOBODY LISTENS WHEN I SAY IT NICELY TWELVE FLIPPING TIMES IN A ROW! DAMMIT!

In a valiant effort to prevent these fine young people from wasting their potential on early parenthood, I made sure that Baby J had at least one poop at the pool. Have you ever changed a poopy swim diaper? I don't know how, but they suck all the moisture out of the poop and you practically need a brillo pad to scrub off what's left on your child. None of it gets in the pool, which is a very good thing, but I think they should make special, re-moisturizing wipes to clean that mess. And for some reason the swim diaper makes it smell like cheese popcorn,the kind I used to like. It's probably chock-full of MSG anyway, so who cares. I could see the young people gagging into their Diet Cokes as they lounged and tried to relax. They had pretty much given up on checking each other out. Wonder why. Huh.

In spite of the way it might sound (or look, to a nubile young thing laying out by the pool), we were having a pretty great time. No one was fighting. No one was puking. And no one was bleeding. Of course, it was too good to be true...

After having been warned no less than fifty-two times to do racing dives only in the deepest area of the pool, O came up from the bottom, screaming. Seeing your child rise to the water's surface with blood on his head is a horrible, horrible feeling. His life flashes before your eyes and, if you're a paranoid freak like me, you'll be 75% sure he's paralyzed before you even get to him. A good parent feels nothing but love and deep concern at a moment like that. So why did I feel angry?

I love my son with every ounce of my being/from the bottom of my heart/[insert whatever cliche you like here]. I would love him if he had three heads and each one was uglier than the next*. I would love him if I had to change his diapers for the rest of his life. But you don't want anything to happen to the people you love the most, if it can be prevented. I want to be tolerant and loving, but I get so damn mad when people I love act stupid. Maybe some day I'll grow up.

I did the right thing, of course. I called the pediatrician's office for the list of things to watch out for when your child has a head injury. Why do I always forget that list, by the way? I sat with him and held an ice pack to his head. Well, it wasn't exactly an ice pack. It was a bunch of ice wrapped in a spare bathing suit of Baby J's. I soothed Baby J when he freaked out, "MY BATHING SUIT! MY SUIT! MINE!" I mostly contained my anger. Once I realized it was nothing more than a bump and a missing chunk of skin and hair, I managed to feel that kind of love that's wrapped in fear (at what could have happened), relief (at what didn't) and guilt (for letting them get hurt).

In fact, maybe we made it look too easy. I was there performing community service, after all. Throughout the entire ordeal, my friend A and I kept chatting about our fascinating, glamorous lives. What if I made all those Fertile Myrtles think children are sweet? Or fun? I knew I should have given the gang more sugar. Then the X-Man would have puked for sure.

Namasté, y'all!

* For the record, he is one of the top three best looking kids I've ever seen - the other two being his brothers, of course.

Decision, decisions...Slow Food will make them for you!

I usually make pretty fast decisions, especially if I'm hungry or desperate for my first drink of the day. Some people are more discriminating. Friday night, we had dinner at Tombo's with our friends S and M* who are about a thousand percent more knowledgeable than we are about wine (and probably a lot of other stuff, too.) M and my dear husband had just finished tearing it up on the tennis court, so they were celebrating a first round win in some tournament or another. Frankly, I don't pay attention to any of A's tournaments because I'm the meanest wife ever, only concerned about who will entertain the kids during the d*mn tournament not all that interested. My point is, we were starting dinner late - 8:30 is extremely late for parents of young children, who usually eat at 5 pm, around the time they have their first drink. And I haven't waited that late for my first drink of the day all summer**.

So we sat down. S and M couldn't decide what they wanted. Fine. I could wait for food, because I had just come from Yoga. What is it about Yoga that makes you not need food immediately afterwards? Must be something about the breathing. Anyhow, I tried to order a drink. In fact, I did order a drink, after some discussion about the fact that I am a white wine drinker while S and M prefer red. I actually ordered two drinks, a split of Sancerre. When my wine arrived, M sent it back. Yes, you read that correctly. He sent my drink back, because he and his sadistic wife had decided they did want white wine after all. He didn't need to send it back, because I could have polished off the split and still managed to consume my share of another bottle. It might not have been pretty, but I could have done it. That split would have been dry before they managed to pick a bottle, promise. But I digress.

The waitress suggested a very reasonably priced bottle of white, some Italian business. I was shaking so hard from the DT's at that point that I don't remember exactly. M (incorrectly represented in the "S and M" initial thing, because he is the sadist, for sure) wasn't sure how he felt about that wine. I was this close to saying, "Suck it up, Princess," and it's a testament to my fine upbringing that I did not. Thank you, Mom and Dad. The waitress, who looked like an even prettier Tina Fey and had the patience of a saint, offered him a taste. She brought it back and handed it to me first. Desperately, I gulped and declared it to be "GREAT!" A man of sophisticated tastes, M was not so crass. Or was he? He took the glass, in which I had left the tiniest of sips. He looked at it. He held it up to the light. He looked, he smelled, he swirled. I sobbed with my head on the table, thinking I would never, ever get a whole drink. He did that thing where you stick your whole face in the glass and inhale. I don't get it. I taste with my mouth. I felt this was far too much drama over a $30 bottle of wine which, as most of you know, would cost about $12 at the grocery store.

But I digress. Again, which is easy to do when you are desperate for just one flipping drink. I wept with relief when M gave what I think was a slightly pretentious nod. I was this close to slapping the glass from his hand and screaming, "JUST BRING US A BOTTLE OF JACK DANIELS! IT GOES WITH EVERYTHING!" The waitress left to get a full bottle from the bar. I think she felt my pain, because she was moving pretty fast. I'm going to spare you a description of how long it took those two to order actual food. Let it suffice to say the phrase "Hmmm...nothing's jumping out at me..." was bandied about. Really? I know something that's about to jump out at you, smack you in the head and order you a bucket of chicken, like it or not. I do think it's only fair to mention that S ordered a melty Brie appetizer, sensing either my imminent starvation or total drunkenness from drinking on an empty stomach. She knows me pretty well and I'm less than charming when drunk or starving, or both.

I love S and M (the couple, not the sexual practice, you pervert!), but I need a new strategy to eat with them. My friend T suggested that I should have excused myself and hit the bar for a shot of Tequila. he is a resourceful man and that was an excellent suggestion, especially if I could have grabbed a handful of peanuts to cushion it. But here's another option: Fixed Price Dinners.

Speaking of prix fixe, Slow Foods and Terra are hosting a dinner on August 21st to raise money to send Kristen and Ben Dubard, owners of local Five Leaves Farm, to Terra Madre, a world food event in Turin, Italy. The dinner is going to be amazing, full of local goodness - and wine is included. Hear that? Included - so no decisions will be required. Yes! You can order tickets here. We already have ours and I sincerely hope S and M will join us.

Namasté, y'all!

* Wow. These are the things that you realize when you write a blog and use people's initials. "S and M"? Ha! hey don't really seem like the type, but you never know...

** Mom, just so you know, there were actually a few days this summer when I didn't drink at all. For the record.

Help.

Baby J has a new tactic. When I catch him doing something he shouldn't, like climbing on a chair by the counter, unwrapping a pack of gum and filling his mouth with it, I'll ask,

"What are you doing?"

It's a stupid question, really. I know what he's doing. I'm not that dumb. Those two year olds can't put nothing over on me. Ha! He plays dumb, even though I suspect he takes after me and is very, very smart.

"I don't know, Mo-om."

It's more or less true. He knows he's not doing something specifically right, but he doesn't know exactly what it is.

I need to quit asking. I used to hate it when my parents would ask me about something, when they knew the truth, trying to catch me in a lie and compound the mountain of trouble I was in. I was a pretty good kid, but what was I supposed to do?

"Did you have fun last night? What did y'all do?"

"We went to a wholesome movie, ate popcorn and spent the night at [insert name of approved female friend here]'s house."

Then they would ask a bunch more questions, forcing me to dig an ever deeper hole, before I broke down in tears and confessed the truth. It was more than a little bit bully-ish, because I was a pretty easy target. My sister, on the other hand, had b*lls of steel. What was I supposed to answer?

"Last night? Oh, yeah, that was fun. A bunch of us spent the night at [insert name of guy whose dad worked in Washington DC but kept an empty house here], watched a pretty good Disney movie and hung out. There was a six pack of beer involved, but there were about ten of us there and I didn't have more than a sip, because frankly, I don't like beer and I'm ok with that. I think a couple of people fooled around but, as you can imagine, I wasn't one of them, on account of being the latest bloomer ever. Boys freak me out, but they're ok when you're just watching a Disney movie and eating pizza. I might have had an even better time, but I was scared I'd get caught. And here we are."

I did get caught, of course, when one of my friend's dads saw us at the country club for lunch with my Grandmother and told my dad all about it, in front of his whole family and everybody else we knew. My mom was out of town. As you can imagine, this was a fine moment for my dad. He was really happy and proud. Not.

I got grounded, of course. In my world, grounding wasn't that big of a deal. It saved me from having to pretend I wanted to go to parties that were way out of my league. It actually gave me some street cred, or so I liked to think.

"Oh," I would roll my eyes,"I would so be at that kegger but I'm,like, way grounded...yeah...spent the night at some guy's house...with beer. My parents are so harsh."

I conveniently left out the part about watching the Disney movie and not drinking the beer. See, Dad? Teenagers lie, to everyone. I don't think my peers fell for it either, but I had to try.

Unlike my own parents, I plan to be the Best Parent Ever. If I know my kid did something, I'm jusy going to tell them. When parents say you'll get in more trouble if you lie...that's a lie. How much more trouble can you be in? If you lie, it's just more of a hassle for them. I like to avoid hassle at all costs. I've built my life around avoiding hassle (well, except for the fact that I more or less deliberately had all these kids). I'm going to skip the lying portion of the conversation and move in for the bust. Unless I really don't know the truth. Then I might just ignore it completely, because kids have to get away with stuff sometimes, right? Just don't tell them I said so.

Namasté, y'all!

Genius or weirdo?

The X-Man, looking out the kitchen window this morning,

"A hummingbird is like a hornet and a half."

Do you ever have those moments when your children say something and you just want to pick them up, even if they are seven years old, and hug them and squeeze them? Of course you do. I'm wondering if that feeling ever ends, because I still have it with my ten year old. Occasionally, if it won't embarrass him too much, I even indulge.

Having children is the best thing I've ever done. Even at their worst, they're perfect. I wasn't always a kid person. In fact, I'm still not a kid person, but boy do I ever love mine*. Not too long before I found out I was pregnant (in spite of having taken extreme preventative measures), I announced to my husband that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted children. Funny how those statements will come back to bite you in the a**. Anyhow, all's well that ends well.

Our surprise pregnancy, although shocking at the time, wasn't all that big of a deal. A. and I are so uptight, we probably would have waited until I was 42 to have children. Nothing wrong with that, but I ended up with HELLP Syndrome, which can get worse with age, so having my first at 25 was probably better. And having a baby ten weeks early made me realize how badly I wanted one. Years later, we were on the fence about whether or not to have a third. Over a couple of drinks we decided it would be a great idea and got pregnant almost immediately. I had a miscarriage. That was sad, but it helped us know how much we really, really wanted a third. Baby J is the best. He is also very naughty, which makes us very sure of our decision not to have a fourth**.

And here I go on another tangent. Just a second ago, I Googled HELLP Syndrome to find a link to add to this post. I haven't done that in years, but there was a time when I wanted to read about it every day. I was obsessed, I guess. I don't think that was a bad thing. We needed to know what could happen in future pregnancies (Answer: Same thing, but usually not as bad.) and if there was anything that could be done to prevent it (Answer: Nothing. But healthy eating and controlling my blood pressure with medication seemed to help some.) There's so little information about HELLP and most people who've had it crave answers. Even though I've only met a handful of people in real life who had HELLP, the internet is filled with groupies. I still don't know what causes it, but I think Diet Coke must be the cure. In my last pregnancy, which lasted a whopping (for me) 37 weeks, I allowed myself a can or two of my cherished vice a week. Baby J was almost full term, so it must have been the Diet Coke. Or the acupuncture. Or the exercise. Or luck.

Back to picking up children and squeezing them: When O was born, he weighed 3 pounds and 6 ounces. I weighed about a thousand pounds. We were both hooked up to this and that machine in different rooms, so I didn't get to see him for a couple of days. My dad brought me pictures from the nursery and I held his little hat and smelled it. I cried a lot, because Morphine will make you moody. That is the worst drug, by the way. It doesn't mask pain, it just makes you too tired to complain. I recommend Demerol. Fun times. More than anything, I wanted to pick up O. and squeeze him. I don't remember when we were allowed to hold him, but I do remember spending hours beside his bassinet in the special care nursery, stroking his tiny body with one finger, because my hand was too big. He came home after a month, weighing about four and a half pounds. It was a while before I could really squeeze him.

I didn't see O. at the moment he was born, because I was out cold. I remember feeling really happy about waking up, because from the way everyone was freaking out before I went under, I didn't know if that was going to happen. The last thing I remembered was hearing my doctor argue with the anesthesiologist about whether to use general anesthesia or an epidural. I heard the obstetrician ask for some sort of cutting thing and thought, "Oh. My. God. They didn't finish their little anesthesia chat! This is gonna' be a b*tch." I tried to recommend that they just pick one, but the room went dark, so I guess they already had. Waking up, thrilled to be alive, I looked down at my still full belly, turned to my mother and said,

"Oh! They kept the baby in!"

My happiness was short lived. The baby, thankfully, was tiny but fine. And not in my belly. That mountain was all me. That's what happens if you gain 80 pounds. Knowing that, I did it again in my second pregnancy. Some people never learn. To make a long story short, the baby grew and I shrunk. We both reached normal size. All's well that ends well.

Anyhow, I've exceeded my daily allotment of digressions, so I'll stop. Thanks for letting me relive the memories. Now I'm off to pick up my children and squeeze them!

Namasté, y'all!

* And yours, of course. Yours are adorable, as long as they don't get up in my personal space.

** Well, pretty sure. I'm getting too old for that sh*t, yo.

Drinkin' and Bloggin' Part...Do What?

My husband and I went out to eat Friday night with some semi-new friends. They're semi-new because we've known them for a while, but we haven't actually hung out with them on purpose. We once crashed a party at their place at the beach and decided we liked them, because they didn't throw us out. Cool. Anyhow...

We met at their place for a drink and began the process of choosing a restaurant. We didn't want to drive too far so, bossy decisive as I am, I named three places I love, all within a few minutes of their house. They had their daughter, who is an excellent baby sitter, choose one. They just moved here from Portland, so she picked at random. We went to the restaurant, which shall remain nameless, because I love them and I'm about to be kind of mean. Ish.

We sat down. We had a polite conversation about wine. You know how it is with new couple friends. You have to be delicate. You don't want to make some crass announcement that you are cheap as hell, so you say something like, "I refuse to order wine that costs more than $42. Damn!" Oops. I guess that wasn't delicate. And I did say that. I never claimed to be fancy, ok? So, I had already been kind of obnoxious and I really, really planned to behave like a delicate flower for the rest of the evening. I did! But...

It was really hot in the restaurant. I wasn't the only person in our party who mentioned it (Do I sound defensive?) I'm sort of assertive, by the way. The waitress came back with our wine. As she reached for the wine key, I exhaled, "Wait!" As I mopped the sweat from my brow, I asked her if a seat somewhere else would be cooler.

"No," she responded, with bravado, "There are a lot of people in here and the air conditioning is working hard."

I don't fault her for that answer. I don't think she was trying to cover up the fact that the air conditioning was broken. I think she had been fed that line by the owner of the restaurant, like a Jedi Mind Trick. And I don't think the owner is a big fat liar, either. I think she's in that classic state of denial - the one where you talk yourself into believing the air conditioning isn't broken, that it's just really hot outside. Never mind that every other building you enter in South Carolina in the middle of the summer is freezing cold. Nope. Your air is working just fine. Because your air is working just fine, you most definitely will not have to spend thousands of dollars to fix it. Nope, not you. My advice is to go ahead and call the repair people. You'll get past your denial in a day or so, which is how long it'll take to get an appointment. If you wait until you're emotionally and financially ready to acknowledge the big, sweaty elephant in the room, you'll have to go a lot longer without air conditioning. Trust me. Been there, more than once.

The hapless waitress stood by, poised to open our bottle, which was already sweating even more than I was. Nervously, I asked our companions if they could eat in that heat. I really, really hoped they didn't think I was being obnoxious. They are either very good actors or they were as hot as I was.

We left and went to Tombo's, where we enjoyed a lovely meal in an icy cold room with an icy cold bottle of Sancerre, just like I like it. Just in case you're curious, I had the arugula salad and added tuna steak. It was flippin' fantastic. I just hope our new friends don't think I'm a high maintenance b*tch...

Namasté, y'all!

Two Going on Thirteen.

When your two year old has two older brothers who think they're thirteen (even though they're only seven and ten), you'll feel like you're living with the shortest adolescent in the world. He will copy everything they do and they'll teach him all sorts of charming behaviors. He'll have a sophisticated sense of humor, laughing at farts and burps long before other children his age get the joke. He may even learn how to beat box. At least once a day, I hear "unh-chhh...unh-chhh...unh-chhh" coming from the carseat. He actually keeps a pretty good beat. He can also sing along with Alicia Keys, Lupe Fiasco and Chris Brown.

He doesn't always know how to use the pre-adolescent tricks he learns, though. I'll ask if he wants a popsicle and he'll respond, in an exasperated tone, "Okay, fine!" He hasn't quite mastered the eye roll, but he will. Probably by next week. Probably just in time to offend some nice old lady at the grocery store. Yay.

Sometimes, he gets the pre-teen act disturbingly right. After lunch today, I somehow managed to almost doze off. My eyelids were heavy, but snapped open, as only a mother's eyelids will do, in response to a small sound in the kitchen. It wasn't more than a rustle, really, preceded by a few soft taps and a barely audible click. Most people wouldn't recognize it, much less be startled awake by it. I knew it was the sound of a stool sliding four inches towards the counter, a toddler climbing onto the stool and pressing the keys on the laptop and a digital camera lens opening. Much like his mother, the human toddler has a super human ability to hear the sound of his plans being thwarted. As I walked toward the kitchen, silent as a mouse, I heard him slide off the stool. I found him standing by the stool, pilfered camera in hand. The laptop, interestingly enough, was moved to the very edge of the counter and closed. He looked at me, defiantly, I swear. With big eyes, he claimed,

"I din't do any-fing, Mo-om!"

Total lie. But who am I to argue with a two year old? I've tried it before. You never win. Seriously, never, because they're playing by totally different rules. They can always claim short term memory loss...or total cuteness.

I'm beginning to think it's time that Baby J got a new blog handle. Perhaps "The Flying J" as an homage to his insane desire to jump off of, into or over stuff on a daily basis. But that might be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm open to suggestions, by the way. I might just call him Baby J forever, though, because he'll always be my baby. And so will O and the X-Man. So there.

Namasté, y'all!

I'm sure there's an official name for this...

I took exactly one socio-linguistics class in college (which I attended approximately 46.5% of the time) and I vaguely recall there was a name for that thing toddlers do where they get confused about the meaning of a word or phrase and use it in an overly general way. Does anyone know that word? It's going to drive me crazy. Anyhow...

When the big boys are nowhere to be found, Baby J makes a regular announcement.

"I go wake up X-Man!"

He alternates that with,

"I go wake up O!"

He seems to think waking someone up is the same as going upstairs to irritate the living daylight out of them. Shortly after the announcement, he climbs the stairs. After that, there are several possibilities:

• If the announcement is preceded by the familiar sound of a hand dragging through Legos, Baby J will be greeted by someone yelling,"Unhh! NO, Baby J! You can't play with Legos!" He does not, in fact, agree with that assessment, as he finds himself to be perfectly capable of playing with them, although not, perhaps, in the way his brothers would prefer.
• If the announcement is made while the boys aren't home, nothing much happens. Baby J climbs the stairs and, finding no one to stop him, plays with Legos in peace, destroying anything in his path. That's what you get for leaving your damn Legos out, I say. In his mind, he has mad Lego skills.
• If the announcement is made while the boys are actually sleeping, there are two options. The first is kind of sweet. He's greeted with offers of snuggling. The second is not sweet, and involves screaming. It all depends on how early it is. Baby J will take either reaction. He just likes attention. And Legos.
  
• Once in a blue moon, the announcement is followed by the sounds of a big brother or two playing with a grateful toddler. Offers of payment increase the likelihood of that outcome.

In retrospect, I think Baby J means exactly what he says, but in a more figurative sense. As in, "I am coming up there to wake you up to the absolute power of my tyranny." Good thing he's cute.

Namasté, y'all!