My Advice About Everything! And More!

I have this fantasy. I want an advice column. It would be funny. And brilliant, I'm sure. I need practice, though. So...here's a thought. Maybe you are all too irritated with me, because I've neglected this blog for far too long, but I hope you aren't, because I like you. I do!

I also love sharing my opinion and may need to do less of that when it's unsolicited. But...what if I had a whole advice column? Where people solicited my opinions and I wouldn't have to feel like a jerk for sharing them? So, go ahead and ask me something. It'll make me keep up with this blog, which I actually love, because I'll feel obligated. Obligation and guilt are excellent motivators.

So is fear. My parents were really into fear-based parenting and I think it works. I was scared to do a lot of stuff I shouldn't. I told my son today that where birds flew over the ocean, there were fish below. And that sharks would show up to eat the fish and any nearby humans. This kept him from going out too far in the ocean, but I don't know if it's true. Don't care, either. My parents were so scary, I was also afraid to have sex, do certain drugs and cuss in public. I hope to instill these same fears - and more! - in my own children.

But I digress. So...if you have a minute, send me a question. Maybe about an issue with your children or - even better - other people's children. It's fun to talk smack about other people's parenting, isn't it? Or questions about food - I love those. Want to healthy up your favorite recipe? I can help and darn it, I want to! Fashion? I have a lot of opinions about that. Manners? Bring it! Nuclear physics? Sure. I don't promise my answers will change your life or even be true, but they will occasionally be entertaining. Email the questions or just leave them in the comments section (Anonymous, even. I really don't want to know which of my friends is considering a three-way. Really.) Indulge me? Please? Pleeeeeease?

Namasté, y'all!

I'm a big loser! And I'm okay with that!

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I haven't blogged in almost a week. At least one person noticed and he harangued me about it last night at the Soirée du Soleil. I was flattered beyond belief. I had a little Sally Field moment in my head. Thank you, kind sir. Anyhow, I feel bad. Sort of. I don't actually feel bad, because I know I'm not perfect. I set a goal when I started this blog: I would never let more than two days pass in between posts. About a year and a half ago, I started posting here in hopes of becoming a better writer. I think it worked, at least well enough that I feel honest when people ask what I do and I answer, "I'm a freelance writer." Yup, true. True enough that I can say - truthfully - "I was really busy this week with work." I got the details for a new writing assignment on Monday; the article was due Thursday. Maybe I should have said no, because given my commitment to my other blog and the fact that I can't seem to shake these three adorable children, I knew it would be a tough week. I really wanted to do it, because it involved interviewing and writing about a local lady and her two young daughters who run a shop together. Way cool. Besides, it paid money*. I also had a tough week because I decided maybe I didn't need the Wellbutrin after all. Now we know. Ahem.

One of the great pleasures of growing older** is learning to let things go. I'm learning very slowly. I'm still mad at you. Just kidding. Right after accepting the writing assignment, I thought to myself,

"Doh!" Yes, I really did think that. "We're supposed to go to David Sedaris on Wednesday night with my sister and the Spider Midwife!"

I had a moment of panic and quickly decided I could do it all. Tuesday evening, when I was still awake thinking about how I should go ahead and work on the article since I had done the interviews, I got an email from my sister, "The Worst News I Can Give You." Actually, it was no longer Tuesday; it had been Wednesday for about forty-five minutes and I couldn't sleep because I was busy procrastinating. The email started with an expletive or three (respectfully typed with plenty of strategically-placed asterisks so I would have to guess which ones. I got them all right!) M. and the Spider Midwife had gotten confused. David Sedaris was in Greenville Tuesday night, not Wednesday. We missed it. The saddest bit, I thought, was that part of the reason they had gotten confused is they had handed in their taxes early so they could be free and easy for the concert. Doing the taxes early meant they didn't have any desperate need to know exactly when April 15th was. Or April 14th, which is when David Sedaris entertained a crowd (minus four) at the Peace Center in Greenville. So they were penalized for being responsible. The last part of the email made so much sense. I hope she doesn't mind me re-printing it.

"I just wish there was something that I could hit really hard and have that result in us not screwing up in the first place so that we'd get to go tonight. But I know better than to believe in magic. The situation can't be fixed, we missed the concert like a bunch of dumbies and if I hit something I would just end up with physical pain to top it all off."

Wouldn't it be nice if we could hit something hard enough to turn back time? I'd have some bruised knuckles. I told her about the time I baked a cake for a party for old people. I was so proud of myself for being nice enough to make cake for old people. I chopped the nuts really small so they wouldn't have to chew too much. While the cake cooled, I went to check the email telling me exactly where to take it. I was supposed to take it to the main parlor at the old folks' home...about seven hours before I made it. It seemed so unfair! I was only off by one day! I had visions of old people, sobbing, desperate for an apple spice cake they would never know. I ate it, washing it down with a bottle of bubbly to assuage my guilt. The cake was delicious***.

I also forgot to pick up a friend's child from school once. And I forgot to take a meal to someone who just had a baby and she was really counting on it. Then I forgot again. By the time I took it to her, the kid was almost ready to go to college. I forgot to go to Altar Guild and the priest had to set up the service and tidy up after. I forgot the X-Man's new piano lesson time. Two weeks in a row. Two weeks ago, I volunteered to provide two boxes of coffee for a meeting at the local public elementary school. I felt so smug, because my children don't even attend the school. Ahhhh...hubris. I forgot. And I keep forgetting to send an email apologizing. Although they don't go to the elementary school, my children will attend the middle school associated with it. Now all the parents will hate me. And my child. But, what can you do?

Just so you don't leave all depressed: My sister, the Spider Midwife, TF and I went to Motor Supply Company where we enjoyed a fabulous dinner (read all about it later this week on The Shop Tart!) and didn't talk about David Sedaris once. No one was into my idea of passing Me Talk Pretty One Day and reading select passages aloud. This was probably for the best, because we probably would have started trying to blame each other and where's the fun in that? Blaming other people makes you feel powerless to do anything about things that go wrong. And I guess I am powerless to keep myself from forgetting stuff, but at least I feel like I could change. One day. Like when donkeys fly out of my butt and sing the Hallelujah Chorus. And accompany themselves with harps.

Namasté, y'all!

* This blog doesn't, but I like doing it. I live for the comments. Is that pathetic? Don't answer that. You will ruin the Sally Field moment.

** Yeah, I know I'm not that old. But I'm getting there.

*** If you clicked on that link, please notice the date: February 13th. The party was for Valentine's Day, so I assumed it was on Valentine's Day. It was the day before because everyone but me was too selfish to spend real Valentine's Day with old people. So I was penalized for being awesome! I wrote that entry before I realized my mistake, thus the happy tone. My husband came home from tennis to find me sniffling into a half-empty bottle of bubbly and a half-eaten cake. I am adorable.

I love my life and I love me some quinoa.

Remember how you boiled a bunch of quinoa at the beginning of the week and kept it in a closed container in the fridge so you could use it as needed without having to boil it every time? Well, first of all, I think it would be nice if we could boil the hugest pot of it ever, divide it into freezer bags and take it out of the freezer as needed. Is this a good or bad idea? Discuss.

For the last two days, I've enjoyed Breakfast Quinoa, which is certainly not an original idea on my part, but I will tell you how to make it easy.

Easy Breakfast Quinoa

Put a pot on the stove.

Put a scoop of cooked quinoa in the pot.

Add a splash of your milk of choice. I used Rice Dream Supreme Vanilla Hazelnut, which is now being sold at a closeout price at one of my local Fancy Marts. Which scares me.

Cook those together for a bit, maybe until the milk almost boils, but doesn't.

Put it in a bowl and add your favorite dried fruit and a sprinkle of your favorite nuts*. I'm a fan of toasted almonds and this cranberry pomegranate mixture from Trader Joe's. Dried, tart cherries and pecans would be lovely, too.

This is so delicious, I can't even tell you. Like steel-cut oatmeal, but better. And, as you may have heard me mention, quinoa is the bomb because it contains all nine essential amino acids needed to qualify as a complete protein. The whole theory of complete protein is up for debate, but is that really my problem? Or yours? Nope. So, eat up. Quinoa is also very easy to digest, the perfect morning treat.

And here is yet another quinoa recipe (just try and stop me.) I served this on Friday night with steak, collards and rice. My sister finished what was left in the salad bowl in the kitchen after dinner, which made me feel a little sad because I had plans for that salad. Plans to eat it for lunch. But oh well, because I still have cooked quinoa, so I can make it again. Whenever I want.

Toasted Quinoa Salad

In a pan with olive oil, sautée a scoop of cooked quinoa, a handful of frozen corn and a handful of pine nuts. Almonds would be nice, too. Or pecans. Any nuts, really**. Let them get a little bit brown.

While they cool, dump a whole bag or clamshell box or mess of salad greens in a pretty salad bowl. Add the quinoa, corn and nuts and much less vinaigrette than you think you need. Your favorite oil and vinegar-type dressing will be just ducky. I am currently having a hot and steamy affair with the vinaigrette from local restaurant Moe's Italin Grapevine. Rumor has it the Social Pig might start carrying it. That would be great. Toss everything together and serve. Yum.

And what about the rest of this post's title? "I love my life," in case you weren't paying attention. Why, you might ask, would I need more than the joy of quinoa? Well, I don't, but I'll take it. Simon and Schuster sent me an advance copy of a novel coming out this summer for review. It is the sort of novel I happen to love, about glamorous ladies with interesting and cute problems that (I hope) are eventually solved. I think "Chick Lit" sounds a bit dismissive, but I love it so who cares what we call it? Anyhow, I have read so many of these novels, I often can't find a new one in the library or book shop. Or I buy one and half-way through, realize I've already read it. I can't wait to dig into this one. And, although this may seem like nothing to some of you, I'm tickled pink that someone wants my opinion. I'm tickled pink that I've turned sharing my opinion about stuff I like into a job. I really, really am. And, gosh darnit, I feel fancy.

Namasté, y'all!

* That's what she said. No, really, she did. I heard it.

** Why are you even looking at this? You know what's coming...that's what she said.

Oh, the Tank.

Just in case you were curious, the Tank still claims the potty is "not for him." I commiserated with another mom over tea* today about that. She has a toddler close to the same age who isn't much interested either. As a mother of three, I wanted to reassure her, so I told her all children potty train when the weather gets warm**. Hope she didn't hear the shaky kernel of doubt in my voice. Oh, well, it was a lovely, toddler-free chat anyway. About once every week or two, the Tank likes to announce a need to use the potty, remove his diaper and use it. Just like that. I suspect this is to show us he could use the potty, but enjoys watching us getting our hopes up before he dashes them. What a charmer.

His new catch-phrase, which is probably from some movie or another is, "This is serious, Mom." Or Dad, or whoever will listen. After this dramatic announcement, he's unable to articulate exactly what is so serious. I'm sure he'll let us know when he's ready.

He also has a new game. I went to get him in the gym nursery the other day and the young lady watching the kids looked at me apologetically,

"I swear he keeps asking me to do this."

And she was telling the truth, because he was laughing and, as I well know, the Tank does not do much he doesn't want to do. She sat behind him, holding on to his hands as he pleaded, with increasing drama,

"Lemme GO! Pleeeeeaaase! Lemme GOOOOOO!"

Then he would let go of her hands, pretending to escape and tumble onto a pillow in front of him. Presumably, he put the pillow there to break his fall. We play this game at home now, too. Fun times. Kids are strange, aren't they? Oh, well. As the Tank likes to tell us on a regular basis, "The Tank is a two-year-old kid." Which explains it all.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup. Still rocking the herbal tea.

** I tried to say this with great authority. I also told the other mother, a fellow writer, that blogs are good for practice writing. They keep you in the habit of writing, especially if you set a goal. I am long past the age when I believe in lofty goals, so mine is this: I won't skip more than two days of blogging. As I type, I'm standing at the kitchen counter, cooking miso soup for dinner while helping the X-Man with his homework, listening to "Thunderbirds" (old-school version) while the Tank demands various things and yelling at O. to get ready for soccer while I wonder if I'll have the energy to go to the gym after dinner, because I never did make it there today. My point is, this may not be my best work, but it's something. Practice, just practice. Now the Tank is explaining to me, in great deal, how he brushes his teeth. "THE TEETH IN MY MOOOOUUUUUTH!"

Tagged by Blog O' Beth.

And I like the Blog O' Beth and she provided a nifty little graphic, so I'm going to do it.

I'm supposed to write five predictions for the new year. I like guessing games and this is one, so...

1. I predict The Tank will learn to use the potty by March, no matter what he says. "I said nooooo, thanks!" "I can't like dat potty." "I don't care my potty." "Dat potty's not for me." Lies. All lies.


2. I predict these artists, The Half and Half, will become wildly successful. Your political views notwithstanding, I love the print below, which we bought a few months ago and my husband had framed as a Christmas gift to our family. Barack Obama will be the first political candidate my two oldest children remember supporting and, in case you hadn't heard, he is our first non-white president. About damn time.




3. I predict my marriage will get fun again. Seasoned parents, we've finally realized we don't get along with a toddler in the house. In fact, if we ever do this again, I will suggest separating and sharing custody from the time the toddler is one and a half until he acts like a human, around three. Then we can get back together. Also, my husband's father died this year, which was rough. And, I started working more for the first time in our marriage. Tough year, y'all. Good thing we're both funny as hell.
   


4. I predict the real estate market will go wild and these excellent realtors I know in Columbia, South Carolina will make so much money they'll take me and my family on a tour of Europe.


5. I predict I'll be about the same weight and look about a year older one year from now.

And I'm tagging...Faith the Atomic Blonde, Lisa of Blonde Appetit and Sam of Baan Sawan Thai Bistro. I predict they might not do this thing, but I hope they do, because I think it's fairly entertaining.

In other news, today is New Year's Day and, out of silly superstition and fear, I rushed to the store at the last minute and bought the ingredients for the easiest good luck meal ever. Should you ever be in the same desperate situation, please return to this post.

Black Eyed Peas (Not Quite Hoppin' John)

Buy a 2 pound bag of frozen black-eyed peas. Dump half of them in a pot with 2-3 cloves chopped garlic, a can of Rotel tomatoes and about a cup of water, enough to cover the peas. Bring them to a boil, turn down the heat and let them simmer until they're tender, a little over an hour.

Serve over rice. I used the ready-made frozen kind from Trader Joe's. Hell yeah. Sprinkle crispy onions from a can on top.

Collard Greens

I stole this idea from the brilliant Tracie, with whom I took an excellent New Year's Day walk along the river earlier. The walk was followed by lunch with my family and Tracie at Liberty Tap Room where we watched the Gamecocks act stupid and I enjoyed a scrumptious Red, White and Bleu Burger. My husband was cracking jokes about people from Iowa being "Idiots Out Walking Around." That idiot shared the joke with some local judges, who happen to be Iowa fans. I had to point out that Iowans have been doing more than walking around. They have been playing football, unlike some teams I know. But I digress. Collards...

Heat a splash of olive oil and a few spoonfuls of Miso in a pot. I bought Garlic Red Pepper Miso at Rosewood Market recently and I love it so much I want to marry it. Add a chopped onion, some soy sauce and a splash or three of vinegar. I used cider vinegar because I had it, but rice wine vinegar would be just ducky. Add an a**load of sliced collards to the pot, wilting them as you go so everything fits. The X-Man and I bought four bunches and used them all. His New Year's Resolution is to eat at least one vegetable a day, which he apparently has not been doing. Do I get that Mother of the Year Award now?

Cook them until they're done and add more vinegar and/or soy to taste.

Pork Roast

Put a boneless, 2 1/2 pound pork roast in a Reynold's oven bag with 1/4 cup of something liquid. I used Shealey's Bar-B-Que Vinegar and Pepper Sauce.

Make a sauce out of shallots, jelly, ketchup, vinegar and some seasoning. I added equal parts ketchup and Cherchie's Lem'n Hot Pepper Jelly to the pot, heated them and added about 1/3 cup chopped shallots. I know shallots are fancy, but they're milder than red or yellow onions and hold up better than green onions. Then I splashed in some vinegar until it tasted right. The sauce simmered for a while. I have no idea how long, so don't ask. I didn't add any seasoning, because the Lem'n Hot Pepper Jelly was interesting enough. You could use apricot, orange or apple jelly and add chili powder. Oh, wait. I lied. I used a little garlic salt.

The roast will take about an hour and a half to cook - the directions come in the box of Reynold's Oven Bags, which rock. You can make the other stuff during that hour and a half. You can also drink about a half bottle of Chardonnay, which I did. Mwah!

Namasté and Happy New Year, y'all!

Ultimate Balls, Sausage Style.

That is the recipe included in the Free Times this week. I was tempted to replace the phrase "So go for it" with "Sack up and buy the fancy cheese." As I sat at my desk, debating the issue in my head (or maybe out loud), the phone rang. It was my dad. Obviously a sign I should leave the offending phrase out of the article. However, it's much funnier, so if you read the piece, please make the substitution. The article isn't up online yet, but you know I'll give you the link when it is. Because I love you.

I love you so much I won't taunt you about the fact that we are headed somewhere very warm for Thanksgiving. Because if I did taunt you, it would surely rain the whole time. So, consider yourself not taunted. Being me, I'm experiencing a fair amount of anxiety about the trip. These are the things that are flipping me out, in no particular order:

• The Tank is not potty trained. On the bright side, we may have time to work on that during our vacation.
• We never fly. All these new regulations scare me. What if they take my wrinkle cream? I will come back even uglier.
• I didn't have time to get a spray-on tan. My whiteness will blind and scare people.
• The possibility of diarrhea. We have three kids, y'all. Three. That is a lot of diarrhea potential.
  
• What if I can't summon the worldwide internets at the resort? I'll feel so lonely! And I won't be able to update my other blog, which I have to do because I've turned it into my job.

Speaking of my job, I'm having a giveaway on The Shop Tart. Check it out. Maybe you'll win. Besides, the more creepy food pictures I get, the better. The contest is a tribute to one of my favorite cookbooks. The recipes are fairly useless, but the pictures are amazing.



The cookbook is very thorough. It provides recipes for both dinner and supper. Apparently, these are two different meals. I did not know this and can't decide if it interests me or not. The recipes may not be prepared for lunch. Duh.

Here's to my new friend Wellbutrin. Hope it can get me through Survivor: Dominican Republic with the In-Laws!

Namasté, y'all!

Writing about writing. Or blogging, if that's what you call it.

I started this blog when I noticed I was no longer able to put a sentence together on paper (or a screen). I used to take any writing ability I had for granted. It saved me from failing classes. It came to my rescue when I needed to write thank you notes in a hurry. It allowed me to appear semi-articulate. After my wedding, thank you notes were few and far between. Graduate degree in hand, I had no further need to write papers. As a mother, no one much cared what I had to say or how I said it. So I got rusty, dangerously close to illiterate, really.

I don't want to go back to school. I can't force people to be interested in my thoughts. I should write more thank you notes, but I have to do something to upset my mother and drugs, under-age drinking and pre-marital sex are out at this point. So I started a blog, like every other boring mother. Unlike the other boring mothers, I never thought the minutiae of our lives was interesting to anyone other than the grandparents*. The beauty of the blog is that no one has to read it, or even tell you if they do. Apparently, I'm far more boring live than on screen. Who knew?

I tried to start a paper journal, but it made me feel like a middle schooler. I found myself writing things like,

"OMG! A. asked me out 4 friday. Hope I can find a baybeesiter! He is like the COOLEST GUY EVER!! I hate my MOM! She will problee not even let me GO! OMG OMG OMG! he was so cute when he asked me he was all 'want to go to that benefit on friday?' and I was all 'yeah but we need a siter and what is it for anyway?' I hope he doesnt think I am a total LOOSER! im going to wear my pink shirt from the limited and my new Tretorns that match. and pinstripe baggies, the ones with the rainbow pinstripes, not plain."

Also, the baby kept trying to eat the pen, which would remind me that I wasn't a middle schooler and I would get all depressed.

"OMG i am so OLD and dapressed! and i am so fat! OMG My mom is so mean!"

Thus, the blog was born. That sounds very dramatic, doesn't it? And the best thing about the blog is that it isn't dramatic at all. I suppose some are, but mine doesn't seem to inspire any overwhelmingly unpleasant feelings, which is fine by me. When I started, I pledged to write a few times a week, skipping no more than two days in between entries.

I also pledged never to tell anyone about my blog, but I drink too much sometimes and told my sister, who drinks too much and told some other people. Now I have millions of readers enough readers to make me feel very appreciative. And, although I have yet to hit the jackpot and make millions from my blog**, I have gotten some freelance writing jobs from it, which resulted in people writing me actual checks for actual money, just for writing stuff. Like a five year old hearing his parents cheer from the sidelines of his soccer game, this makes me feel really good and want to practice even more. You don't even have to give me blue Gatorade and Oreos***.

My blog isn't always my best work. It's done in spurts - in the driveway while the baby naps in the car and the house cleaners work inside, over coffee while everyone's at school, for a few minutes while the kids are in the shower or a few hours while they zone out in front of a movie. The blog is practice. It's the school equivalent of an essay test, not a term paper. Several people have told me recently that they would like to be writers, too. This implies, much to my great joy, that I am an actual writer, which qualifies me in some small way to give advice to writers:

Writing is like exercising. You have to practice to get better and you have to find a way to fit it into your day.

In other words, start a blog. I'll read it! But let me leave you with one last piece of unsolicited advice. These words should never pass your lips:

"Do you read my blog? You really should!"

That makes people feel even more awkward than when you brag about your kids. Don't do that either. Save it for your blog.

Namasté,y'all!

* In fact, even my mother has accused me of being boring when I'm talking about my children. No one else has, but I've see their eyes glaze over.

** Dear Oprah, I would be happy to come tell you all about my blog. Or say whatever you want me to say if you will just tell your fans you love me. Please? And this offer isn't just open to Oprah. I will compromise myself for fame and fortune for anyone, faster than you can say "hooker." And I will walk down Main Street, completely nude, for a lot less than a million dollars. A lot less.

*** I do, however, like Diet Coke and Fig Newtons.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Dooce is a real celebrity.

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

So...

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

*My husband would beg to differ. Ignore him.

So, what is Twitter?

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

Best Day Ever.

Just in case you are not among the approximately three million people I've already told about this: I'm in the April issue of Skirt! Magazine. I'm tickled pink! Click here to see the article and what I think is a very flattering picture, taken by Molly Harrell. She was so much fun and so is Jenny Maxwell, who picked me for the profile and is the editor of Skirt! Columbia. Jenny blogs for the magazine and I always enjoy reading what she has to say.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. In case I wasn't clear, I am having the best day ever. Whee!

I am so famous.

I have a job now. I'm a freelance writer slash newspaper columnist, kind of like model slash actress, without the hotness and cocaine. If you're into this sort of thing (you, know, stuff about me!), take a look at my first column in this week's Free Times. I'll do one a month, with a recipe, using local food as often as possible. This month's is about filet mignon.

My parents will be so happy, because they were sick of having me tell everyone I was a fitness instructor (which is true) after they paid for all that education. "Writer" sounds pretty clever, n'est-ce pas? My husband is already planning what to wear to the Oscars when I'm nominated for my screenplay. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not planning on taking him. Or writing a screenplay.

Namasté, y'all!

I guess I'm it...

Hello and thank you, Meagan, who tagged me (and whose blog I love to read)!

Here are the rules:

A. Post the rules at the beginning. Done!

B. Answer the questions about yourself. Wait for it!

C. Tag 5 people and let them know in a comment on their blogs that they have been tagged. Ladies, you're it! Jodi, Brenda, Kelly, Amy, and Kathy (whose blogs I also love to read!)

What Was I Doing 10 Years Ago? This one's easy. I was lying in bed, waiting for O. to be born, reading lots of gossip magazines and watching old television reruns, mostly The Facts of Life and 90210. I was in bed for a few months before he was born, 10 weeks early. Poof! We were magically transformed into parents. It was a very exciting time, even though all I could do was lie in bed, watch television and eat. Now that I have three kids, that sounds really awesome and I look forward to doing it again some day, without the pregnancy.

Snacks I Enjoy: Jalapeño pimento cheese from Rosewood Market on celery sticks, olives, nuts and, on a really rough day, Spicy Thai Kettle Chips. And popcorn. And Manchego cheese with Cotognata. And fresh berries. I can't go more than two hours without food. Oink.

Five Things on my To-Do List Today: 1) Finish this and post it to my blog. 2) Go to the grocery store - done! 3) Ummm...cook dinner. 4) Wonder if the kids' Spring Break might be a little bit shorter next year. 5) Hang out with my sister in law after our kids go to sleep. We're vacationing together.

Things I Would Do if I Became a Billionaire: Build a fancy Dwell-style shed in my backyard with an outdoor fireplace and a room upstairs that I could use as an office. Do some insanely expensive kitchen remodel. Buy a beach house big enough for my whole family, including siblings, parents, friends and whoever else wanted to come. Take a family vacation to Italy. Hire a live-in nanny. Buy this Tracy Reese dress I saw at Mary the other day that I can't stop obsessing about. Set up a healthy retirement account for myself and college funds for the kids. Give each of my siblings money to buy houses. Buy shoes. And more shoes. And a few pocketbooks. I'm very materialistic. I could probably burn through a billion dollars pretty fast.

Three Bad Habits: Losing my temper, not putting things away and being too nice. Ha! That last one was a lie. I drink too much: coffee, diet soda and wine, not necessarily in that order. Also, I'm way too cute. Oops! That was four!

Five Places I Have Lived: My parents' house (in the town where I now live), Andover, Massachusetts for boarding school, Montré, Québec for college, the apartment on Waccamaw Street where I met my husband and the house where I live now. I'd stay there even if I became a billionaire, but I might buy the place behind it, use it as the fanciest guest house ever and add a pool in between. And a tiki hut.

Jobs I Have Had: Coffee shop girl at Adriana's in Five Points, receptionist at my dad's office (almost got fired), language lab attendant, bank teller, data entry person for a bank (believe it or not, this was one of my favorites, because the people I worked with were so nice), waitress, bartender, assistant manager of an underwear store, babysitter, dancer at a gentlemen's club (Joke! That was just to scare my mom. Seriously, I'm way too pale and cranky), customer support for iVillage (hilarious, because I'm clueless about computers, but it might make sense if you've ever written to iVillage for customer support), Pilates instructor (current) and...drumroll...Freelance Writer! If you want me to write something, I'll do it. For money. That makes me a freelance writer, right?

Things People Don’t Know About Me: If it's not on the blog, it's so embarrassing that I'll never tell. Well, maybe I'll tell, but you'll have to bring me a bottle of Sancerre and some cheese. And maybe give me a foot rub while I drink the wine. And I won't put it in writing.

Namasté, y'all!

The Case for Mediocrity

I'd say chances are pretty good that none of my children will ever be the absolute best at anything. I'm not raising Michael Jordan, Luciano Pavarotti, Marc Jacobs or Bill Gates, as far as I know. It's highly unlikely that anyone I know will ever be the best at anything, or even the best at something in my small town. And I probably wouldn't be friends with them if they were.

I want my children to know that "best" doesn't need to be on the radar. I want them to do what they want to do and be good enough. It's easy for many of us to be paralyzed by an inability to be the best. I wonder sometimes how my life would have been different if I had sought out "good enough" sooner. I might have majored in dance in college, without worrying that I was too fat or not good enough. I might have applied for more jobs I thought I wouldn't get. I might have been more creative.

Creativity is hard to achieve. When people say, "I'm very creative," what does that mean? What gives someone the confidence to believe that about themselves? And how can I give my children that confidence? At one time, I was a math nerd. I still find myself wanting to quantify things that can't be quantified. Can creativity be defined by how much you get paid for it? If so, I'm not creative. Blogging and cooking are about the only things I do that could be considered creative and I'm definitely not getting paid (although I will accept donations. Buy me this. Please!) Can it be defined by sheer volume? If that's the case, I'm totally creative. I cook and blog plenty. Do other people have to compliment my writing or my cooking? It helps, so don't be shy. Or is it as simple as believing that I'm creative?

My husband is a tennis player. He loves to play and he plays a lot. I hope this doesn't hurt his feelings, but he's no Roger Federer. He's not even Marat Safin. But he takes his game seriously. When we go out of town, he tries to find time to hit with a pro. When he has a free afternoon, he closes the office early and hits with a friend or takes a lesson. Nothing puts him in a better mood; when given the chance to play, his little face lights up like Crepes Suzette. He thinks of himself as a tennis player, so he is one.

If you're confident, you can appreciate others who are better without letting it change the way you feel about yourself. My husband loves to watch professional tennis and I'm pretty sure it doesn't make him feel like he shouldn't bother playing. As much as he likes to win, he also likes playing with people who are better than he is. One of the things I'm most proud of in my children is their ability to acknowledge greatness and still be proud of their own work. They'll come home from school telling me what a great artist some kid is and show me the art they did themselves with pride. My son O. has played soccer for five years. During that time, he has scored exactly one goal. In part, it's because he usually plays defense, but it's also because he isn't the most aggressive or skilled person on the field, plain and simple. But he loves the game and he's part of a team, coached by a great guy who understands the value of teamwork. I'm learning from my children. I'm learning to do things that I enjoy, without comparing myself to other people. I think it's working.

The other day at Yoga, I realized that I enjoy it much more now that it's not as easy for me as it once was. One of the other ladies in class, C., told us a great story. She sometimes brings her ex-boyfriend to class with her, which I find odd, but only because I'm so psycho that I managed to alienate all my exes completely. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of them won't even claim me as an ex. Lucky for me, my husband is man enough to tough it out. Anyhow, after C. brought him to class for the first time, he called one of their mutual friends to gloat, "I beat C. at Yoga." We were all cracking up, which is a great start to a class. I have to laugh at myself when I fall over trying to do some ridiculous pose. I look forward to Yoga so much more now than when I could do it all; learning that a minute shift will change the feeling of a pose is such a great feeling. And I like working at something that will never be finished, because I'll never be late.

It's not that I don't believe in being competitive. I do, but only to the extent that it makes you better, if you want to be better. I think the joke nemesis is a great way to demonstrate this to children. My dad is good at a lot of things, but playing tennis and selling real estate are his two primary skills. For each of those , he had a joke nemesis, someone who was as good as or a little bit better than he was. In tennis, it was his friend Clinch. From a young age, we knew that Clinch was the man to beat but, win or lose, Dad never went nuts about it*. In real estate, it was Whit and, as far as I know, still is. We knew Dad wanted to beat Clinch and Whit, but we also knew that they were his friends and nice guys. Ergo, friendly competition is good, hating yourself or the other guy is not. My husband and I are working on choosing our joke nemeses, but I can't really do that in Yoga, so I may need to choose a nemesis in another arena.

Although I compliment my children regularly, I don't tell them they're the best. Eventually, probably sooner rather than later, they'd realize it just wasn't true. I'll ask them how they feel after a soccer game or if they enjoyed making a particular piece of art. And of course I tell them I love their work; I love everything they do**, because I'm their mother. I want them to find the things they love to do and do them. They can do their best, or not. I want them to do things to the extent that they want to do them, no more. And I don't ever want them to shy away from trying something new. In the words of a brilliant and misunderstood man:

Shyness is nice, and
Shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life
You'd like to

So, if there's something you'd like to try
If there's something you'd like to try
Ask me, I won't say "no." How could I?

Yes, kids, your mediocre parents use Morrissey to communicate with you. Good luck!

Namasté, y'all!


*The only time he ever went nuts over sports, that I remember, was the year that his beloved Citadel Bulldogs beat the Gamecocks at football. If you're not from here, you can never understand what this meant to a former cadet. It was awesome.

**That's not strictly true. I so totally didn't love it when O. and his friend tracked dog poop into my brand new car. I should have taken the $75 I paid to have it cleaned out of his college fund. Did I mention that I was pregnant at the time? I should have tacked on $25 for pain and suffering.

I also didn't love it when one of my children (name omitted to protect the gross) pooped in my car while wearing boxers. The poop fell out of the boxers and the child in question tried to clean it up. That time, I wasn't pregnant, so I went to the do it yourself car wash and went nuts. I used about twenty dollars worth of quarters on various cleaners and air fresheners. The car still smelled of poo. I called my husband and told him the car was totalled and we would need a new one. I checked one more time and found a dry, flattened turd in my Patsy Cline's Greatest Hits CD case. I chucked that and all was good. Instead of buying a new car, I bought a new CD. I couldn't get that mad, really, because it was kind of my fault. I was inside talking to my aunt, keys in hand, and I used the clicker to set off the horn; I literally scared the crap out of him. I apologized profusely.

Love my kids, hate poop.