People are nuts.

First Piece of advice: If you want customers not to be cranky while they wait, have free internet, like they do here at Nuttall's. They rock. A bottled water would be nice, too, but I'm over it.

I received this letter recently:

What is your take on the etiquette of shopping for a greeting card? Here is my scenario, while shopping for a Father’s Day card I was patiently waiting for the person hogging the “from daughter section” to move. When she finally had enough and I took a step over, this woman swooped in and just started grabbing cards out as fast as she could. Like I was going to get the last good card and then began instructing her husband very loudly about the kind of card he needed to look for. I was so put out that I just elbowed my way in and stood my ground. Thinking the whole time…. How rude!!! What are your thoughts on personal space and greeting card shopping?

Dear Devoted Daughter,

What the hell is wrong with people? Maybe I'm feeling all Zen-like because I'm coming off of another detox week, but I advocate walking away from people like that as if they don't exist. Because they can't possibly be real. Also, they aren't happy and I have no desire to egg someone on in their misery. When my children get frustrated with mean people (like, each other or me or TF) I remind them that no one mean is happy with themselves. Have you ever done anything mean? I have. And I did it during the times I hated myself the most. Or when I was really hungry. And I actually used to let myself go hungry when I hated myself. Vicious cycle, that.

I used to waste quite a bit of time being mad, so I feel for that woman (but not enough to want to hang out with her or anything.) Did she really think you might score the perfect card? The one that expressed her sentiments exactly? You probably don't even share the same greeting card style. Geez. And you have to wonder how much was riding on her choice. Was she about to be cut out of a will or something? My parents are saving us from that by spending our inheritances on us now. That have paid for more school than Jon and Kate ever will. But I digress.

I used to do stupid stuff like insist on driving the speed limit in front of tailgaters, though I drew the line at tailgating myself. One day, as my heart rate was rising, I kept glancing in the rear view mirror at the red-faced freak who was trying really, really hard to mow me over to get to the dry cleaner's or church or something. I felt panicked and mad and self-righteous all at once. it was my duty to make him slow down. Surely, he would see the light if I drove exactly in line with the car next to me, preventing him from passing. If he didn't see the light, maybe I could give him a heart attack. That would teach him a lesson.

But it was killing me, so I put on my blinker. He relaxed, just a little, knowing I was trying to get out of his way. Then I did and he passed. I didn't turn my head to glare or see how he felt about me. I just moved over. This technique spares me a lot of time and energy and I would love to tell the Greeting Card Hooker about it. Maybe I could at least offer words of comfort to her husband, who probably endures this sort of thing all the time. Here's some advice: Was he cute? Are you single? Slip him your card, because he might be looking for a new partner soon. Granted, this isn't the most ethical technique in the world, but you never know. Actually, scratch that. He sounds like kind of a wussy and who wants a piece of that? You might have suggested some sort of pharmaceutical help for either the mad woman or her husband, but that wouldn't have gone anywhere good. Trust me. Personally, I have found that my daily dose of Wellbutrin helps me let go of anger much more quickly.

Aggression - whether it's your own or someone else's - is a time waster. That time could be spent doing things like pondering why your bizarre children are the way they are. Why, when asked to perform in a talent show at the beach, they chose to bring everyone into the bathroom with a four-headed shower stall. You could also ponder why anyone installs four shower heads. I mean, I can think of one person with whom I would shower, maybe two, because you never know when a toddler will want to take a shower. But three other people? At once? That's sick. I really thought about it a long time, too, contemplating different shower scenarios, and I couldn't come up with a single thing. Anyhow, all fifteen or so adults* crowded into the bathroom, eyes on my children. Keep in mind I was the only person there with a child older than five, so the pressure was on. I wanted to prove I could raise normal children. The act - or shall we say "happening" - began. Fully clothed (Praise Jesus) the boys turned on all the shower heads. Fully clothed (Still. Thank the good Lord) one of them placed a hollowed-out watermelon rind on the other's head. Still fully clothed (Can I get an "Amen?") the other child began to grate the rind on the first child's head with a cheese grater. Then they switched places.

Not surprisingly, it was the most talked-about act of the show. I asked them if there had been any dialogue - you couldn't hear for all the laughing - and they said, "Yes, but it was improvisation." Really? Really. I asked if they could repeat it and prepared to thank great God in Heaven one more time that no one could hear a word they said. They couldn't remember a word, so I was spared that. So, anyhow, I have plenty of time to wonder about stuff like that and the mysteries of children are endless.

Namasté, y'all!

* A bunch of us rented a place at Isle of Palms for the week. One of my friends organized a talent show for the next to the last evening. She even brought medals to award the players. I love my friends.

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.

Why my husband doesn't get "Law and Order."

I know, I know. We're not supposed to have access to Law and Order without a television. But don't you know a junkie will obtain her drug of choice by any means necessary? Most evenings, we load up an episode on the laptop, get in bed and fall asleep like any normal American couple too tired and mad at each other for sex.

My husband, who enjoys many hobbies such as tennis, beer-drinking and truck-like snoring, always falls asleep within moments. This irritates me. I'm all into the story and I can't hear because the noise from the other side of the bed sounds like a dying elephant, with a really bad cold. If the story is compelling enough (which it is in every single episode, because Law and Order, in every incarnation, rocks), I pause it and punch him in the arm until he wakes up. He is a big, fat liar and always claims he was awake the whole time. So I quiz him on the plot. And he never knows the answers. Ha!

Anyhow, the other night, after a beat-down by me, he whined,

"You think it's bad for you? Imagine how it is for me. Every night, I watch some guy die. And there is never any resolution."

This cracked me up, which is always the simplest way to end a fight. He had the grace to acknowledge, though, that for a defense attorney like him, murder with no evidence or guilty-beyond-reasonable-doubt perp is pretty awesome.

I used to envy him his ability to pass out cold in any situation. I toss and turn and often, on the verge of sleep, get woken by some small noise and have to start all over. But, guess what? Since the introduction of Wellbutrin into my deranged chemical make-up, I fall asleep after the guy dies, too. Just like that. Now we watch the same episode two nights in a row and I still don't catch the end. Is this what it's like to be normal? Ish?

In other news, The Tank has a new habit. In a past life, he must have been some old guy from the country. About ten times a day, he says, "Well..." But he pronounces it "Way-ull," as in "Way-ull, I reckon them new folk up the road is just a little too citified, with their fancy cars and teeth and wearin' shoes ever' day and such." But the Tank is usually talking about something relevant to his life.

"Way-ull. I'ma play with my trains."

"Way-ull. You change my diaper. It stinks.*"

"Way-ull. I'ma not wear my jacket. It's not for me."

"It's not for me" is another favorite phrase, like he's trying to be polite. What he really means is, "Hay-ull NO, I ain't wearin' no mother-truckin' jacket. Day-um!"

Good thing he's cute. And that we have a lot of babysitters.

Namasté, y'all!

* Way-ull, the potty still ain't happenin' 'round here. Hay-ulp!

I will not be the #&%-hole*.

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: Parties are the new bars. Friday night, we were invited to a party. This party was a little bit different from a bar, because it was really far from my house. We chose our house based on its proximity to our kids’ school our church charming shops our dear extended family bars. Neither we nor my hard drinking über-responsible** brother-in-law and sister-in-law wanted to drive. In fact, when my husband suggested we draw straws, I said, "FIne. But if I lose I'm not going." Ergo, I started calling car services.

One such service offered a stretch limo at the low, low price of $75 an hour. This included bar service, television and something that was vaguely described as "mood lighting." That didn't quite seem like what we needed. Next I called Aiken Limousine and Transportation (1-877-648-5466). The word "transportation" indicated to me they had normal cars and I liked that they had a toll-free number, because it made them seem like a legitimate operation. The price was totally acceptable, our driver Landa-rhymes-with-Wanda was awesome and the car, which I pictured as a Honda Accord, was a glamorous Lincoln Towncar, no mood lighting, thank goodness. We've been discussing selling our cars, canceling our insurance and using the car service all the time. But I digress.

I called the day of the party to find out if I could bring anything. The hostess, a good friend who lives way out in the country, has asked me to pick up last minute necessities in the past, like ice, because I live in civilization near stores.

"Well," she answered, "L. is bringing tomato pies and deviled eggs, S. is bringing dessert, K and D are bringing a pork roast and V. is bringing her artichoke dip, so we're all set."

I screeched into the phone, "Why didn't you tell me it was a potluck? Did you think I couldn't handle bringing a dish?" Well, I didn't really screech, because the Wellbutrin takes the edge off nicely. But you get the picture.

My "friend" informed me there was one other person showing up empty-handed, our friend K. She only asked people to bring something if they offered. I had no desire to be the #&%-hole, so I cut her off and announced I would be bringing something. Exactly what was yet to be determined. Let K be the #&%-hole, I figured. She has thick skin.

I called my sister-in-law, who was bringing her famous artichoke dip***, to discuss. Always a positive thinker, she decided this had potential. We could make a game out of turning one guest into the #&%-hole at every party. And then make fun of them, mercilessly. There was even discussion of creating a special hat, which the #&%-hole would be forced to wear. We worried for two seconds about hurt feelings. My sister-in-law concluded any one of them would just say, "Haha! Party for me!" and wear the hat with pride.

So, we didn't make the hat, but I did make the appetizer, a personal favorite. I've shared it before, but now I have pictures. Here it is, yo.

Smoked Salmon Endive Appetizers

I started at the Gourmet Shop, where I bought about a quarter pound of their smoked salmon, which is the best in town.

I paused in front of the Viking Pbrrrt and wished I had one. My Pbrrrt broke recently and this one is just like it, but with special features, such as a little bowl attachment that turns it into a tiny food processor.

Next, I called three different grocery stores to locate Belgian Endive. I live in a small-ish town and it behooves me to call so I don't waste time. I bought a bunch of Belgian Endive. Then I went home and started working.

Get a bunch of Belgian endive, cut the bases off and make a bunch of little boats out of the leaves.

In a mini food processor, mix a handful of chives and mint (which you should be able to find in your yard as they are weeds)

and equal parts mayonnaise and cream cheese, until they're totally blended.

Put the mix into a zip-loc bag and cut one corner off, so you can squeeze little dollops into the endive boats.

Now put a piece of smoked salmon on top of each one. Yum.

Take the leftover mush and put it in a little container to use as a sandwich spread, such an improvement over mayo alone.

Take the mis-sized bits of endive and make your husband eat them. He's old and needs the fiber. It'll keep him regular.

When you bring an appetizer to share, you won't have to hide your #&%-hole face at the party.

Namasté, y'all!

* I would say "a-hole", but I said it on the radio Friday and my parents weren't happy.

** My husband once described how he felt jogging down, early on a Sunday morning, to retrieve one's car from a bar parking lot. Equally responsible and irresponsible. Avoiding a DUI is wise. Drinking so much you can't drive is not. But we are what we are. He jogged down there extra early so no one would see our car on their way to church. Hiring a car service inspires that same feeling. Should we really feel proud of ourselves for knowing ahead of time we'll behave badly? Is there maybe a lesson on self-awareness here?

*** Mountains of parmesan, several dollops of mayonnaise and a jar of artichoke hearts, drained and chopped. Stir together and cook in a 350° oven until it's a little bit brown at the edges. So good!

Scary Grass Cam!

While I can't imagine this will inspire as much response as my last post*, I hope you'll join me in feeling a little nervous about my brown grass. I've been here before - driving through the neighborhood, mentally comparing my grass to others'. But this time my grass matches. My previous fact-finding missions were in the summer and spring, when everyone's grass was green. Brown, it seems, is only appropriate in the winter months. So...gulp...here it is. My Brown Grass.


Sad Grass Cam.
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

I hope to provide a service to anyone else feeling panicked about their grass supply drying up. My lawn dude assures me everyone's grass is patchy and brown at the moment. Do not be alarmed! In the video, you can hear the leaf blowers from our neighbor's lawn dudes. Actually, I think his are landscapers, which increases the price quite a bit. They wouldn't bother doing stuff to the grass if it was flat out dead, now would they? I plan to landscape when I no longer have a herd of little boys trampling my lawn-tastic lusciousness. Or maybe, you know, never.

Speaking of panic, the Wellbutrin seems to be working. I've maintained my sparkling personality while freaking out a little bit less. My sister-in-law confirmed that I seem like less of a freak. She is nice. I think. Just kidding. I know she's nice. She's my favorite person in my husband's family, his brother's wife and the only one not related to him by blood. I'll stay with him because a divorce would make things between me and V. awkward and she rocks. Also, I really like our house and I couldn't afford it on my blogger's income. And he's cute. And buys me grass.

Namasté, y'all!

* Dear Esperantonions, I meant no offense. I'm actually impressed. I barely speak English and only know a few words of French, Spanish, German, Serbian (just the cuss words) and Italian. I think it's very cool that y'all are so passionate about Esperanto. Is it cheap to say "I don't hate Esperanto. I had a friend in high school who spoke Esperanto?"It sounds like, um, a real lifestyle or something. And Chisanbop rules! I want to learn it now!

When will I learn?

I was enjoying a few moments of peace this morning, in between changing The Tank's diapers. Happy Diarrhea Day to Me! Just for today, I'm thankful he's not potty-trained. So, he was watching a movie in the kitchen - or so I thought - and I heard him moving around. No big deal, because the movie was Billy Jonas and the Tank likes to sing along and dance. I heard him say something, but I was doing really well playing Scramble on Facebook, so I ignored it. I heard it several times, each time more enthusiastic than the last. In between the outbursts, I heard a small sound, like crktt.

"HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt...

After failing again to beat my sister's high score at Scramble, I investigated. May I present, The Tank's first art installation:

He was so happy about it. I couldn't do anything but hug him. Score another one for Wellbutrin! Eggs are very hard to clean up with paper towels. Now you know.

Last week, life was perfect. My whole day revolved around beverages and hanging out. These are some beverages I enjoyed. First, imagine the taste of rich, warm espresso, sipped by the pool from one of these fancy Italian-y looking cups.

Also poolside, Coca Light quenched my afternoon thirst. I really, really miss reading under these straw umbrella thingies over the lounge chairs. American Wife, by the way, was a great vacation read. I'm finished, if anyone wants to borrow it*. Why does Coca Light taste so much better than Diet Coke? Anyone? Maybe it's atmosphere.

This last drink was my favorite, Malibu and club soda. Light on the alcohol, so you can have two! This vacation treat is ideal for sipping while playing "European or American?"

Speaking of "European or American?", my theory about Crocs and Speedos as unquestionable confirmations of nationality was incorrect. This guy proved it wrong, as he sports both Crocs and a Speedo.

But, I think we all know he's European, so my new theory is this:

Speedo=European
Crocs=American, if and only if accompanied by Speedo

Speaking of pants vs. no pants, both my husband and his brother managed to get locked out of their rooms without pants. I don't really understand how that happens. I never go outside without something covering my bottom. That is one of the rules I live by. Both of them attempted to re-enter via their respective balconies. Our room was on the first floor. My brother-in-law's was on the second floor. Please try not to picture him scaling a yellow stucco building at Club Med Punta Cana with no pants. Ha, ha! Try to get that image out of your head now! I'm thankful I didn't see it.

Namasté, y'all!


* I will not be including it at my next Anti-Book Club if you were counting on it.

This is really rather nice.

The thing about almost any resort that mere mortals can afford is that you have to let go of all cynicism to enjoy it. This is not a problem for me. I taught my husband how to do it when we took the kids to Disney World a few years ago. I took a real tough love approach. I threatened the hell out of him, something along the lines of, "Shut up and smile. If you don't have fun, I will kill you, after divorcing you for ruining our children's lives." He turned into Mr. Disney and has seen the light. We now approach all vacations with boundless enthusiasm. Your mother's wise advice proves true: If you act like you're having a good time, you will.

Really, it's not so difficult and there's no acting involved, so far. Beach, pool, really good food and - my new favorite drink - a splash of Malibu and club soda. This coconutty soda really helped me through my first Zumba class - fun! The triple cocktail of Malibu Rum, excellent childcare and Wellbutrin is making for a great vacation.

Before we got here, we told ourselves we would take a look at the toddler care and assess our comfort level. Who were we kidding? The Tank loves it. How can we deny him? Or ourselves?

I'm off to kickboxing class, which was really fun yesterday except for the overly art-seeking photographer who I was convinced kept trying to take pictures of my crotch. Wellbutrin allows me not to care that Britney-like-but-way-worse photos of me could be all over the internet by now. PSA: Gym shorts and a thong are not great kickboxing attire. I figured it didn't matter because I was out of town. Didn't know about the photographer. Oh, well.

Y'all stop by for a drink, m'kay?

Wish you were here!

Namasté, 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!

Grass Cam in November.

It's been a while since I updated the Grass Cam. That's because the grass has been causing me a great deal of anxiety, as have some other random things, like my whole life and everything about it. The Wellbutrin, it seems, might be working, even though it hasn't even been a week. The following things happened p.w.*:

• I cleaned out the fridge for the first time in three years. Or more.
• I made pasta sauce to freeze. Specifically, Puttanesca sauce. Semi-recipe to follow.
  
• I avoided the umpteenth argument with O. about pants. I am so completely over the long pants vs. shorts debate. We live in South Carolina. It's not like he'll die of frostbite. So go ahead and call DSS, maybe they can talk him into pants. I'd like to see that.
• I made a Grass Cam video. Watch for a surprise at the end.
  

Grass Cam in the Fall
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

The surprise, in case you missed it, is that it goes all wonky at the end, because something crawled over my foot. I missed it, as I was too busy writhing around and making stupid noises. It reminded me of one of my mottoes:

I love the outdoors, as long as there are cocktails involved, preferably served by a waiter on a patio near a silent bug zapper.

Speaking of that motto, I found this site the other day, sommeecards.com. Great stuff, including this one:

Exactly. I cannot, at this point, have a cocktail on my patio because I'm old and catch a chill and the Wellbutrin is not man enough to assuage my fears about the grass dying. Will someone please chime in with, "Oh, your grass is fine. It gets brown like that in the Fall. There, there, dear"? Please?

Oh, yeah. Puttanesca. I'm sure there's a strict way to make it and you are more than welcome to Google on and find it. I'm of the mind it should involve anchovies, olive oil, capers, olives and tomatoes. The details are of little import. I mean, "puttanesca" basically means "hooker," right? And you know those hookers don't have time to sweat the details. Here's how it went down today:

• Dump a bunch of olive oil in a pan. Heat it.
• Get out a packet of green olives wrapped in anchovies you thought looked good at the store. They were vile. Chop them up and dump them in the oil.
• Wipe out the rest of a jar of chopped garlic and dump that in, too. Pat yourself on the back for cleaning out the fridge and finding it.
• Ditto the above, but substitute "jar of capers."
  
• Stir for a few minutes.
• Drain and dump in two cans of tomatoes, one with green chilis.
• Stir it a little, decide it isn't red enough and add the end of a tube of tomato paste, making your fridge even cleaner.
• Heat for a while, then spoon as much as you like over pasta. Sprinkle copious amounts of Parmesan on top.

It freezes very well, is more or less approved by children and is cheap, cheap, cheap. Like a hooker.

Namasté, y'all!

* Post-Wellbutrin. Duh.

Blogging and waiting.

How much do I love waiting at the doctor's office, filled with anticipation for the invasive examination to come*? How much did I roll my eyes when my husband hit forty and whined about the man version of this happy event? So what? I've learned to close my eyes and think of England. He can, too. His doctor, a close friend and tennis partner, sees most of the men's tennis crowd at our club, as far as I can tell. Quite the "racket." Get it? Racket? Ha! One of the guys, when he reached forty, announced he would need a new doctor...or a new friend. I have no idea what he decided.

The reason for the long wait at every single doctor's office in the world eludes me. If it happened once or twice, I could understand, but every time? Maybe they could schedule less appointments. Just sayin'. A few months ago, I had to leave this office after waiting for an hour, because there were still two patients ahead of me. When I asked if my wait was the norm, the receptionist offered a cryptic explanation, "Well, she has a lot of elderly patients." So, do they take longer? If so, why not schedule longer appointments for them? Just a thought. Or was she assuring me that future waits would not be so long, as the elderly would die and leave more time for me? That's not nice. I'm considering sending them the childcare bill for my wait time. Or bringing the children with me. On second thought, maybe that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. Or, sans metaphor, bringing small children to a pelvic exam to spite the doctor and being forced to answer a thousand questions in the car on the way home and paying for therapy years later.

The only entertainment is some guy talking on his cell phone. There are signs forbidding the use of cell phones. I love flagrant disobedience. I think he just said, "I didn't know our Suede was pregnant." Is he talking about leather or that guy on Project Runway? Neither of them could possibly be pregnant, so I hope he gets in to see the doctor first, because he needs serious education. I wish he would start telling jokes or something. It is now thirty minutes past my appointment time.

Wow. Someone just left with a toddler. That's brave. And some other dude came out after a mere ten minutes. If appointments only take ten minutes, why am I still here? Cell phone guy is now texting in silence. Oddly, I miss the chatter. I have to go to the bathroom. Cell phone guy just got summoned. Now there is no entertainment whatsoever. I really have to go to the bathroom.

In addition to the universally ignored cell phone sign (who can go that long without a cell?), there is another, more encouraging sign. "If you have been waiting more than 30 minutes, please see front desk." I can see it from here. Last time, I fell for the prank and approached the desk, only to be mocked. Should I try it again? Should I? Here we go...

***

I take back all of the above, at least the complaining part. I like my doctor. When she takes extra time with me, it's all good. We had a long conversation about what is either my very bad personality or a slight chemical imbalance in my brain. She recommended a lot of options (including an herbal one!) and actually explained them. She suggested asking my husband to tell me if my personality was particularly bad at certain times of the month. That won't work, because he pretty much thinks I'm a b*tch all the time, and claims to like that. I had her narrow it down to the top three and asked the question everyone wants to ask:

Will any of those make my weight go up or my sex drive go down, because I cannot afford that sh*t.

So she suggested another one: Wellbutrin. I took it thirty minutes ago. I swear I feel better, but I am highly susceptible to the placebo effect, which makes me a good beauty product reviewer. So, um, I'm on head drugs for the first time in my life. Y'all let me know how it's going, m'kay?

Namasté, y'all!

* To be honest, I don't hate it as much as I usually do, because the internet magically appeared on my laptop. Note to doctors: Your patients might be more inclined to wait without complaint if you would just pony up for wi-fi. And don't go crying to me about how much y'all's malpractice insurance costs these days. I've seen your house. Y'all still making bank.