What should I have for dinner?

I have received a lot of questions recently about food. I love food and I eat a lot of it, so this strikes me as very appropriate. Here we go...

1. How do you make your steel cut oatmeal? It sounds delish, but I just needed some ideas to get started. Thanks! I love your blogs :)

Instead of water, I use milk (two parts milk to one part steel cut oats). I prefer rice milk, but your milk of choice will work. A crock-pot is also an option, but the oatmeal takes less than fifteen minutes to cook, so do you really need to do it the night before? Crock-pot oatmeal can be a tad gummy, too. Put the oatmeal on the stove while you make your morning tea, bring it to a boil, lower the heat and let it simmer while you take a shower. When you get out, add dried fruit, nuts and/or my recent favorite, unsweetened coconut flakes. Because I use vanilla hazelnut rice milk, I don't need anything sweet, but you can sweeten your oatmeal with maple or agave syrup. Or sugar, but that isn't as pretentious. I also love a similar meal made from quinoa.

The most important thing - in life - is that you find a breakfast that is just right for you. I need carbs and protein that will stick around until lunch. Both quinoa and steel cut oatmeal work for me, but your mileage may vary. Ooh! Almost forgot - I made the oatmeal the other day and added fresh peaches, pecans and coconut. So damn good it almost wasn't breakfast.

2. Have you read Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle? How do you balance trying to feed your kids the healthiest food, without making your life 3X more difficult? Am wondering for my own family. Do you shop at the farmer's market regularly?

I haven't read it, but kept meaning to. Your comment inspired me to finally buy it. Thank you! Your questions about feeding a family are interesting and I would love to address that in a whole 'nother post. In brief, I do shop at the Farmers' Market regularly. It makes eating local, organic food a lot cheaper. We eat very little meat and what we do eat, I buy there. I have also noticed that the more involved my children feel with food, the more likely they are to eat it. I apologize in advance for yelling, but...THIS DOES NOT MEAN YOU SHOULD LET YOUR CHILDREN PLACE ORDERS OR EAT NOTHING BUT CHICKEN FINGERS. And I say this as a mother who keeps organic chicken nuggets hidden in the freezer so we can sneak them out to the pool to feed the baby. We can't deny him chicken nuggets at the pool, the nuggets at the pool are vile, vile, vile, and we don't want him to know they are an option at home.

Anyhow, seeing the farmers makes my children more likely to eat the food. Maybe they feel guilty and want to support them. Maybe I gave them a speech and followed it by asking them if they wanted the farmers' children to starve. Maybe that was manipulative. Whatever. It worked. I also preach a simple, nutritional philosophy: Stick with foods you recognize and make vegetables the biggest thing on your plate. Children don't really listen, so you need to repeat simple messages over and over. Just like you do to your husband. And go ahead and let them eat whatever the heck they want away from home, because if you feed them well at home, they're getting plenty of good food and it doesn't matter what they eat at a birthday party.

3. I wish you would post some of the recipes that you talk about on your other blog. I'm much more interested in the Vietnamese salad rolls and the lemon poppy seed cookies than in greeting card etiquette.

Done! The Vietnamese salad rolls, which are totally freaking delicious, came from a book. So did the lemon poppy seed cookies. They are from Mai Pham's The Best of Vietnamese & Thai Cooking and Mrs. Fields Cookie Book, respectively of course. The cookies are good, if a bit dry, so I recommend serving them with tea or coffee for dipping.

4. Is this on your "to-de(tox)" list for the next one?

Nope. Looks too complicated for this ADDled mother, but it does look good and I'm tempted...

5. What should I have for dinner?

Ooh! Ooh! I know! Go get a pound of crab meat from somewhere good. Make these crab cakes, but make them bite-sized and fry them in an inch or so of oil instead of baking them. Serve with spicy mayo, cucumber slices and roasted asparagus.

If that sounds like too much trouble, go get a pound or three of shrimp, peel-on, heads-off. The peel adds flavor. So do the heads, but they kind of gross me out. Boil them in a pot of salted water with a handful of cloves. No lie. I saw my French mother-in-law do add cloves and it's delicious. Sit on your porch and eat the shrimp, dipping it in chipotle mayonnaise from Rosewood Market if you are lucky enough to live in Columbia, and wait for people to join you. Yell at anyone walking by who looks interesting. Have some chips nearby in case they are allergic to shrimp. Where do you live? I might come over.

Now, I digress. Some of you may remember the running Mr. Potatohead Ear joke between me and TF. I think he just won. I cannot top this. I received this envelope in the mail today. Like many former nerds, I still harbor a small hope that I will turn out cool. I thought, just for a moment, that I was being invited into a secret society.



I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. It was lumpy. "Yay!" I thought, "A key to a secret clubhouse! A clubhouse where children and husbands may not go! A clubhouse with free liquor! And foot massages!" What I got was this.



Which was pretty funny, but I still want to be in a secret club. And now I'm taking suggestions as to how to deal with the ear. The X-Man said,

"Well, Dad must love you."

"Why is that?"

"Well," he said in that 'duh' tone of voice children use with clueless parents, "An ear? Van Gogh?"

So, I guess he does love me, but what do I do with the ear now?

Namasté, y'all!

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.

First bit of advice.

Stop breathing weird in the next room. I can hear it and it's irritating.

Now for the first reader question, from kbfenner, who I love, because she reads both of my blogs. Which means she is also very smart. She writes:

Wow--I was starting to think this was the Monthly Digress. Too much ShopTarting....tsk tsk.

My question is what the heck do y'all wear under those flimsy silk spaghetti strap tanks you love to show photos of? The magazines all show models with flat chests and visible ribs, so that's no help....just curious, b/c I look like a linebacker in spaghetti straps...

Dearest kb,

Short answer: The right strapless bra.

Longer answer: I can't tell you what strapless bra to wear. At the moment, I favor one by Jezebel that appears to have been discontinued. This happens to me a lot. I used to like one by WonderBra, but my size was deemed no longer important by the powers that be. And I have stock in that company. That hurt. But I digress.

Then I had a long relationship with a bra by OnGossamer and I still don't know what happened, but one day I woke up and the magic was gone. I fell out of love, just like that. Well, not just like that. As you may be aware, bosoms change over time, which means the bra you love for years will not be The One forever. Serial monogamy is the way to go. Which means you need a new bra. And, trust me, there is a strapless bra somewhere in the world for almost everyone. I liked this one by Le Mystère when I was pregnant, but not after. Go figure. Go to Bits of Lace in Charleston and make sure you get someone with experience to help. Try to ignore any personality quirks; my experience is that the best fitters often have the strangest personalities. If you don't find The One, go to Nordstrom. Or Neiman Marcus. Or anywhere you can get a good fitting and a sympathetic ear. Try to find a salesperson that is similarly-breasted, if possible. Have a glass of wine or beer before you shop so you won't be shy or tempted by something uncomfortable. Have a liquor drink if you like. I recommend a Vodka Gimlet.

The right strapless bra should be comfortable and fit perfectly. Do not settle for less, even if you hate to shop. The long-term rewards are worth it. You need two: One in black and one as close to your natural skin color as possible. In fact, my only issue with the Jezebel I've been rocking is that it's too light. I've been considering trying to dye it a shade or two darker, but now that it's been discontinued, I'm scared to mess with it. Oh well, you can't have everything. Actually, you can and I need to follow my own advice.

If you can't get to a good store, order a bunch of them in different sizes (Think you're a 38B? You might be a 36C or even a 34D. Really.) Try them on in the privacy of your home and return what doesn't work. I am willing to personally fit anyone who wants it and I have mad skillzz, but you have to come to me. You don't have to buy me dinner, but an herbal tea would be nice.

Addendum to long answer: Girl, you do not look like a linebacker. I've seen you in Yoga clothes and you're lovely. Not that linebackers aren't lovely. They, too should rock camisoles should they desire. Like bras, camisoles come in many sizes and styles. In the South Carolina heat, it's a good idea to explore. As the now-proud owner of funny-shaped, well-loved bosoms, I pick and choose my camis. Rule Number One: They must cover my SBC*. Rule Number Two: There really is no other rule. Fashion rules are obsolete.

A few years ago, TF and I took the big kids to Disney World. I was pregnant, so spent most of my time eating and mocking people who drink at Disney World. One evening, at the Polynesian Resort Luau, TF looked at a table of sunburned guys in polos and khakis and their female companions. They were drinking umbrella drinks. With fruit.

"You know what's going to start happening over there?" he asked. "A little bit of this."

And he tucked his thumbs into his arm pits - arms out like he was doing the Chicken Dance, elbows above the shoulders - and pretended to hitch up his strapless bra. Or tube top. And that is why we need strapless bras that fit - because you never know when you might go somewhere really hot and drink one too many exactly the right number of umbrella drinks. You don't want to be that chick and you don't want to die in the sweltering heat because you couldn't go cami, now do you?

Namasté, y'all!

PS I have a few more questions to answer and this is fun, so bring it, y'all! I have opinions and I want to share!

* Strapless Bra of Choice.

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!

My new motto.

The other day, I was at Pout stocking up on stuff to take to the beach (Litchfield - yay!) and I ran into someone I really admire. I won't tell you who it is, because I'm going to quote her and I didn't ask, although what she said was brilliant.

She recently spoke to a bunch of USC Honors College students about the importance of projecting a professional image. She tried to do them a favor, scaring the tar out of them by explaining they would be competing for entry-level jobs not only with their peers, but with old, experienced people desperate for work. Y'all, I hear you can get someone with a Ph.D. in something germ-related to clean your house. But they take forever to do it and they expect health insurance and frankly, they kill the germs but without much style.

Anyhow, every young person has heard versions of "Life is what you make it." "You get back what you put in." The slightly more aggressive: "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." "Take the bull by the horns." The desperate: "Get the hell off my couch and get a damn job." Anyhow. Down in these parts, a lot of us like to kill stuff and eat it. I thoroughly approve of this practice, as I'm hardly a vegetarian. The directness of hunting appeals to me. So does venison chili. I haven't ever gone hunting, although I'd like to, because that's not something my Bunco group enjoys. I thought about going with my friend's husband, Tom, but I talked to someone who spent the day making boudin sausage with him and it involved various other activities including - but not limited to - picking up a boat, talking about stuff I wouldn't understand and hanging with a guy named Gary who wore mirrored sunglasses and had Coors Light in the back of his truck. I don't even drink beer and I bet they don't serve bubbly in a deer blind. Frankly, I don't know if I could hang. I might end up turning into everyone's annoying mom, like I did last weekend at one in the morning when I insisted on double-buckling in a seat belt with a twenty-one year old on the way to a bar on Sullivan's Island. Then gave a little speech about head injuries and how they aren't as heart-warming as you think they will be. Aren't I fun? But I digress.

This woman I admire told the honors students this, my new motto:

"You eat what you kill."

Exactly. And I hope it got those kids, vegetarian or not, all kinds of fired up. Actually, I hope it didn't, because there are plenty of old people out there like me who need jobs. We have a generation (or two, if I'm honest about my own peers) of kids who "don't know how to hunt without guarding a corn pile.*" In the past, a college degree and a decent shirt might garner you a job, if not a career. Over the years, the playing field has gotten bigger. Thanks to civil rights activists, people of all races compete for jobs. Thanks to those wacky women's libbers, even girls can get jobs. Even poor people not on any social register anywhere can compete for college scholarships and, you guessed it, jobs**. And thanks to the recession, old people are hustling for those same jobs. And they will get them, while the youngsters sit around guarding a corn pile.

That was all very depressing. Here's the upside: If you aren't making money anyway, why not make up your own job? I did and, while I'm not getting rich just yet, I get to do what I love all day long. Shopping, hanging out and eating out. Call me shallow. Like I care. I've been called worse At least, I think I have, but not to my face. 'Cause I'm so intimidating, with all my talk about eating what you kill, yo.

Namasté, y'all!

* And I stole that phrase from Bob Bailey, president of the South Carolina Sportsmen's Coalition. He was literally talking about hunting, during a House subcommittee hearing on a bill to allow baiting for deer in the Upstate. You see, Lowcountry hunters are allowed to put out bait, usually a pile of corn, to attract deer. The debate for and against baiting has been raging for years and I'm not about to offer an opinion. I will offer an opinion on the phrase as a metaphor for success-seeking youngsters. See above.

** Just so you know, with the exception of all those old people who should have the privilege of anticipating retirement, I'm glad the playing field has been opened up to the world at large. It's a good thing.

The voice in my head.

My sister came over last night wearing a t-shirt that read,

"Phone is ringing. Oh my god."

You know that song. It’s in your head now, isn’t it? And you are powerless to stop it. If you don’t already own it, you’re looking for it on YouTube right this second. At my advanced age, I forget things. I couldn’t remember who did the song. I thought Beastie Boys, but added,

“I hear Q-Tip in my head.”

“Wow.” You might be thinking, right about now, as you’re rocking out to the Beastie Boys’ ‘Get it Together,’ featuring Q-Tip. “This chick needs to check her head*.” Anyhow, I found it on YouTube, as you have by now, and my sister and I rocked out for a bit, much to the disdain of the Tank, who rolled his eyes at my explanation,

“Aunt M and I are having a dance party!”

Disdain coming from a guy who can’t function unless he’s wearing his keerus pants is insulting. And I’ve had a bad week. Just kidding, I’ve had a great week. Just kidding, it was a stellar week peppered with minor inconveniences. Just kidding, they were major. Just kidding, they weren’t.



I guess Q-Tip just wasn’t giving me very good advice in my head. These are some things I wish he had shared:

“Don’t be lazy. Put your credit card back in your wallet while you’re pumping gas. Otherwise you’ll lose it. Really. And hang up the phone while you’re pumping gas, as it is distracting you. You won’t blow up**, like the warning sign implies, but you will probably drop your credit card.”

“Hey, girl. After you get money out of the ATM, put your debit card back in your wallet. Otherwise, you’ll lose it. And you’re already down a credit card.”

“Girl, now that you’re stuck writing checks, because you lost both your debit card and your credit card, put your damn driver’s license back in your wallet, not in the back pocket of your extremely low-riding neon yellow jeans. You’ll lose it. You really will. Then you’ll have to show your Sam’s Club card at the bank in a pathetic attempt to prove your lame identity.”

“Girl, before you spend thirty minutes letting the girl at the grocery store write down all of the information on your license so you can cash a check for over the amount, you need to ask if they will let you do that. Don’t assume the cashier looked at your check and noticed that it was written over, because she didn’t. She hates you. Everybody hates people who write checks at the grocery store.”

“When you leave the store, after they refuse to give you cash back, puh-leeze put the license back in your wallet. Otherwise, you will lose it.”

“Listen, girl. Be more careful with your phone. Otherwise, you will break it again. I don’t care if you have phone insurance. It will still be a major hassle.”

“Girl, have you ever thought about the fact that you have gone through four phones (same model) in less than a year? Maybe that isn’t the model for you. Really.”

“Hey, girl, I know you aren’t used to carrying cash, but that’s your only option at the moment, so figure out a place to keep it. Like in your wallet. Otherwise, you will lose it. Do I really need to tell you this?”

“By the way, I do like those neon jeans. You look good. And that thing you’re doing with all the un-matching necklaces? I like that too.”

Thank you, Q-Tip. Thanks for being there.

Namasté, y'all!

* Haha. Get it? Beastie Boys? Check Your Head? Get it?

** Or will I blow up? Just what is the deal with cell phones and pumping gas? Tell me. Because I use my phone while pumping gas in spite of the warning and I'm sick of feeling nervous about it.

Quinoa Week comes to an anti-climactic close.

Well. I don't love this recipe, but I liked it. And it was all I had the energy to make after a few days in Charleston for their Fashion Week. According to the Weekly Beet, I may be suffering from PFST. I agree with this diagnosis and must acknowledge that I may also be suffering from PCFS*. To aid my recovery, I'm eating nice and clean and avoiding alcohol, for at least a few days. I am one-hundred percent sure I'll be drinking heartily on Friday night, when we're finally going to Orangeburg to try Four Moons. TF almost gave up alcohol for Lent like he has never in the history of the world managed to do, but he tries and fails does every year. Honestly? I don't even think he tries that hard. Because if he is trying, and continues to fail, don't we need to acknowledge he has a problem. And doesn't that mean I, too, have a problem? Why don't you shut-up, fun hater? So, he's our driver, because Four Moons is far, far away, y'all. And if I'm going that far for a meal, I'm going to wash it down with plenty of bubbly so I can pass out for the long drive home. But I digress.

Anyhow, I have dessert fantasies about the quinoa. My ultimate goal is to roast it with some nuts and some sort of caramel sauce so it gets crispy, at which point I will crumble it over ice cream or just eat it. Any suggestions as to an effective way to achieve this would be welcome. I'm thinking a burnt caramel taste, like those almond bowls in fancy restaurants. I figured a quinoa pudding would be easy, similar to rice pudding, so I didn't try that, but I most certainly will some day. The breakfast quinoa recipe is pretty close to a dessert, actually. I decided to attempt the next easiest thing, Apple Quinoa Crumble. Crumble is like impromptu bread pudding or Bisquick cobbler - not fancy, no need for a recipe, not exactly company food, but way better than pudding from a mix. Unless it's the pistachio kind. Do they still make that? Is it as good as I remember or was I as desperate for sweets as my children are, because we both have mothers who are so mean they want us to eat healthy and never give us dessert? Would I still like it? These are questions for another day. Now that I think about it, pistachios would be an excellent addition to the Quinoa Crumble. Here we go...

Apple Quinoa Crumble

Pre-heat your oven to 350° and cut up a few apples. Put them in a buttered casserole dish. Sprinkle the apples with cider vinegar or lemon juice. I feel sure white vinegar wouldn't be the end of the world.



In another bowl, mix 1/2 cup cooked quinoa, 1/2 cup sliced almonds, a few big spoonfuls of sugar, quite a few shakes of cinnamon, a dash of salt and about 1/4 cup melted butter. Stir all that together**.



Spoon the topping over the apples.



Bake it until the apples are soft, 30 to 40 minutes. Spoon it over ice cream and drizzle a little bit of honey to add sweetness if you like.



Honestly, this will not be the most decadent dessert you've ever eaten, but it's a nice way to use up the end of that huge bowl of quinoa you cooked at the beginning of the week and it's pretty satisfying. Besides, it's pretty healthy, especially if you used frozen yogurt, which would probably complement it better than the rich, full-fat vanilla my kids bought with the twenty dollar bill I gave them while I waited in the car with the Tank, who was in no condition to go into a grocery store. I was going to send the X-Man in by himself, leaving O. at home alone for a few minutes (He's almost 11. Don't call CPS. Also, he is pretty smart.) However, the X-Man requested his big brother's help for the adventure because, he explained, "Sometimes I get kind of shy." Aw.

Incidentally, one of the most amusing things I ever did with those two was give them $5 and send them into Palmetto Candy and Tobacco*** with orders to buy whatever they wanted without asking for more money or fighting. They were five and eight years old and I sat in the car just outside the store with a sleeping infant and waited. I had taken them there before and didn't want to deal with the drama. Palmetto sells candy in bulk and they have big barrels of candy from bulk packages that ripped. The barrels are labeled "5 for $1," "10 for $1" and so on. There is at least one barrel with big stuff, each item costing a whole dollar. And there are sodas. And bags of potato chips. Anyhow, I think it's a fun place for kids to go, a Columbia institution, but I couldn't deal with the (literal) nickle and diming once we were inside. So I gave them the money and the orders. And I prayed. In less than eight minutes, they left the store, skipping past the cigar store Indian standing guard by the door, right behind a house painter heading back to his van and laughing his head off. In their little hands, they held more candy than they had ever owned at once. In an effort to save the environment, they decided they didn't need bags. There was candy spilling from their pockets, their shirts, their clenched fists and their socks. They were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. And they had change from the $5.

I had one of those "Oh." parenting moments. I avoided the whining, they felt really proud of themselves and kind of bonded over the whole experience and I didn't even have to wake up the baby. They learned about budgeting and teamwork. It was the feel-good moment of the year! Why didn't I think of that?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I have ordered something new and exciting, for me at least. My new thing is a Flip Video MinoHD Camcorder. I'll mostly use it for my other blog, but I'm sure it will prove useful on this one, too. Perhaps I will film myself dying my own eyebrows. Maybe I'll take higher quality videos of my lawn. Perhaps I will film TF snoring. Don't warn him, m'kay? I haven't gotten it yet, so if anyone knows of any reason I should not be wedded to this cute little camera, speak now or forever hold your peace. Opinions welcome.


* Post-Child-free Syndrome. Oh. My. Gosh. It was awesome. The first two and a half days were also husband-free. No offense to TF, but that was pretty awesome, too. Waking up whenever I wanted (9 am-ish,) eating breakfast in peace, showering at leisure, spending the whole day meandering...and I didn't have to rush back to get ready because, with no one around to "help," I can shower, relax, put on makeup and get dressed in fifteen minutes. And I wear a lot of makeup, y'all.

** Sometimes, I like to over-use the sharpen function in photo-editing software because it makes the food look more like dishes in a seventies cookbook, which I like. Discuss. Or not.

*** Which my nephew used to call "The Candy Meadow." How cute is that?

Excellent advice about lice.

Although Quinoa Week 2009 should be over, it isn't. Maybe I'll rename it: The Daily Digress, The Quinoa Period. It ain't over until the skinny lady gets her dessert and she wants dessert made with quinoa, which she attempted to make the other night after rolling in from Goatfeathers, announcing that she was "halfway to drunk" and that she "might as well bring it," as she grabbed a half-empty bottle of prosecco from the fridge.

The dessert was okay, but the texture wasn't quite what she imagined, so you will just have to wait. You'll have to wait a while, too, because I'm in Charleston for Fashion Week - covering it for my other blog - where I had an amazing dinner alone at the bar at La Fourchette last night. Well, not quite alone as the waitstaff and Chef Perig* kept me company. Goshdarnit, do I ever love that place.

Anyhow, so I don't want to talk about the quinoa right this second. I want to tell you something I remembered the other day while discussing lice with my friends. As mothers of young children, we find lice to be a very real threat. My children have yet to contract the vile little creatures, thanks to their buzz cuts or dumb luck. Who knows? I, on the other hand, remember having lice once as a child and the endless hours my mother had to spend removing all traces of them from my head with a fine-toothed comb. Many years ago, I was a guardian ad litem (now referred to as Court-Appointed Special Advocate.) My purpose was to represent a child's interests when they were involved in a court case. Predictably, a lot of parents took every chance they got to tattle on the other parent and make them out to be the devil. In some cases, the other parent was the devil. In one case, the father wanted his ex's rights terminated because she jerked her daughter's arm when the daughter tried to escape lice-hunting activities.

Have you ever tried to de-louse a seven-year-old? After a long day at work? With your mother, the child's adoring grandmother, watching your every move? And, oh yeah, let's say the kid is a little bit hyper on a good day. I can't imagine how un-fun this would be for the would-be de-louser. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than be that woman. Arm-jerking after an hour of trying and failing to complete the process is probably the least of what I would do. Actually, I would scream at my husband, make him do it and leave for Charlotte or Charleston for a few days. But this woman didn't exactly have those options, so arm-jerking it was. Didn't even cause an injury. Pshaw. So, when I had lice, the de-lousing fell to my mother.

Dear Mother,

I know your temper, because I have it. And, should one of my darling yet often filthy offspring ever contract lice, I plan to do exactly what you did to get them to sit still. Do you even remember this? It was brilliant, inspired even. You showed me a picture of a louse in the encyclopedia, blown up about a million times. It looked like a monster. You gave some estimate of how many monsters such as this one were living on my head, even though just one or two would have sufficed. After that, if you had told me the only way to drive them out was by lighting my head on fire, I would have done it. I still shudder. You are a genius and I need to remember to always seek your counsel when I have a parenting dilemma. Just don't give me advice, unless I ask. That never turns out pretty, now does it? Actually, you're pretty good about that. Most of the time.

Love,
Me

P.S. What are you doing for Easter dinner? Are we invited? We'll actually be in town this year. I will order and bring a spiral ham from Simply Savory if you'll let me. Call me!

Namasté, y'all!

* I did take food pictures, of course. They'll be on my other blog. The beet salad was afrigginmazing.

I really like nice people. And sometimes I am not one.

I like to think those of you who have known me for years would say I've gotten nicer. Well, I'd like to think you found me kind and generous all along, but...anyhow, no need to leave a comment praising me for improvement. And if you think I'm an a-hole, well, what do you want me to do about it?

Anyhow, I do think that niceness begets niceness, so I try. The other day, I was thrilled to score a parking spot right in the very front of Target. I should have suspected some tragic fault with the empty space - a nearly invisible motorcycle, a sinkhole, maybe a chemical spill - because why else would it be free on a crowded day? I started to pull into the space when, lo and freaking behold, I noticed some a-hole had left a cart there. Never mind the grassy median right beside the space and don't consider for a moment the cart corral* two spots away from your fancy, front row space. Oh. No. You, phantom shopper, should not have to inconvenience yourself. After all, you probably drove around the lot waiting for just such a space, which was rightfully yours as a reward for your perseverance. I bet you like to kick old ladies, don't you?

Wanton Cart Abandoners are my second least favorite parkers; I really dislike the smug self-entitlement of drivers who park their cars across two spaces, so no one will scratch their precious truck. Anyhow, I decided to pull into the space anyway and take the cart inside (who's smug now?) As I was pulling in, a woman in the next car got out and held up her hand to stop me. Honestly? She looked a little bit mad and I thought she was going to tell me she was holding the spot for someone. I toyed with causing a scene. I've been part of a scene in the Target parking lot before. More than one, actually. I opted for a sigh and started to back out in search of another spot. But, no, I was wrong. Her apparent anger was due to a glare from the sun or righteous indignation towards the Wanton Cart Abandoner. She moved the cart and smiled at me. I felt happy. We even exchanged smug laughs over the hated WCAs. Thank you, nice lady, you made my day.

A few days later, I was walking the boys home from school. On the way home, we passed a Publix grocery store cart someone had abandonned in the nearby neighborhood. Publix was only a hair out of our way, so I asked O to push it back to the store, which he did, even though he is not even a boy scout**. As we approached Publix, I heard a huge crash and several loud pops. Just behind us, right in the intersection where we would have been had we not returned the cart, two cars had collided. One skidded through the intersection and the other was tossed onto the sidewalk. I really don't think there's any way one or more of us wouldn't have been hurt or even killed. Do you ever think about moments like that and get a huge lump in your throat because you aren't sure you deserve it? I do. If I think too hard about my children dying, I want to go ahead and die myself, so I won't have to worry about it anymore.

And the moral of this story is: Always return an abandonned cart. Spread the love, y'all!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Apropos of nothing, I have a new rule to live by: In a group conversation, never speak for more than thirty seconds at a time. Be quiet and wait until it's your turn again. Longer Than 30 Seconds = Boring. I'm working on it.

* What are those things called anyway?

** And won't be. We just can't get our heads around the fact that they discriminate against homosexuals. We have gay friends who are parents, at least as good of parents as we are. Please explain to me why they can't lead a boy scout troop. Never mind, don't. Frankly, the kids would be way worse off with me. What with the drinking and cussing. By the way, I don't think you're evil for letting your kid be a boy scout. Let's not talk about it anymore, m'kay?

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!"

The Bad Word.

Over a recent dinner, my friend Tracie of San Francisco (soon to be South Carolina - whooooo!) introduced me to the concept of the Bad Word. According to her, each of her friends is allowed to have one - a word they despise. A word they find so vile it makes them throw up in their mouths a little every time they hear it. Anyone who knows your Bad Word must avoid using it around you at all costs. In return, you remember and avoid using theirs. Bad Words vary widely. Our mutual friend Mariah's is "scarf," as in "She scarfed down those bagels like there was no tomorrow." Tracie's is too vulgar to share, but let it suffice to say I will never use it.

I had trouble choosing my Bad Word, because I am picky and easily irritated. At first, I thought of "panties." I hate that word; I gagged typing it. Just after college, I worked as a bank teller for the health insurance and part-time underwear salesgirl for the store discount. I worked really hard selling underpants, because I wanted to keep that discount (it also applied at the attached clothing store) and I wanted to be a manager. Though I had no desire to be a career underwear store manager, I had a huge desire to avoid the task I hated most.

The store where I worked always had a special, usually something involving underpants. One unlucky employee had to (wo)man the door, greeting each customer with a big smile and the words,

"Hi! Welcome to C--! We have a special today! Five pairs of panties for twenty dollars! Let me know if there's anything I can help you with today!"

My blood pressure rose every time I had to say those words. And those words had to be spoken, because the store was owned by a big corporation, so you never knew which customer might be a secret shopper hired to inform the higher-ups of any deviation from corporate policy. There were only two ways to elude the hated task - become a manager or quit. Thanks to the aforementioned store discount, my bosses and the people I worked with, I liked the job, so quitting was out. Desperate to avoid the p-word, I applied myself and made it known that I was a college graduate and really interested in underwear store managing. When the first management position came open, I campaigned vigorously, more vigorously than any presidential candidate. I got the job, which included an even bigger store discount and the best health plan I've ever known*, and promptly delegated the p-word to whatever hapless employee was available. I stayed as far back in the store as possible, hoping to avoid hearing it. I campaigned for more bra specials.

So, I was tempted to choose the p-word as my Bad Word, but you're only allowed one and in my current capacity as a mother of three boys, the p-word really doesn't come up much. There's another word I hate. I hate the sound of it and, I'm sorry to say, don't really like people who use it or the way they pronounce it. Tout. Blech.

I remember the moment when I realized how much I despised that word. I was in a playgroup during a time when the big thing among hippy moms was cottage-industry cloth diapers. All over the internet, from Etsy to eBay, stay-at-home moms with sewing machines peddled their own special cloth diapers, with annoying names like "Happy Hineys" and "Boo-Boo Bum-Bums." They had names that were embarrassing to utter, which is probably why they were only available on the internet, where no words are spoken aloud. We were sitting around at playgroup and the discussion turned to cloth diapers. Incidentally, this was about the time I became a playgroup drop-out; I preferred talking about sex.

One of the moms, gushing over some diaper cover or another - maybe it was "Apple A**es" - uttered the following:

"They are touted as...blah blah blah..."

I couldn't even hear the rest of the sentence. The way she pronounced the word, with an actual "t" sound in the middle rather than the "d" most of us southerners favor, was vile, as was her pretentious refusal to use a contraction and the fact she was discussing the reputation of something meant to contain crap like it was art. It all made me sick. I'm pretty sure I left and went straight to the Hardee's drive-thru for a Thickburger, never to return**.

Ergo, my word is "tout" and all its derivatives. If you read this and care about me at all, you will never utter that word in my presence. My good friends don't use the word anyway. If they were the sort of people who did, we probably wouldn't be friends. Although I will never, ever use that word on this blog again, unless I really need to mock someone, if I do have to use it, it will appear thusly: t**t. Because it is that bad.

Feel free to share your own Bad Word in the comments section. I'll do my best, out of simple human decency, to avoid it, because I like you!

Namasté, y'all!

* The health plan, which cost a mere $5 per pay period, made everything more or less free. I don't even think I had a co-pay. Major props to the Limited Corporation for their integrity. Major props. That plan, however, spoiled me and I've been disappointed in every one I've had since.

** By the way, I think I could still qualify for my Hippy Parent card. I use cloth diapers and do a few other things that are hippy-ish in nature. I just don't want to talk about it. Because it's boring.

Risotto = Advanced San Francisco Treat.

First things first. Dear Ron Aiken, I like to steal your idea of using Something=Something for a title. S'funny.

Now, let's chat about risotto. It has a fancy-sounding name. It's often referred to as a rustic dish by fancy food people (Rustic = You must be very fancy to achieve this dish, originally prepared by peasants far more sophisticated than you.) With all this fanciness going around, we must assume the dish is fancy. Thing is, it's delicious, even better than the the San Francisco Treat you adored as a child. And thanks to its fanciness, you can serve it at a dinner party, a fancy dinner party. And I know, because I am Miss Super Fancy Pants.

Do not fear risotto, intimidating as it may be. I learned to make it from The New Basics Cookbook*. Anyhow, The New Basics taught me two essential rules:

1. You need about four times as much liquid as dry rice.

2. All in all, the rice should cook a total of 25 to 30 minutes.

If you follow those, you're golden, just like your risotto. Use a recipe the first time or two, then improvise away, like I did yesterday. I was forced to make Sunday lunch for my family, because my parents went to early church**. As I was home in my pajamas, a trip to the grocery store wasn't appropriate, so I opened the fridge. I found Arborio rice***, a single serving container of cream cheese from Panera, a leek, some turkey stock I had frozen, the last of some marinara sauce from Moe's Italian Grapevine, pine nuts, white wine and the end of a container of shredded Parmesan.

Leek Risotto

Heat about two tablespoons olive oil in a big pot. Add one leek, sliced into half-inch pieces. Sauté the leek until it's soft, about three minutes.

Add about a cup Arborio rice to the pot and set your kitchen timer for 25 minutes. Stir the rice until it's coated with oil.

When the timer is at 22 minutes, add about a half-cup stock, which should be simmering on another burner. Keep stirring. Remember Risotto Rule #1: You need about four times as much liquid as dry rice. In this case, I had a little less than four cups simmering, so I added a half-cup white wine.

When the stock is absorbed (i.e. When you scrape the spoon across the bottom of the pot, you should be able to see the bottom for a few seconds before the risotto settles), add another half-cup. By the way, use a wooden spoon, which is gentler on your rice than metal, and a pot without non-stick coating. Non-stick coating does yucky stuff to rice and food in general. You don't need a non-stick pot, you need to use more oil and keep a better eye on your heat.

Keep adding stock, a half-cup at a time until almost all of it has been added. When almost all the liquid has been absorbed, add about a half-cup marinara sauce, a single serving container of cream cheese from Panera or wherever and maybe a little pepper. Keep adding the rest of the stock until it's all gone.

Have you been keeping an eye on the kitchen timer? You did set it for 25 minutes when I told you to, right? Well it should be almost at zero now. You may, if necessary, add five minutes more.

At the last minute, stir in a handful of pine nuts and about a half-cup shredded Parmesan. You may, of course, add salt and pepper if you like. Now eat it. Don't wait, because risotto should be served hot, hot, hot!

Namasté, y'all!

* Which you should get. I used mine so much, it fell apart. My friend Gabrielle kindly offered me an extra one she had. I'm breaking it in, because all my favorite pages in the old one had food on them. I can't find anything in the new one without using the index.

** We go to the 9 am service. Not true. I force TF to go with our kids while I stay home and laze around in my pajamas sucking down coffee and reading the paper, because Sunday is the only damn day I can do that and I went to church as a child and TF didn't, so now we're even. And I don't feel guilty. Dammit. work. My parents usually go to that service and take us out to eat afterward. Because they went earlier, we would have had to pay for lunch ourselves. Have you heard? Apparently, the economy is less than stellar at the moment.

*** This site provides an excellent, brief and very funny explanation of Arborio rice.

In which I am confused. Again.

I get confused. I need explanations for some things. Or maybe not. If you have explanations to offer, I'll certainly entertain them (like, with cocktails and olives in little bowls.)

1. This shocks me. I thought the Bible Belt was the home of all things sexist and antiquated. I thought this article was a joke. In fact, it was not a joke. These girls exist. And I say "girls," because they don't behave like any grown women I know. Why on earth would women, with educations, personalities and jobs depend so heavily on men for stuff they wanted? They are more dependent than this stay-at-home, un-employed mother of three. As one of my brilliant friends on Facebook said, "Seriously? Gen Y has officially killed feminism." Dear young ladies, take a piece of advice from an old hag: If you want stuff, get it yourself.

2. What is the deal with those couch sales on the side of the road, in parking lots of places like Advanced Auto? Is a cheap velour couch really an impulse purchase? You're driving home from work and...screeeeeech go your tires as you whip to the side of the road.

"OHSWEET JESUS! I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED A VELOUR MOCK-LA-Z-BOY COUCH! I NEED IT NOW! TIE IT TO THE ROOF OF MY CAR! NOW!"

My friend Julie called me about this phenomenon the other day as she passed a parking lot full of couches and, of all things, toddler-sized lounge chairs. She felt it was blog-worthy and I agree. What the hell are those couches doing in a parking lot? I've seen patterned rugs for sale on the side of the road, too. Some of them are decorated with an enormous animal face, something exotic like a zebra or cat. While I have considered a tasteful cheetah-print area rug, like this one, the huge-face rugs don't do it for me.

3. Why is it now acceptable for Brad Pitt to have pock-marked, large enormous-pored skin, like he does in the most recent issue of W? Perhaps he no longer feels the need to prove he's hot, since he must be or he wouldn't be with Angelina. He has to be good-looking though, because his chameleon-like behavior with every woman he's ever been with would indicate a lack of personality. He is an accessory. Maybe the spread was too arty for a small-town girl like me.

4. Why does my husband lie to me so much about little things? Once and for all, does this or does this not indicate he will one day cheat on me? If, in fact, he does cheat on me, will he do it in a way I can ignore or will it be obvious? The suspense is killing me.

5. Why I can't have everything I want? And why don't I get it when I can? I saw these boots in tan on E-Bay for a buy-it-now price of $300. I didn't buy them then and the bidding surpassed $400, which doesn't fit into my budget, on acount of my kids seem smart enough to make it to college and we'll need to pay for it. I'm kicking myself, but it doesn't hurt, because I'm not wearing boots. Why didn't I buy them? Why?

Anyhow, these are things that befuddle me.

Namasté, y'all!

Kids are so weird.

So, the Tank has a favorite pair of pants, which happen to be shorts - stretchy, green and white striped shorts. He calls them "keerus pants." We don't know why. It sounds like the way he pronounces "Curious George," but the pants and the monkey do not appear to be related. As any parent of a toddler would advise, orders from speech therapists to "Speak to them like an adult" to the contrary, we quickly added "keerus pants" to our lexicon. Let's say, for example, a certain toddler is freaking out. And completely nude. And has eaten eight or more apples that day. Just imagine the possibilities. He hates all his clothes and scoffs at any suggestions from his well-meaning parents. Do you wait for the inevitable blow-out, all over your floor? Do you try to prove the point that you are right, that toddlers don't rule the house? As my sister-in-law says, "You can't negotiate with a terrorist."

"OOOOOH!" you screech over the screaming, fearful of the apples being digested in his tiny belly, a ticking time-bomb, "LET'S FIND YOUR KEERUS PANTS! DO YOU LIKE THEM? DO YOU LIKE YOUR KEERUS PANTS? KEERUS PAAAAAANTS! KEERUS PAAAAAAANTS!"

Your other children and your co-parent sense your desperation and chime in,

"YAY! KEERUS PANTS! KEERUS PANTS ARE AWESOME! KEERUS PAAAAAANTS! I WISH I HAD SOME KEERUS PANTS!"

And there is silence.

"I want my keerus pants," says the now calm toddler, who has forgotten his antics of mere moments before.

Unless the keerus pants are dirty (and if you have any sense of self-preservation, they are never so dirty they can't be resuscitated, quickly), you locate them and give him the damn pants, after attempting to put on a diaper without him noticing. Hint: Keep talking about "keerus pants" in a soothing voice. Thankfully, the Tank has not yet requested to wear them outside of the house. Perhaps he understands limits better than we thought.

In a strange twist, he appeared in the doorway of my room last night to tell me he was wearing his keerus pants. But he wasn't. His lower body was covered in a completely reasonable - cute, even - pair of plaid, flannel pants.

"Are those your keerus pants?" I asked, trying to mask my surprise, thrilled at the possibility of more than one pair.

"Yes," he responded, with the utmost sincerity, "Dese my keerus pants."

I avoided eye contact as I responded, "OK." I hid my glee; I couldn't wait to tell TF.

When TF arrived, after his busy, busy day, I grabbed his arm and draggeded him into the bedroom. Poor guy. For a moment, he looked excited at my urgency to get him into the bedroom. He was almost as happy to hear about the new development.

"You're kidding. Seriously? Those are the new keerus pants?"

"Yes. I do not know how this happened. Or why. But those are now his keerus pants."

TF needed confirmation, so he sought out the toddler, happily eating an apple and wearing his new, improved keerus pants.

"Hey! Are these your keerus pants?"

"No." He looked a little befuddled. "Dese not my keerus pants, Dad. I want my keerus pants!"

So. There you have it. The keerus pants aren't as bad as some toddler armor, like the Buzz Lightyear jumpsuit my nephew wore every day for what seemed like three years. His uncle nicknamed him "Scuzz Lightyear."

In other weird kid news, the X-Man returned from Sunday School with this.

According to him, they were to cut out a fish from "orange card stock" and paste pictures on it of people from the Old Testament and the New. The card stock, it would seem, was the most important element. I was asked several times if I knew what "card stock" was. I do, I guess, although it may have magical powers of which I am not aware, much like chicken balls. The glued-on people mattered less. In fact, he didn't even specify who was from the Old Testament and who was from the New. I think the dentist-looking guy must be New, but what do I know? The card stock is of excellent quality. But why is the fish angry? Or does he suffer from indigestion after eating that dentist and the guy in the toga? And what's up with the facial hair? Some things remain a mystery.

Namasté, y'all!

Come live in my sexist little world for a moment.

On the surface, a lot of my friends and I seem traditional. Housewives. We have children, we work less than our husbands or not at all. If we do work, we command much lower incomes than our manly partners*. As a result, we come across to some as beleaguered housewives with no say in our futures. Perhaps some of us fit the description, but the balance of power varies as much in our marriages as it does in any other romantic relationship, children or no children, one, two or zero jobs. Our political views vary as much as others', too. But I digress.

What I really want to discuss is an inequity that anecdotal evidence would indicate is nearly universal. When a man and a woman love each other very much - so much they create one or more children together - the woman is doomed to shorten her pre-party routine so she can get the children ready for the sitter and the sitter ready for them. The routine varies. Some mommies leave a prepared dinner; some order take-out, with or without careful attention to everyone's preferences. Some mommies bathe the children or order the children to bathe themselves. Or explain the bath time routine to the sitter. Or nag the children's father to do it, because he doesn't care really if they're clean or not. In fact, his nose and eyes are not as sensitive as hers, nor does he recognize their outfits by smell or sight as the same ones they've been wearing for two days**. And mommies have to make sure the house is clean, because most sitters will only leave it as tidy as they found it. If you leave a small mess, they assume you won't notice a bigger one. Then there's the toddler hurling himself at the bathroom door and yelling until you invite him in, so he can try on your make-up and ask one hundred annorable (annoying + adorable) questions. Don't forget all those questions sitters have, which you must be able to answer or risk appearing incompetent. "When do they go to bed?" "How do you handle it if they misbehave?" "How old are they and what are their names?"

I propose a solution: The Pre-Party Drink for Ladies. As soon as your personal Master of the Universe (or whatever) returns from his manly day, leave to meet the ladies for a drink. In a bar. Do not pass go, do not prepare or order a dinner you won't be eating, do not do a damn thing other than grab your coat and wallet. You may collect two-hundred dollars, for your bar tab. Meet your lady friends an hour before you planned to be out and let your husband handle the sitter transition and meet you there, mission accomplished without your help. The Pre-Party Drink is not just for unemployed ladies, because my careful research shows I've heard from a bunch of mothers with real jobs that they perform the same service in their homes, no matter how tired they are from their busy days.

The Pre-Party Drink for Ladies also solves another problem. When ladies have an extra cocktail or two, everybody gets laid. Wheeee! they are adorable. When men over-indulge, they charm no one, least of all their wives.

"You are disgusting. I don't even want to talk to you."

"Stop snoring!"

"Go sleep in the other room, you jerk."

Get the picture? Nobody wins. In addition to other fine qualities, the Pre-Party Drink for Ladies helps make up for the fact that mothers' schedules are more likely to be thrown under the bus when a child is sick or school is canceled unexpectedly. My children counted themselves lucky yesterday, when they had a snow day. Would TF have painstakingly crafted these Inauguration Day Cupcakes? I think not! Mother of the Year, here I come.

Namasté, y'all!

* I'd like to pre-respond to two potential objections to that one, because that's the kind of gal I am.

1. You may think being a stay-at-home parent is "the hardest job in the world." I disagree. Parents who work outside the home are still ultimately responsible for their children, twenty-four hours a day. And they have jobs. Exhausting! Being a stay-at-home parent is a privilege. If you don't like it, quit feeling sorry for yourself and don't do it. Sure, there are some frustrating days, but my friend Julie said it best: "You can do whatever you want, all day long. You just have to convince some fairly unreasonable people to do it with you." Well put.
2. You may claim income doesn't make one job more important than another, that it's all about job satisfaction and passion and blahblahblah. Income does matter. Money pays for a lot of stuff, like food, housing, college for the kids and fab shoes. And health insurance. Although lower pay doesn't render my employment unworthy of respect, it is what it is, yo. I can't pay those bills. Like it or not, most lawyers make more than most freelance writers/Pilates teachers.

** My sister-in-law and I determined what makes Secret Service Dudes so fine. First, they would take a bullet for you. That's hot. Second, they are all about the details. Unlike most men, your Secret Service Boyfriend or Husband will not be leaving any crumbs on the counter or whiskers in the sink. Rowrrr.

My husband's new name.

The other night, we celebrated my Grandmother's eighty-eighth birthday at Grecian Gardens. Grandmother's party is always a rocking good time. Seriously. My Grandmother, mother of seven, grandmother of thirteen and mother-in-law to many, knows how to party. So did our waitress who, without being asked, brought me a second Stoli O and club soda before dinner. Do you see where this is headed? Because my family likes to party, bottles of wine kept magically appearing - and disappearing - throughout dinner. I had almond-crusted salmon, by the way, and enjoyed it immensely, along with the Greek salad that came with. There are times when iceberg lettuce trumps all others.

• The Wedge Salad: A quarter of a head of iceberg, chopped tomatoes, crumbled bacon and blue cheese, both dressing and crumbled types. At Dianne's on Devine, my friend Lisa swears by ordering it with a side of vinaigrette. Excellent.
  
  
  
  
  
• The Low Carb Thickburger at Hardee's: Mock if you will. Call me out as a hypocrite next time I ramble on about eating local food. I don't care. The Low Carb Thickburger rules.
  
  
  


• Greek Salad: I've had it with fancy lettuces and I'll always prefer the crisp, cool taste of iceberg. This one, served with a tasty Gyro, was consumed at Devine Foods.
  
  
  
  

But I digress. When we came home, I was babbling - coherently enough, but my husband doesn't listen. Until he does.

"What did you just call me?"

"I didn't call you anything!" I responded, bluffing indignantly, as I couldn't remember what I'd been rambling about.

"You did! You just called me 'Timothy Farthead'!"

I definitely did not, but I like it. My husband is now a small British boy with short pants, a cute little cap and gastrointestinal problems. I'm still trying to figure out what I did say that sounded like "Timothy Farthead." Oh well, some things remain a mystery.

Anyhow, like it or not, "Timothy Farthead" it is, "TF" for short. Long-running jokes reduce the likelihood of a couple being torn asunder, because they're stuck with these really funny jokes no one else will get. I fully intend to insert Timothy Farthead into our shared lexicon - TF's and mine, that is.

We have another joke - hundreds actually, but most of them aren't funny. The Mr. Potatohead ear is very funny. While I can't remember the dawn of the joke, it involves taking turns hiding a Mr. Potatohead ear where the other person will find it. Jokes like this are particularly helpful, especially when the other person finds it in the middle of a fight, because they're suddenly reminded that no one else will ever get their jokes. I once hid it by cramming it into my husband's stick deodorant. Another time, I struggled to cram it into a bottle of B vitamins. Of course he couldn't get it out, so he waited until he finished the vitamins, took the bottle outside and, after carefully inserting it into a paper bag, smashed it. And hid the ear in my bedside table. That's love, y'all*.

Namasté, y'all!

* I know you're all wondering where it is. So was I. Weeks ago, I hid it behind the B-Vitamins in his medicine cabinet. Now we know he doesn't take his vitamins. Now I've hidden it somewhere else. Game ON!

An entry full of footnotes...

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I had to say that first, because the rest of this entry consists of footnotes, which traditionally follow the sign off. Duh.

* Frogmore Stew should also be served with little ramekins of cocktail sauce. Cocktail sauce = ketchup + horseradish, proportions to be determined by the chef.

** I bought the dryer at Beauty Basic Supply, online. Here is the link. I don't get a kickback from that site, but I wish I did, because I know y'all are all going to order one. If I had a dollar for every...

*** The rollers are large, pink velcro rollers, purchased at Target. I bought the biggest size. I clip them on with metal clamp-style clips, but plan to switch to rippled bobby pins soon because I heard they don't leave dents in your hair.

**** For those of you who think you shouldn't get the dryer because your hair is too short: Get it. Leave it out to remind yourself not to get a haircut. Kind of like those freaks who hang a bikini on the fridge to keep themselves from eating. But not at all like that because big hair is a far nobler goal than a tiny a**. Bottoms of all sizes and shapes can be cute. Hair, on the other hand, is best when it's big.

***** I'm thinking of ordering two or three more dryers, so I can have hair parties at my house. We can talk really loud over the noise of the dryers and read celebrity magazines. Is this a good idea? Discuss.

****** The baby blue Jaguar was totally from Nancy Drew. I was a huge fan. How could I not have realized this? Cool!

******* I saw my aunt and her mom yesterday heading into Devine Foods for lunch as I was leaving LaRoque. They are so much fun. I had already eaten, but I sat down for a Diet Coke and one of their awesome cookies (chocolate, nuts, oatmeal, raisins...excellent). Aunt K asked for my Baked Brie Recipe and I remembered promising to share on my blog. It's more like a list of instructions than a recipe. As an aside (because I can't really do a footnote to a footnote, now can I?), I was very flattered to be asked by Aunt K for a recipe. She's one of the best hostesses and cooks I know. Color me tickled.

Baked Brie

Take a can of Pillsbury Crescent Roll Dough, the scary kind that explodes when you peel off the wrapper.

Open it, lay it flat in a pretty oven-safe serving dish and press out the perforation marks with your fingers.

Take a small wheel of Brie and cut it into two layers, like cake layers.

In between the layers, put some jam and nuts, whichever ones you have in your pantry. Apricot jam with pecans is nice. Or fig jam and almonds. Or raspberry and cashews. You get the picture.

Place the Brie, Jam and Nut Sandwich on the pastry and fold the pastry in until the Brie is enclosed. If you are artistic, maybe you will make a nice design. If you are me, maybe you will cram it closed any which way and turn it over for cooking.

Cook until it's done at whatever temperature the package says.

Serve it and try to ignore the mocking of your husband who is half-French and thinks this is an abomination. Don't be smug when it disappears and your guests rave.

Put on some lipstick. Or brush your hair. Or something.

I took the kids to the mall Monday for our annual visit - the one where I convince myself that the mall would be a welcome distraction from the tedium of winter break. I also needed to return a pair of pants to Gymboree. I never buy clothes for my kids. I depend on my mom's embarrassment threshold, which is much, much lower than mine. My own bad behavior doesn't even embarrass me so having a child dressed like a street urchin doesn't faze me in the least. My mother tries to dress my children appropriately. I've learned not to waste the money; no matter what I buy, they'll wear the same soccer kits, grimy sweatshirts and well-loved t-shirts over and over. A month or so ago she brought the kids some cute duds from Gymboree. The Tank, after some wrestling, conceded his were pretty cool. O, the big kid, was polite yet firm. The khakis were not for him. Are there any actual fifth graders out there still willing to wear clothing with a Gymboree label? I guess it would be mean of me to call them dorks so, um, I won't*.

I tried to return the pants and found that such a thing wasn't really possible. I had the receipt and asked them to credit the $12.99 plus tax back to my mom's credit card. I, of course, did not have my mom's card. I wish I did. It probably has way more room on it than mine. But I digress. I didn't want to deal with a store credit given the high chance of my losing the credit before my return a year from now. Store policy wouldn't allow them to get the number over the phone from my mom. The full number wasn't on the receipt, just a portion of it. I get the policy, I do, but who would get mad if someone credited their card? But I digress again. I decided to let my mom deal with it and we left.

We had lunch, we rode the carousel and I almost vomited. Fun times. With full stomachs and brighter dispositions, the children and I agreed we might be able to choose some underpants in exchange for the hated baby khakis. Gymboree underpants rock. They are soft and have cool pictures and y'all know how desperate I am to talk the Tank into underpants**. I quickly found three pair, just his size, that more or less covered the credit. I waited in line.

And I waited some more. The woman in front of me had a few questions and she saw no reason the sole employee shouldn't answer all of them. Right that minute. She had a large stack of clothes, a credit card and what I believe was an unhealthy obsession with matching children's clothing.

"Do you have this in 18 to 24 months and size 6?"

"Well can you check in the back?"

"We already have everything from the Cupcake line. Do you have any more of these?"

"How about these?"

"Do you have anything else in the Craptastic line? How about the Silly Twit line?"

"Can you check in the back?"

"Can you check in the back again?"

I was this close to checking her in the back. What kind of mother knows the name of each individual line of clothing at Gymboree? I didn't even know they had names. What kind of person holds the sole employee hostage in a desperate attempt to secure matching outfits for her oblivious children? I'll tell you what kind of person. The kind who spends so much time thinking about how her babies look she's left with no time to put on lipstick, brush her hair or even pick out a decent looking track suit. The kind of person who is either oblivious or doesn't care that the next person in line has a five minute transaction and three antsy children. The kind of person who has "let herself go."

Don't jump down my throat. I'm not asking you to starve yourself, spend a fortune on clothes or spend hours at the gym each day***. I do think we should try to look decent for our spouses, our friends and ourselves. Don't go hating on Heidi Klum either - she speaks the truth. You may not be a super model, but you can come pretty close to your pre-baby body and you should try, as much for your health as your looks. And if you do keep an extra pound or seven, stop hating and buy yourself some decent clothes. And put on some lipstick. And brush your hair. Children are effortlessly cute, so spend as much money as you like on their clothes, but recognize the frivolity. I have no objection to frivolity - it's the cornerstone of my existance - I just want you to stand up straight and smile.

According to my childless-as-of-yet-but-brilliant-nonetheless friend Kristy, you should set a good example for your children by having high expectations. Demand a birthday cake for yourself, with candles. Insist on presents. Buy that cocktail dress before you even consider any cr*p from the Cupcake line at Gymboree (whatever the h*ll that is). Kristy explained that by not taking care of yourself, you teach your children to feel affection for people with low expectations. Next thing you know, they're bringing home dirty hippies with zero ambition and little to no energy to seek out birth control. Soon enough, you'll be housing your adult child, the aforementioned dirty hippy and their child, who will be adorable, really, but a bit of a burden if you're honest. Don't you want the house to yourself eventually? You paid for it. Shouldn't it be yours? The dirty hippy will not contribute to the rent. Or the housecleaning. So put on some lipstick already. How about this one? I found it at Pout recently and I think it rocks.

Namasté and Happy New Year, y'all!


* I lied. DORKS! Those are baby clothes!

** Didn't work. "I said 'Nooooo, thanks!' Dey not for me. I wanna' diaper." That's a direct quote. Hmph.

*** If you do, however, I salute you. And bet you are hot. Nothing wrong with that, sister!

Three New Things I know.

1. Maybe I'm the last person to know this one. If so, you are all jerks for not sharing. Actually, I know I'm not the last, because my friend and fellow blogger Tracie was tickled pink when I shared my new knowledge. What is it? Well, I finally figured out how to take a decent photo inside, with bad light conditions...with a point and shoot camera. My sister-in-law, who is an actual photographer, like for money and stuff, explained to me that it's all in the light if you don't have a fancy camera with settings that would probably confuse me anyway. So true - anyone can take a great picture outside.

Without further ado, here is my new secret, which is not a secret at all, but was a secret to me. This is my camera, a Leica C-LUX 2 .

The arrow points to what makes the Leica so pricy: that cute little red badge. It cost more than it should because it's stylish. Also, the features, which may be the same as on my old camera, are very easy to use. In fact, I discovered my new trick when I was kind of tipsy and accidentally hit the wrong button with my finger. Yay for me!

First, set the exposure on your camera as low as it will go. On mine, you push the button indicated below by the arrow.

Next, set your flash. I have no idea what this slow sync thing means, but I like the way the pictures turn out when I use it. The arrow points to the button I have to press to set the flash.

Anyone reading this who is a real photographer may be cringing and muttering about stupid twits with over-priced Leicas who don't know what they're talking about. Go ahead. I don't care. You're right on the money. But now I get surprisingly decent photos at parties. Your mileage may vary and don't send me any questions about this technique because I will not know the answer.

The pictures of the camera, incidentally, were taken by a window in the middle of the day with my LG Voyager phone.

2. If you are wearing a cashmere hoodie on the elliptical and have your headphones plugged in to the console on said elliptical and you've been dying to try electric shock therapy but can't afford it, take off the sweater without removing the earphones. I did it and lost my hearing for an afternoon. And it wasn't just that particular elliptical, because I tried it at another gym on a different brand of elliptical and it hurt even worse. I also tried it on the original elliptical with a cotton hoodie and nothing happened.

Cashmere + headphones + elliptical = painful, but nonfatal electric shock

Perhaps someone has a neat little explanation for why this phenomenon occurred. I think it's kind of like the time I was in my friend's garage and had one hand on her dad's car, the other on their outdoor freezer and, briefly, no feet on the ground. Ow! Then there was the time I was mixing batter with Iona, my old-school mixer. Iona was a wedding gift to my parents and I love her.

The cord, which comes out of the wall socket and the mixer itself, came loose from the mixer and fell into the batter. Without unplugging it from the wall, I picked it up and licked it off. Ow! My brain vibrated for days after that one. Luckily, I was too disoriented to call DSS on myself. Did I mention I had a toddler in a backpack? He screamed too, which may or may not indicate the current reached him. You can't prove it and he's fine now, so whatever.

3. How to make those damn good ham biscuits my friend Suzi (owner of both Suzi Cooker Catering and the divine El Burrito) made for the Tank's baptism. I can't tell you, either, because I swore I wouldn't. Imagine little mouth-sized biscuits, fluffy and piping-hot, stuffed with something delicious involving ham. They're in my freezer right this second. Love the biscuits, love her.

Namasté, y'all!