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.

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.

Guess who's back? And he better be nice to my kid.

Does anyone remember Coach Keith? Fortunately for everyone concerned, he's no longer Coach Keith. The coaching gig put a touch too much strain on his mental health, I think. Normally, I don't use actual real names on my blog when complaining about someone. I'm way too much of a chicken. But Coach Keith is hard-core, plus he put it in writing, so I think he can take it. And I will happily fight him out back of the middle school if he wants to bring it.

Believe it or not, I'm not a holder of grudges, outgrew that a while ago. I am, however, a protector of children, mine in particular. Coach Keith's behavior didn't improve after he shared his feelings about our loser kids in that email. In fact, it worsened. On at least one occasion, he yelled something about my child that was so mean I won't even type it here. He yelled it loud enough so everyone heard it, except my kid, who was blissfully in the clouds, channeling Beckham I'm sure. While he's no longer a coach, the guy showed up at practice the other day because his own child has re-joined the team. Guess that intense soccer-training in Europe didn't work out.

When I saw him, I did something so immature, something a mean seventh grader would do. I looked at him and glared until he looked away. Or maybe he didn't notice. Or maybe he was thinking something like,

"Who is that strange woman and what's in her eye?"

I hope he heard what I was saying to him in my head,

"Listen you [total expletive so bad I won't even give you a few letters as a hint], if you so much as look at my wonderful son, you better be ready to bring it because I will go after you. And I teach Pilates and lift weights, so watch your back. And don't even think about helping the coaches, because I will get you, mister. Grrrrr..."

And I still haven't burned my PTI, so I'm more than willing to get into what would be, in the eyes of the law, a fairly minor scuffle. I hope Coach Keith doesn't make me do that, because I'd rather use my PTI on spray-painting a building or something fun. The X-Man actually brought up his name this morning before soccer.

"When we lost, Coach Keith yelled at us. And Coach Johnathan tells us he's disappointed, but I'm okay with that."

Dearest X-Man, I'm okay with that, too. The X-Man was super-excited this morning, too, because he's going to play mid-field. We, his most lazy and hopeful parents, told him the game was canceled for rain. He groaned. As it happens, soccer for eight and unders is a tad more serious than soccer for seven and unders, because their games were canceled and the X-Man's was not. As much as I love to get out of a soccer game on a Saturday morning, I'm happy for him. And I can't wait to hear the highlights, because I stayed home with the Tank while TF took the big kids to the game. The Tank and a muddy soccer field don't do well together. Go, Blasters! Except for you, Former Coach Keith. You can sit down and act nice.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. The All-Local Farmers' Market is today at Gervais and Vine, y'all. It's raining, but not too hard and they have tents, so go support your local farmers and vendors!

Do you ever get nervous?

Like, when things are going really well? Do you ever lie awake at night, wondering what you forgot to do? Well, I do. I need an assistant, an assistant brain. Wouldn't that be nice? I'm often afraid I missed something. I also have the age-old teenager fear of looking like a dork. I'm pretty sure this fear is unfounded, because I already look like one. But what if I look like more of one?

My other website is doing well, which is good. Right? I'm going to start appearing on local television as The Shop Tart. Or so they say. What if I'm so awful they regret asking me and I don't end up doing it? What if they think I'm fine and I see it and realize I look like a moron? What if people hate it? What if people don't care? Ahhhhhh... What if I look fat? What if I look too thin, like those un-retouched photos of Madonna? What if I am fat? What if I am too thin? Looks aside, what if I sound stupid? What if nobody cares?

As a general rule, I'm pretty confident, but whenever new things happen, I get kind of squirrelly. Over many years, I've learned to move slow. My heart wants to jump into things, but I know I'm one of those people who learn by doing, which means moving really, really slow. I talked about this the other day with Till, a genius when it comes to hair with an excellent sense of humor (ie He laughs really hard at my jokes. Love. Him.) I spend as much time at the salon as possible, because I never get to see him otherwise. Stylists really are like therapists, like a best friend that you pay, so they can't dump you for being irritating. He's a slow and steady type of guy, too. I was lamenting the fact that I hadn't been able to jump in with both feet when developing my other blog, mainly because I'd be making more money by now and could buy cool stuff. There's a guy in my town (incidentally, the one who still owes me money) and I have moments when I envy him. He does exactly what he wants on a new project, money and details-be-d*mned. Till wisely explained the crash-and-burn risk of jumping the gun. *Sigh* The logical side of me sees the crash-and-burn to come; the wannabe-me wishes I had the same courage. Or not, because I'm not real keen on the idea of bankruptcy, owing money all over town or having people hate me. But he fools plenty of people, including yours truly, albeit briefly. Why can't I do that? Okay, okay, I know why. But still...

Enough of the wah-wah-wah. On Wednesday, my sister and I are going on a whirlwind tour of Charlotte, including trips to Ikea, the mall, Capitol*, PF Chang's and another restaurant or two, an overnight stay in new hotel Aloft** and an Ani Difranco show at the Neighborhood Theatre. Whoooooo-hoooooo! So, now I'm worried again. I really don't have the look for an Ani show these days. Would it be lame for me to wear my nose-ring, which I haven't worn in years? Is that trying too hard? The hole is still there, because I periodically stick earrings in it to freak out my kids. Do I own any t-shirts not meant for sleeping? Is it lame to go to American Apparel specifically to buy a casual t-shirt to wear to the show? Or three so I can pretend to layer at random? Will I feel like a freak dressed in multiple t-shirts at dinner beforehand? I don't have many flats. I'm guessing the Jimmy Choo pythons would be out of place. I really wish I'd scored some of the Lanvin flats in the Coplon's sale. Those would work. Where are my combat boots? Would Ani approve of this persistent omphaloskepsis? I think I used to wear overalls to Ani shows. Where are my overalls? Wait, omphaloskeptics can't wear overalls. Gah! I need a stylist.

Namasté, y'all!

* A boutique where I plan to spend a portion of the millions I'll eventually earn on my slow-and-steady project.

** Never fear: I'm still a Westin girl all the way. Aloft is the Westin's younger, funkier sister, like it has pool tables and stuff.

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!

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!

Drama in the islands.

So, don't get me wrong, I still really love the D.R., but last night I made a very scary new friend. By "friend," I mean a horrifying, puke-inducing hairy monster of a rat spider who the world-wide internets identified as a tarantula. I saw it in the hallway connecting our suite and the kids'. At first, I thought it was a toy, a vile souvenir purchased by one of my freakish offspring. Then it moved. And I didn't remember anyone whining for batteries, so I knew it was real. Although it was the middle of the night, I screamed like a woman on fire (or like the toddler having a tantrum not ten feet from me here in the resort lobby. Well, maybe I wasn't that bad. Damn. This kid can scream.) My screams did nothing to rouse my husband, who had fallen asleep with the Tank on his chest in our living area. I stood right beside them, screaming,

"WAKE UP! I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP NOW! DAMNIT! WAKE UP!"

As always, he pretended he was awake. Why does he think I'll fall for this?

"I'm awake," he declared in that voice people use when they're trying desperately to pretend they are sober. His eyes remained closed as he slept soundly. Lucky for both of us, he was sober and (eventually) awake. Much as the state trooper harasses the drunk, I perservered. My poor husband, who is likely as afraid of furry monsters as I am, knew there was no way out. Still holding the sleeping baby - I was screaming, "PUT THE BABY DOWN!" for fear the monster would fly up and swallow him whole - he stomped the evil interloper, twice for good measure. Thus, I watched gleefully as my new friend died. I hope this posthumous photo gives you a basic feel for the spider, which crumbled in death. He or she was the size of a large tea saucer beforehand.

This morning, I found this video of a tarantula. I think my husband will confirm our spider looked similar, if not identical. He was probably still asleep for the spider stomp. If you think the fact people keep these things as pets makes me feel bad about its death, you don't know me at all. I'm totally down with my place near the top of the food chain.



In other news, we're all having a blast, wish you were here, etc. The kids love the Mini Club, although the ones in double digits have to protest just a little before they run to join their group. The Tank has a new catchphrase, "I don't care," which he uses about everything. We think it means "I don't like..." Just before he tears into the toddler room, he announces, "I don't care my school." He seems to have bonded with a guy who works there and communicates mainly by pretending to be a baby tiger. When I asked my husband what language the guy spoke, he said, "None of them really." Because several languages are common here, physical comedy is the main mode of communication in the kids' program. Cup smashing followed by hysterical giggling is common.

The children have maintained their cool about the number of exposed bosoms. My husband, less mature, cannot get over seeing some guy's junk peeking out from his - admittedly way too small - Speedo. I, on the other hand, have been trying to catch a glimpse ever since he told me about it. The guy, who looks like he swallowed a beach ball and has hair plugs on his stomach and back, is less than enticing. But it's like looking at the spider. I have to see, I just have to see. Nightmares be damned.

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.

The Tank?

So, my parents read my blog, a reality both flattering and scary. I find myself taking deep breaths and repeating (in my head, I think), "I'm a grown-up. I can do what I want. I'm a grown-up. I can do what I want." I got an e-mail from Dad today:

Dearest Anne,

I suggest you stop using ‘SK’ as a description of my wonderful grandson. Just saying……

Love--Top

I'm so proud of him. Not so long ago, he would proudly proclaim, "I'm sending you an e-mail!" And it would arrive - several days later in an envelope. His secretary printed his e-mail for him and if there was a funny one, he might photo-copy it and send it around. Frankly, I preferred this to e-mail forwards, because it always came with a nice note*. Dad is nice, which is probably why he would prefer I not call The Tank a sh*t kicker.

But here's the thing. He is what he is. In the courtyard outside the lovely chapel where each of our sons was baptized stands a small statue of St. Francis, surrounded by smaller statues of animals. Reverent children ooh and aah as they pass, perfectly behaved. On a recent sunny Sunday, my child, whose baptism obviously did not take, was kicking the animals over, one by one, as if to mock them for their devotion to St. Francis. And he was smiling sweetly as he did it. So I responded to my dear father:

Eh. I know, I know. But did you see him kick over all of St Francis' animals at Trinity? Humiliating.

How can I not call SK what he is? I would be denying his adorable little essence. Dad, as persistent in his private life as he is in real estate, responded:

Had not heard. Wow! Didn’t humiliate me, so I still think he’s wonderful.

*Sigh* Don't you hate it when people are so nice it's hard to say no? But, I am a grown-up. I can do what I want. And it's my blog, gosh darn it**! I'll compromise. In general, I'll refer to our youngest as "The Tank." When the situation demands it, however, he must be called SK. If it sticks, so be it. He can always tell people it stands for "Spider Killer" or "Soda DrinKer." Nicknames are cool.

By the way, I bought SK The Tank some of those little froggie boots today. How cute are those? He's been stomping around in them all night...um...kicking sh*t. What is wrong with me?

Namasté, y'all!

* Speaking of email forwards - and this has to be a footnote, because it's a total digression - my husband asked me what the etiquette was for sending a Snopes link to someone who sends you a ridiculously stupid well-meaning forwarded email. I said to send it but make a little joke to soften the blow. Not a day later, I got an email from someone I haven't heard from in a long time, maybe even years. I was excited. It was a forwarded piece of poop telling me to forward it to a billion people so I could get a free laptop. Or lap dance. Or something. I was so irritated I replied to everyone with the Snopes link and nothing else. Forgive me. The email started with "Free LAPTOP FOR KID'S". If you know anything at all about apostrophes, how could you possibly think that email was real?

** That was for you, Dad!

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.

How to say no. (This is a new one. Trust me.)

You may or may not, in the next few moments, be about to learn a brand new cuss word. Mom, Dad, stop reading now. You don't want to know.

A girlfriend and I were discussing the art of saying "no." This can be very hard to do, especially if you don't want to offend the asker. And some of us Southern ladies just will not take "no" for an answer.

"Listen, honey, could you possibly get this little bitty thing done for me? By tomorrow morning?"

The little bitty thing, as it happens, is a huge project and you can't. Or you don't want to, so you say no.

"But," she says, still smiling, "You did it for Mitzy LePew."

True. But you don't want to do it now. So you try to lie.

"Bless your heart," you say, "I'd love to do that for you, but I just can't. I have to be in Charleston that day for a something-or-other."

Lying is a mistake, because it gives them something to argue about. And a lie is hard to defend.

"Oh!" she exclaims, pretending to have accepted defeat, "I hope you don't have to drive too early in the morning. I just hate to wake up early on a weekend..."

You are fooled into thinking she cares, so you innocently tell her you aren't leaving until 10 am. Guess what? She's available at 9. You are losing this one. Desperately, you try to think of another excuse.

"Unfortunately, I still can't! I'm taking my grandmother out to breakfast early and going from there."

Do not answer any more questions. You have to back away from this barracuda and fast. In fact, your first and final response should have been a charmingly firm,

"Oh, sweetie, you have no idea! I would love to do that for you. Unfortunately, I just can't!"

Make a sad little pouty face and back the hell away. She'll try to follow you, so you are going to have to pull out the big guns, with no concern for your reputation. As you are backing away, grab her arm and whisper, conspiratorially,

"I really do have to run. I just sharted."

Then lock yourself in the bathroom until she leaves. Take your cell phone, so you can text someone nearby to give you the heads up when she's gone. If you're lucky, she'll never tell a soul, because she'll be too grossed out. Even if she does tell people, you'll never know. It's not like they'll ask. According to some people, everyone sharts once in their lives. I think those are the people who have and are trying to make themselves feel better. I have never in my life sharted. But I'd still use it as an excuse in an emergency. No shame!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you do not know what a shart is, ask your grossest friend. Or your gastroenterologist. Or watch the movie Along Came Polly, which is a very funny movie and gives a nice explanation of the term near the beginning.

Do you ever have a terrible thought? And try to take it back?

I'm not quite sure why I'm admitting this, but it's a blog, right? True confessions and all that? The other day, I got cut off in traffic, practically run off the road, by someone who didn't even flinch. I didn't even get the little, "Oops! Silly me! Sorry!" wave. I don't think they ever saw me. I'm not a retaliatory horn honker, so I had no way to point out the error of their ways. But I had a very bad thought. The car had a handicapped tag and I thought, without meaning to and only for a second,

"Huh. Wonder how you got that way?"

I swear I am not that big of a jerk. I don't feel that way and I'm so far from perfect myself that Perfect and I don't even shop at the same Target. I didn't say it out loud - I would never want my children to hear that kind of filth. Maybe my horribly inappropriate thought was part of a mild adrenaline rush. Who knows? If it seems like I'm being defensive, I am. But only because I know I'm not evil. I really hope someone else will confess to having evil thoughts, just to make me feel better.

And, if you do have evil thoughts, do you try to talk to your higher power of choice (HPOC) right after? I do, because my HPOC is the only one who heard it, right? I continue, in my head,

"Oh, G-d, sorry! You know I didn't mean that, right? I was just scared because we almost got hit. I mean, my kids are in the..."

Then I stop thinking, because I realize my HPOC knows exactly how I feel, without me needing to articulate it. Also, I'm talking to someone in my head, and that is not normal. HPOC's are all-knowing - that's what makes them so much better than the rest of us. Then I get scared that I really am an a**hole and HPOC is looking at me and shaking its head. And I wonder how I can find out for sure if I really am a vile person or if my occasional vile thoughts are an anomaly. I mean, if I had the thought, it must be the way I feel. Unless there's a mean little leprechaun living in my head*. Not that I'm stereotyping leprechauns - some are mean and some aren't, just like the rest of us. Then I feel mad at HPOC for making it so hard. What is he/she? The Thought Police? Or am I the Thought Police? Or am I simply nuts? And shouldn't I pay attention to the road instead of self-obsessing?

And all this leads me to yet another thought. Just how do you know if you need actual medication? Anyone?

Namasté, y'all!

* I can hear your nervous laughter from here.

Just a few little tidbits.

First things first. I have a fascinating article this week in Jolie - especially for all you guys - about how to achieve that fabulous Smoky Eye, just in time for holiday parties! You could cut out the step-by-step instructions to post on the inside of your bathroom mirror. Just sayin'. Make sure you leave my name in when you cut it out, so you can think of me every time you use it. Mwah! They also let me review a bunch of beauty products. Y'all, I had heard about this phenomena, but I thought it was a myth. I got to keep the stuff - and it was fancy beauty stuff - and some of it wasn't even available in stores yet. This is like a dream come true for someone like me. I will remember that really expensive, not yet released eye cream for the rest of my life. And I would buy it if I could afford it*. If you can afford it, you should. And I guess I should tell you what it is (since Jolie isn't online). The miracle cream of which I speak so fondly is Eyecing Fatigue Fighting Eye Cream by Freeze 24/7. It'll be available soon at Pout for the (I swear totally fair) price of $115. Just get it.

I also had a column in this week's Free Times, about ajvar. I was a little scared, because I wrote about my in laws. Believe it or not, I don't want to make them mad. I adore them, from the bottom of my heart, even if I do poke fun at them just a little. Have you heard the way I talk about myself? I tease because I love! Anyhow, they liked it (whew!) My husband told me they were reading it at EarthFare. Obviously, I couldn't have observed without them knowing, because they would recognize me. I think. But has any other writer out there tried to watch someone while they were reading something you wrote? Just to see if they liked it? No? Oh.

On to other things. You may have noticed there hasn't been a Grass Cam installment lately. Or maybe you didn't. Anyhow, I haven't made one, because I've been feeling scared. There is some brown grass mixed in with the green. I really love grass. I don't know what I would do without grass. Grass is really expensive and I don't know how we can afford more if this goes away. I don't want to think about what I would do to get more grass, the depths to which I would sink. It's madness, I tell you, madness. Anyhow, pray for our grass, won't you? And feel free to offer advice or reassurance. Is there a group for people who are addicted to grass?



And there is just one more thing I have to share. My husband sent me these the other day. No author is credited. If I had written them, I would be so proud. If you wrote them, please claim them. You are a genius. I laughed so hard I cried.

Haiku for the Mullet

Shampoo stings my eyes,
I will never feel that twice:
slick hair smells like gas.

O! SQUIRREL brother,
Your tail, my hair. We are one.
Yet I must eat you.

I liked that foreign
legion movie so much, I
grew me one them hats.

Brown edged tank top sticks
to my white clumpy armpits
Somehow I get laid.

Flowing down the back
helps to keep mind closed, hate
released by short top.

My hair is slammin
like Stone Cold. Can I get a Hell
yeah? Hell yeah. Hell yeah.

This super cool hair
and a bucket of chicken:
What more could I want?

My slick snakeskin boots
My silk shirt with rooster prints
Always colored jeans.

Razor set to one.
Do front and sides and then stop
Reaffirm my style.

Dogs urinate where
they so choose. And so do I.
Red and blue lights flash.

Teen runaway, I
hate my dad. Yet I am one.
Fly, thunderbird, fly.

Ponytails are for wimps.
But if you let that hair loose,
you are my brother.

Short like your schooling.
Long like your prison sentence.
The penal haircut.

Bald on the top and
long on the back. Behold my
glorious skullet.

Dad likes my mullet.
The nurse calls it a critter
carpet. My head breeds.

With long hair in place
how else can I rebel? Hand
me the bong uncle.

Under the Christmas
tree: tight black jeans and a comb.
I've been extra good!

Short for dad. Long for
the daughter mom always wanted.
Everyone's happy.

Namasté, y'all!

* Eh. I might buy it anyway.

In which I, once again, prove my mother in law right.

My mother in law has referred to me as a "simple person." This, in fact, is most likely true. I read fashion and celebrity magazines. At times, even Vanity Fair feels too intellectual. I like cheeseburgers. I like Lifetime for Women movies. I like pretty clothes. My entire mood can be changed by a new dress (so buy me one already). Perhaps most telling, I can't stand fancy movies. Sub-titles make me want to punch things.

SPOILER ALERT! IF YOU HAVE ANY DESIRE TO SEE "THE RED BALLOON" WITHOUT KNOWING HOW IT COMES OUT, STOP READING NOW, YOU DORK.

Saturday morning, I took the kids to see "The Red Balloon" at the Nickelodeon Theater*. I know this is one of those movies I'm supposed to love. I know it's for smart people. Eff that. That sh*t was boring. When it wasn't boring, it was scary. Are you a parent? How do you feel about balloons? Really? I hate them. First of all, kids can choke on them and die. That's a downer. Second, you have to feel guilty when they accidentally let them go, because now you're a bird killer. Want to give your kid nightmares? Every time they let a balloon go, tell them they're nothing but a baby bird killer. Oh, and guess what? They always let them go. The first kid to let the balloon fly is always the one who wants it most and pitches the biggest hissy fit as it floats away on its heinous bird killing mission. Good luck trying to get the other kids to share their balloons. Maybe cute little French kids are better at sharing.

I spent the first part of the movie on the edge of my seat, in a panic. Not only did I not want to see the goofy looking kid in the movie lose the stupid balloon - because I knew it was coming - I didn't want to deal with Baby J freaking out when it happened. The movie is French and it won a lot of prizes, which you know means there has to be some major tragedie. "The Red Balloon" is like the ultimate toddler suspense thriller. Baby J was into it.

"Oh no! Ballon's going uppa the sky!"

"He got it!"

"Oh no! Balloon's going uppa the sky!"

"Oh! He got it!"

And so on. I relaxed a little when I realized it was a magic balloon and could follow the kid. But I still hated it, because now my kids will be forever disappointed when their lame, unmagic balloons simply float away. Bird killers. Just when I started to relax, some rough looking mean kids started chasing the balloon and the boy. I swear I saw a Law and Order just like this. And, oh yeah, at one point the kid got locked in some sort of outside closet by a creepy old guy. I did not understand that part, but it was scary. Of course, I'm simple, so this stuff does go right over my tiny little head.

So the bad kids finally get the balloon and stomp it. Frankly, this surprised me, because my French mother in law has indicated that French children never misbehave, unlike some other, non-French children we know. Ahem. Anyhow, they kill the balloon. If I was in a high school film class, I might say this represents the death of a child's inherent sense of safety. But it gets worse. Then all the balloons in Paris find the kid, he grabs hold of them and floats away, Willy Wonka-style**. So, basically, he dies. And it's a suicide. A romantic suicide. Trés, trés Français. No wonder kids are so weird.

Namasté, y'all!

* For those of you who are in town and didn't know: The second Saturday of each month, the Nick is showing cool movies for kids. Admission is a buck and this will help you give your kids Indie Cred. Just do it.

** I'll be honest. I missed the last part, because one of my American children had to be removed from the theater and driven home. I'll spare you the details. I had to know how the stupid movie came out, so I asked my husband. He tried to get too intellectual, so I asked a seven year old, who told me what I wanted to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

In which the boy almost got the long board.

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

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

"Sure."

"Pottery Camp!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all.

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

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

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

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

ACDC moves me to say inappropriate stuff.

Especially when I've had a drink or two, as I had last night at the party at our tennis club. I wasn't the only one, or even the most offensive.

Brian Johnson (singing): She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean...

Fun Lady: Hi!

Me: ACDC always reminds me of the time when I was a teenager and I [insert mildly illegal act here. Pretty much everyone you know has done it. And it's not as bad as some of the stuff our current president has done. So there.]

Other Lady: [walks off in a huff.]

Fun Lady: You can't say stuff like that around her! But you can around me! Whooo!

Brian Johnson (still singing): You shook me aaaaaaall niiiight looo-ooong!

For a moment, I felt some major, chest constricting anxiety. You know that sinking feeling you get when you think you've done or said something really, really wrong? Or maybe you don't know that feeling, but I know it well (Surprised?). But then I remembered how old I was. And it's not like I asked her when the baby was due.

I don't get people like Other Lady. Is she afraid that hearing about something some random lady she doesn't even know did twenty (or so) years ago will make her go out and do it? If that's the case, she must have been drunker than I was. I find adultery totally offensive, but you better believe if someone at a party was all,

"I cheated on my husband with this guy at the gym!"

I'd be all,

"Wow! Was he cute? Where'd y'all do it? You can tell me. I won't tell a soul."

And I'd remember all the details, so I could tell my husband about that trashy lady at the party who told me all about her filthy affair. I certainly wouldn't walk off in a huff, missing all the dirt. What do she and her husband talk about in the car on the way home?

I suspect Other Lady also voted for our current President, George W. Bush*. He's admitted to doing worse than what I did. He had to, because there were public records. Maybe she could live with that because she didn't hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Or maybe I reminded her of her ex-girlfriend from her wild days in college...

By the way, I do have standards. I no longer [insert mildly illegal act here. Pretty much everyone you know has done it. And a lot of people you know still do.], because I have children and I'm no longer willing to accept the mildest of consequences. And I won't print the name of the mildly illegal act here, because I don't want my children to have proof that I did it. I used to be in favor of making the darn thing legal, until I married and had babies with a criminal defense attorney. If it was legal, we might not be able to pay our mortgage or even dream of sending our kids to college. Maybe you think I'm morally reprehensible for having such a double standard. Hey, if the President can, so can I.

And by the way, earlier in the day by the pool, Fun Lady gave me a koozie** with her business name on it in lieu of a business card. I think she might be my Best SPF (Summer Pool Friend). Whooo!

Namasté, y'all!

* This is one of my many faults, by the way. I suspect that anyone who seems uptight, boring or in any way unpleasant must have voted for him. There must be some explanation.

** I believe that's a "hugger" or "huggah" to those of you living north of the Mason-Dixon.