People are nuts.

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

I received this letter recently:

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

Dear Devoted Daughter,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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

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?

Horoscopes are the new Magic Eight Ball.

"You know why fortune cookies are always right?" asked the X-Man.

"Um. No. Why?"

"Because they know your life," he answered, very matter-of-factly.

His most recent fortune had informed him, "Happiness will find you always." As he got into the car after school, I asked him why he was giggling somewhat maniacally*. He was convinced the fortune from the cookie in his lunch box was true. So, there you have it.

I once received, within a few days of each other, these three fortunes:

• Good news of a long-awaited event will soon arrive.
• Children's laughter, so beautiful to hear, soon will be a chance to have them very near.
• An unexpected visitor will bring you good blessings.

As it turned out, I was already pregnant with the Tank, though I didn't know it yet. Craving Chinese food three times in one week was a pretty good indicator, but that clue escaped my notice. I was hyper-focused on any sort of hokey "sign" at the time, because I was still a hormonal lunatic following a recent miscarriage and wanted a baby real bad. I would have believed a Magic Eight Ball, or at least shaken it until it gave me the right answer.

I abandoned horoscope reading years ago. Any sane adult knows horoscopes, unlike Magic Eight Balls and fortune cookies, are a total crock. So, the other day at the gym, as I perused the newspaper to avoid getting the Tank out of the nursery for a few more precious moments, I gave only a passing glance at my horoscope. Old habits die hard. It read:

Good fortune is heading in your direction, so take advantage of it. You can sign contracts, make deals or even collect an old debt with greater ease. An open discussion with someone about your dreams, hopes and wishes will help you make them come true.

Funny. I've been trying to collect a particular debt, with a great deal of difficulty and to no avail, for a while now. My efforts have included, but not been limited to, the following:

• Calling/texting/emailing gentle and not-so-gentle reminders about the debt.
• Going to a random place to pick up a check...
• Which turned out to be no good.
• Texting my debtor that said check was no good and receiving a response indicating that he had hoped overdraft would take care of it.
• Having another check returned to my bank after I (naively, I know) tried to deposit it, which resulted in a fee.
• Staring (I thought menacingly, but I guess I'm just not scary) at the debtor as he and I faced each other at a stoplight, just before he pulled into a fancy place for lunch on my dime, right across the street from the cheap place I was going to eat because I don't live beyond my means, like some people. Oh, wait, I just sounded like my mother. Eff!.
  
• Whining.

I was tempted to give up, until my dear husband pointed out that the amount owed, while not necessary for our survival, is not small. And it's mine, because I did the work and should get paid. As a real-life attorney, TF knows these fine points of the law. One law says "You can't write bouncy checks," or something like that. Anyhow, for all my hard work, the only thing I had to show was a bouncy check, written for one-fifth of the total amount owed. I called the bank each day, only to be told the check was still bouncy. At one point, I asked the teller why they kept the account open, given that checks written on it were rarely based in reality. Her response, in a really sappy woman-child voice,

"He's really trying."

No, dear, he isn't. He's out spending the money on whatever he likes. Didn't your mama warn you about guys like this? Maybe I should take you out to lunch and explain these things. But I digress.

Not two minutes after reading my horoscope, I got a text message, claiming the check was good. After a call to the bank to verify, I rushed to cash it. Mostly because the teller said, with some urgency,

"It's good, but you better hurry."

Yikes. Anyhow, we were talking about horoscopes. Although I wouldn't say collecting that debt has been easy (nor am I finished), but on that day, it was as easy as it had ever been (or is likely to be in the future). I also got a check in the mail for some work I had done for another company who always pays on time. And...one of the clients for my other website renewed a contract and another new client signed up. Was my horoscope right or was it right? Huh? Huh? I read it every day now.

Friday, my new adviser claimed afternoon shopping would lead to a bargain, so I bought a refill of my favorite eye cream at the gym, where I get a discount for being an employee**. This morning, it told me not to let my craptastic mood ruin everyone's day. At a family lunch, I was nicer than I wanted to be and ended up having a great time, narrowly avoiding spoiling anyone's afternoon. If it tells me to eat a chicken sandwich, I will do so without reservation, even if I want turkey. I'm not stupid.

Namasté, y'all!

* I love the phrase "giggling maniacally," especially when my children are the ones doing it.

** Incidentally, whenever I decide I might prefer not to teach at the gym, I realize that my Skinceuticals discount makes it all worth it. They'll have to drag me out of there when I'm 92 years old, because I will never, ever quit.

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.

I love being a grown-up.

All my dreams have come true. When I was about ten years old, around the time my Nana got me a subscription to Vogue, I saw a Cartier Tank Française and thought, "Yup." And I was willing to wait. While I waited, I got married, stayed married and co-produced three adorable sons, never once complaining about not receiving jewelry, because I had a plan. Just before our tenth anniversary, I announced I had done the math and it was time for the Tank. Now that I think about it, such diabolical selfishness is probably one reason the other Tank, the mad toddler, came my way. All's well that ends well, n'est-ce pas? Though he tries my patience, 99.9% of humans would agree he is beyond adorable. And I really love the watch*.

There was something else I wanted, besides a baby blue Jaguar. Big hair. And I knew how to get it. After careful research, I determined the most efficient route to big hair - big curlers on wet hair under a hood dryer. My poor ten-year-old self felt very sad, as I believed such things were only available in salons. Even a ten-year-old knows you have to be pretty rich to afford a professional set twice a week, so I collected good grades in hopes of going to a good college so I could get a great job and afford to have my hair set twice a week. I don't really like hard work, but I was willing to do what had to be done. Over the years, I experimented, with varying results.

• Pink foam curlers worn overnight on wet hair didn't work for long hair, which would still be wet in the morning. Also, they ripped out half my hair.
• Hard plastic curlers were too hard to sleep in. Ouch.
• Ditto velcro and wire curlers.
  
• They worked a little better under my mother's vintage bonnet dryer, but that took hours and there was a pretty serious risk of electrocution. Also, it burned my ears and scalp pretty bad.
• Blow-drying by hand with a big round brush. Took too long, hair got tangled and flyaway pieces inadvertently dried frizzy.
  
• Blow-drying by hand followed by extensive use of a curling iron was a decent option, but very time-consuming. Also, I needed one or two more arms to do it well.
• Blow-drying by hand followed by hot rollers works okay, but the style doesn't hold, no matter how many products I use.

At some point, I learned that hood dryers were available for private use at home. I have no idea why I never did my research**, but I assumed they were thousands of dollars and dismissed the idea. Why did no one ever tell me? These things are less than $100. Several days before Christmas, I broke my own rule about not buying stuff for yourself right before a holiday and drunkenly ordered a hood dryer, after reading a bunch of reviews, getting confused, pouring another glass of bubbly and picking one based on the fact one random person in Texas said it was big enough for really big curlers extensive research. My new Hot Tools 1875W Anti-Static IONIC Salon Hair Dryer was only $44.99. And I got free shipping. See how happy I am?

Bonus: I can't hear a thing under the dryer. If two kids are fighting and no parents hear it, did they still have a fight? I think not!

See how happy I am sitting in the car taking pictures of myself after an entire bottle of bubbly at Dianne's on new Year's Eve with my big hair?

And that set, pumped full of Elnett bien sûr, lasted for several days. All for the low, low price of $44.99. And free shipping. Can you hear the music swelling in the background?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Please see important addenda to this entry here. Merci.

* In my defense, I only ever wanted the stainless steel version. In fact, my dear husband asked if I wanted to hold out for the Tank with diamonds and I didn't. Because that would look silly in the day time and wearing a watch at night makes you look uptight. I don't wear a watch at night, because I like to party.

** Oh yeah. When Grandma was little there was no internet. And my mama wasn't the type to take me to beauty stores.

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.

Oh, the Facebooks...

The other day, I composed a tactful email (which, with my limited social skills was probably not at all tactful), to find out if a long married friend was separated. Why? Because Facebook declared she was "no longer listed as married." In fact Facebook, the worst marriage counselor evah, draws up a separation agreement every time she changes something on her profile, like hometown or education. Although changing your hometown without informing your spouse is one way to get separated, it's not the most mature.

My husband and I are at the age when friends start getting divorced. It's sad, even when it's the best decision for all parties concerned. When I hear about a separation, I pray they'll either work things out or divorce as peacefully as possible if it's meant to be. Any honest person who's been married long enough knows that separation can happen - "but for the grace of God" and all that. Marriage and parenting humble you like nothing else in the world.

Most married people are aware that no one really knows what happens in a marriage but the people in it. Sometimes they don't even know. I won't ever ask or attempt to answer the question "What happened?" about another couple. Life happened - and certainly not in the way they expected. People who ask that question really want to know if there was cheating and with whom. Am I the only person that reads women's magazines? Cheating is the symptom, not the cause, y'all! And it isn't your business, unless you were one of the parties involved. And obsessing over what other people do when they're alone is creepy, so drop it.

If you want to help, take a casserole. When someone dies, everyone brings food. When I had a miscarriage, several meals appeared on my doorstep, along with several bottles of oh-so-recently forbidden wine. When someone has a baby, in comes the casserole and banana bread. New house? Brownies. Like any of those events, separation is a huge transition. Change, whether happy or sad, is stressful. Basics like food and housekeeping sneak up on you. I suspect no one wants to take a casserole to the newly unpartnered because it's awkward. We don't want to call attention to it. Truly, there's no shame in separation or divorce. Aren't sadness, resentment and loneliness enough? No reason to heap shame on top of those. Most couples have carefully considered their choices, even if they didn't talk to you about it. What seems impulsive to an outsider has been a long time coming, maybe even the duration of the marriage. Human error and all that. There's a pretty big luck component in relationships that last, isn't there?

No matter how ready someone is to be free of a marriage, they're still minus a household member. Even if that household member stunk. Even if that household member never helped with cleaning or childcare. Even if all they did was fight. A newly separated parent might rather hug her children and take extra time helping with homework than cook. She might want to cry until dinner time. She (or he, I know) might not be used to cooking with children underfoot. So don't be shy, take a bowl of pasta and a salad. Throw in a bottle of wine and stick around for a glass. If it's your friend's night off from children, ask her out to dinner. Being home alone takes a lot of getting used to. From all accounts, separation is time consuming and difficult, so take a casserole. Or a pot of chili. Or a chicken pot pie. Or pizza. Other than that, mind your own business.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you see this whole entry as an attempt to receive lots of free food if I ever get separated, you are one smart cookie. In fact, my marriage is solid at the moment, but why don't you make me a sandwich, just in case? I like roast beef.

Huh.

I've just realized it's entirely possible that all the kids at baby school know The Tank's name not because he is charming and popular, but because he is naughty and they hear the teachers say his name all the time. Eh. No press is bad press, right?

Speaking of The Tank, formerly known as Baby J, we've been calling him something new recently. He is now known as S.K., short for The S.K., which is short for The Sh*t Kicker. Which is what he is. I haven't actually seen him kick sh*t, but I feel sure if he saw some, he would kick it. The other day, he walked up to a box on the soccer field. And kicked it, just to do some kicking. I would probably do the same, if I didn't care about my shoes. Also, one of the window panes on our front door is broken. I didn't understand the whole story, but it involved SK and a lampshade. The lampshade and SK are undamaged.

Breaking news: In an effort to find a free download of that song by House of Pain that gave us the idea for S.K.'s new moniker, I found this. Am I the last person to know about Jango? This is freaking awesome. I just made my own radio station by clicking on bands I like. And I set it on "Popular Favorites," because I'm a Greatest Hits kind of girl. The other options were "Happy Medium" and "Wide Variety." I freaking love this! I'm only on the second song (House of Pain segued seamlessly into The Cranberries), so I'm guessing there will be commercials at some point. This is so awesome! Jay-Z, followed by Frou Frou. This is like owning a radio station. No commercials yet. I feel like my life has changed.

Oooh...I can fast forward to the next song...Cardigans...Lily Allen...Cypress Hill...Beastie Boys...The Cure...Tori Amos... It's like this thing lives in my brain. I'm going to name this station "The Daily Digress: The College Years." It's like a prequel. I feel happy.

Pixies...Snoop Dogg...Morrissey...Ani...Tribe Called Quest...The Sundays... Ahhhh...

Namasté, y'all! Rock on!

Bake Sales are a feminist issue.

Not once during our marriage has anyone expected my husband to bake something for a damn bake sale. The fact that I enjoy baking is beside the point. Sort of. I mean, I'm sure if he did enjoy baking he would gladly do it in my place, because we believe, more or less, in gender equality. On a good day*. But he would never be asked and it would definitely be a bit odd, even if no one said anything, if he did, wouldn't it? You can lie and tell me, in a superior tone of voice bien sûr, "Oh. no! Hahahahaaaa...my husband is known for his Gooey Pecan Bars! Hahahahaaaa..." Go on, lie to yourself. Pretend that the person organizing the bake sale has no pre-conceived notion about who will be doing the baking. I lie to myself all the time, so I'll give you that one.

To be honest, my main problem with the bake sale concept is the dubious economic feasibility. I spent roughly 30% more on ingredients than my goods netted in a recent bake sale. I could have written a check, saved myself the time and my darling son's choir would have earned (roughly) 30% more. Sure, it's a little cold, but what about the bottom line? I suspect the bake sale is the sort of thing Betty Friedan railed against in The Feminine Mystique. Published thirty five years ago, this book is still relevant as hell, so read it if you haven't. Also, read Nora Ephron's** Crazy Salad, a collection of her essays from Esquire. Those two books, among others, shaped my beliefs. I read Ephron's when I was ten. As an aside, what kind of parents let their ten year old read that kind of thing? Answer: Good parents, like mine,although I bet their Republican a**es are sorry now. That's what they get for teaching us how to make thoughtful decisions instead of toeing the party line. Oops! I think I read Friedan after reading Ephron's take on it. But I digress, big time. The bake sale seems like a classic opportunity for mommies to show off their economically unrewarded skills.

Is all his bitterness necessary, given that I like to cook? I think it is. To quote another favorite feminist, Ani Difranco:

"If you're not angry, you're just stupid. You don't care.
How else can you react when you know something's so unfair."

Here I go again, showing my age. I know where I was when I found out River Phoenix died, too. And I cried about it. Now you can probably guess my age, to the year. But let's get back to Ani, as she says two albums earlier...

"...if you're not trying
to make something better
then as far as I'm concerned,
you are just in the way."

Also true. And I'm not doing a darn thing, am I? No time, unfortunately. Too busy with the minutiae of being a lowly mommy baking. It would take far more time to stand over my husband and tell him how to bake. And it would be way too mean to rail against the inadequacy and sexism of the bake sale. Oh wait. I kind of did.

May I propose a temporary solution? Let's take the pressure down a notch. Tell people it's okay to write a check instead and mean it. Or have a father/child bake sale. I remember fondly a lopsided cake my father and I made for the Father Daughter Brownie Valentine's Party one year. Although my mother never claimed to be a feminist, she was pretty good at avoiding stuff she hated, like baking and icing heart-shaped cakes. She also had money that was only in her name. Wonder if there was a correlation...

Namasté, y'all!

* Do we really? I'm not sure. I think we do believe in gender equality, but don't believe in salary equality. He is the boss, even if only by a slim margin, of our finances, because - and this may come as a shock to you - I don't make a great deal of money. The difference is subtle. If he wants to pay extra on our mortgage, he just does it. If I want to, I have to tell/ask him to do it. Is it telling or asking? That is the question. I wonder if I would behave the same way in the breadwinner position. I wonder if I would contribute to a retirement account in his name or just pat him on the head and assure him he could share mine. For the curious, please don't worry, this one is in the process of being corrected. But I had to ask. I hate asking. interestingly, I have no qualms whatsoever about enjoying the fruits of my husband's education and labor. And I assure you that, with my education and lack of motivation, I most certainly could not make the same amount he does. And, to be really honest, I would be a controlling b*tch if I made more money.

** I love you, Nora!!!!

How to be less gross.

If you only know me from the witty and sparkling chatter found on my blog, you probably think I'm gorgeous in person. Well. That just depends on the day and whether or not I had time to put on lipstick, now doesn't it? Actually, I probably look the same to the world at large every day of my life, but (like almost everyone in the Western world) I notice myself a little more than other people do.

When I was eighteen or so, I had a friend, sort of like a boyfriend, but I don't think he was that into me, so maybe not. We were supposed to go to some party or another and I had a zit on my chin. I freaked, threw a full on hissy fit and refused to go to the party. Looking back on it, I'm not sure why. Could one zit really change someone's opinion of me? Did one zit indicate a great character flaw I needed to hide from the world? Um. I have no answer for that, m'kay? I was eighteen and ridiculously self-conscious and self-obsessed. My friend did me a big favor.

"You know," he said as I sniffled dramatically, "Nobody cares about your stupid zit."

What? This was a statement both depressing and liberating. Nobody cares. Nobody's watching. The world just isn't that into me. He chastised me for being willing to miss an entire party over something so inconsequential as a zit.

"Do you realize how small that thing is compared to your entire body?"

I did the math. He was right, the percentage was minuscule.

"NOT THAT I'M SAYING YOUR BODY IS BIG. YOU ARE VERY, VERY SKINNY."

Well, thin or slender are nicer words, but to quote Sarah Silverman, "I just want you to think I'm skinny." Although he was also eighteen, he was a wise man.

So, thanks to that guy, I haven't turn downed a party since. Thanks, that guy. Now I'm an alcoholic. But I digress.

This time of year, when the weather changes, my skin goes into panic mode. Yesterday, I had dry, peeling skin, all over my face. No amount of moisturizer made it disappear. Desperate for a fix, I went to the kitchen. In a bowl, I mixed the following:

• a spoonful of almond butter.
• a blob of mashed, overripe banana (froze the rest for banana bread later).
  
• a spoonful of sugar.
• a large squirt of honey.
• a dash of extra virgin olive oil.
• a dollop of buttermilk, which I'm still trying to get rid of. Suggestions?

It didn't look like much, but then I remembered this cool soap I had one time from Lush. It was supposed to be a massage bar and had all these aduki beans mashed into it. I did not have aduki beans, as that is not the sort of thing a housewife keeps in the pantry. I did have some (much smaller than aduki beans) raw quinoa, so I added that. Then I rubbed the whole mess on my face and left it there for a while. I licked some of it from my lips and it tasted pretty good, but I wouldn't drink it. I don't think the quinoa added to its effectiveness, but it felt good when I was massaging it into my skin. I looked funny with all those little quinoa balls on my face. It made me laugh, out loud, alone in the bathroom. That's the kind of crazy person I am. I rinsed it off after about ten minutes, patted dry and rubbed in some La Mer cream. The flakiness was almost gone. I applied the gooey homemade face wash one more time in the shower that evening and the flakiness was conquered. This is huge. Usually that flakiness lasts for days. I feel happy.

Namasté, y'all!

The mute point that speaks louder than words.

It drives me crazy when someone pronounces "moot" like "mute." It's so awkward, because then you have to be very, very careful not to use the phrase around them, lest they think you're making fun. Far better just to complain about it on your blog, I say. Or to your mother, which is what I was doing the other day. Ever the optimist, my mother suggested that the person might actually mean "mute point." She presented, as an example, a certain hand gesture that, while sometimes accompanied by a choice phrase or two, is in itself silent. The hand gesture can be seen through the window of passing cars, behind a child's back from one parent to another and probably from the backseat of my car after I threaten to confiscate my children's GameBoys*. The point is made and the point is mute, not moot.

There are plenty of ways to make a mute point. Try not inviting someone to your house ever, ever again after they throw up on your couch. How about a glare? Mute points are not my favorite, because passive aggression isn't my style, but it's nice to explore the options. Raised eyebrows are a classic, as is the open mouthed stare directed at line cutters. I wrote a haiku about a line cutter the other day, in my head, so I guess it was a mute point.

Stupid lil' frat boy
Cut in line at gas station.
Forgot wallet. HA!

I was on the phone with my sister once and I asked some sort of question that took her a moment to answer. During the pause I heard a near-mute, drawn out sniff, a favorite of my mother's and her mother's, and probably her mother's, but I don't remember.

"HA!" I screeched, "You just did the sniff! MOM!"

"I did not!"

"Did too - I HEARD IT!"

"No, I...OH MY GOSH, I DID, didn't I?"

The realization was followed by a long wail. Why do these genetic certainties take us by surprise? And why are they so irritating? We love our mother. We loved our grandmother. And we most certainly would have loved her mother, dramatic sniff and all. Maybe it's the fact that we're powerless to stop the sniff. Or we have too many memories of the sniff as a response to something terrible we had done, like not wear a slip**. But I digress. The sniff, while nearly mute, is audible, even over the phone.

I need to make more mute points. My audible points are uniformly ignored, so why waste the breath? Where do points made in an email fall? Are they mute until the recipient reads the email out loud to someone else, hoping to inspire some companionable indignation? Not sure about that one...

Namasté, y'all!

* Or DS's or PSP's or whatever the kids are playing these days. I really should know this stuff, shouldn't I?

** Does anyone still wear a slip?

Yay! Food and wine!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

Road Rage is so 1992.

I was driving through Five Points yesterday, looking for a parking spot. It was around lunch time, but the parking situation wasn't too bad. I didn't anticipate more than one loop around Saluda Avenue, maybe two, but I was listening to the radio, so what's a few more minutes?

I found a spot and pulled in. I didn't get far, because there was a rather intimidating woman standing in the space. I don't know why anyone would want to park in a parking space meant for a car, but she seemed determined, so I waved apologetically and moved on to a space a few yards away. As I was getting out, I saw her wave a friend into the space. I know they were friends, because they were wearing matching garnet shirts and khaki shorts, a combination far more unforgivable than parking space hogging. I mean, ew, the shorts had pleats! And grown women do not need to be wearing matching outfits. Twins shouldn't even wear matching outfits after the age of six or so.

Was it really worth the bad karma incurred? Her friend would have found a spot within minutes, without interrupting the flow. And the ladies seemed to derive some great satisfaction from sticking it to the other would-be parkers. They were laughing and fist bumping, high fiving or whatever the kids are doing these days.

I used to have road rage, until I realized it was more effective to just change lanes. I'm too lazy for road rage. Unlike this lady I know, who shall remain nameless because of what I'm about to share. This energetic lady, we'll call her Ursula, which isn't even remotely similar to her real name, always seemed a bit off. It was hard to say how. She was nice enough and able to form sentences like a normal human. She didn't have freaky hair. But there was something. My husband calls it "snakes behind the eyes." My sister in law calls it "like that time in high school I tried to be enthusiastic."

Anyhow, I was driving to the gym one day and, while drinking coffee, putting on lipstick and talking on my cell phone, swerved ever so slightly into the lane beside me. Someone honked to let me know and, as they passed, I put my coffee and lipstick down before turning to do the sheepish wave of thanks. I know how small this town is, so there was a 98.2% chance I would know the honker. And, it was true, I had been driving like an a**hole and earned the honk. I turned to wave and saw the driver, hands on the wheel, foot to the accelerator, body flung across the passenger seat, eyes bulging. As I contemplated how someone could remain seated in the driver's seat, driving, and simultaneously press her face against the passenger window, I realized I knew her. Ursula! Now I had proof.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, I called a few choice friends to let them know what we hadn't been able to prove before. Ursula is a stone cold loon. There was still a slight chance she was normal, I guess. If she had called later or said something the next time I saw her like,

"I'm so embarrassed! I can't believe I lost my temper like that the other day. You must think I'm a nut!"

I could have responded, after politely pretending not to remember the incident, of course,

"Oh, my goodness. That was you? Oh, we all have days like that...bless your heart. Don't give it another thought!"

And she could have told me about the bad day that lead up to her acting like a raving lunatic. Maybe the dry cleaner lost her favorite shirt. Maybe she had to wait three hours at the doctor's office. Maybe the grocery store was out of olives. But that didn't happen. Every time I've seen her since, she's been about the same, maybe slightly more nervous. She doesn't need to be nervous around me, though, because public rage isn't my thing. Too tiring and not fun enough. I'm more into public hysteria and streaking.

Namasté, y'all!

Nice is the new mean. Simple is the new complicated.

This is an exciting day. I'm getting a new tire. I'm actually posting from the tire place. That's how up to the minute the Daily Digress is. Oh, wait, they're finished already!

Here's how it went down:

I came in. I told them it looked as though one of my children had bitten a chunk out of one of the tires and that the spare was actually a blown tire from a while ago. They suggested two new tires and told me the exact price, with tax and all. I didn't want to spend that much today. They suggested I keep the bitten tire as a spare and get one new tire, which cost exactly half of what two tires cost. They told me how long it would take and...it took exactly that long, maybe a little less. They had free wireless internet. When I went to pay, the price was exactly what they told me earlier. And everyone seemed happy enough. Nobody threatened me or tried to make me feel guilty about not getting two tires. I don't need therapy to get over the experience. Wow.

I had two other nice, uncomplicated experiences recently. The other night, my husband and I went to Blue Bar in the Vista. We went with some trepidation, as we're really a hair too old to go to places like that. Sometimes, if you're too old or uncool to be somewhere, they make you feel as awkward as possible. Not so at Blue Bar. The bouncer asked to see my id and put up a gracious fight when I offered my crow's feet as proof of my age. He didn't over-do it. The bartender came over right away, even though the bar was crowded. When I asked for a glass of dry white wine, he didn't bore me with the details. When my husband changed his order, the bartender was unfazed. He didn't try to make us feel like we had violated some sacred code.

We asked at the hostess stand if we could take our drinks outside and they said, "Absolutely!" and asked if we wanted a server out there. We didn't and they let us know it would be fine to change our minds. Why isn't it always that easy?

The other night we ate at Dianne's and found more joy. Not a single server seemed sarcastic, irritated or too fancy to wait on us. And we are not so fancy. When my family gets together in a restaurant, we do everything short of playing Quarters. In fact, we may have done that at Garibaldi's* once. I just don't remember. Big surprise. Also, we change our orders, drop our forks, need extra napkins and are loud. Very loud. Sometimes we argue and swear, in a good natured way, of course. They made us feel as though our behavior was not merely normal, but admirable (which it may very well be in some circles, like circles of frat boys or drunk circus performers.) And, oh yeah, we've I've been known to make special orders. At a place like Dianne's, they don't bat an eye. If it's possible, they'll do it. If not, they'll tell you, nicely.

Sarcasm is so '87. I think everyone should just be nice, like I tell my kids. What's that saying? No one will remember exactly what you said. No one will remember exactly what you did. But they will remember how you made them feel. True, true and true. Why be the person that makes people feel bad? That's a rhetorical question, but I'll give you an answer anyway: Because you hate yourself. At least, that's why I've done it. It's a vicious cycle, too. You hate yourself, so you're mean and sarcastic. Which makes people hate you. Which makes you hate yourself more. And so on.

You don't have to be syrupy nice, like the woman my funny, funny sister in law said reminded her of "the time in high school when I decided to be enthusiastic." Fake won't work, but why don't we all just shoot for decent and straightforward? And if you can't muster that, let's just play Quarters. S'fun!

Namasté, y'all!

* It should be said here that they are also very friendly and accommodating at Garibaldi's. We just didn't happen to go there the other night. Other nice places to go are Mr. Friendly's, Baan Sawan and any of the Miyo's Group restaurants. There are others, of course, but those come to mind immediately.

Big Yoga Weekend!

I had the great pleasure this weekend of spending two days doing Yoga. In Charlotte. Without kids. A friend and I shared a hotel room and spent most of Saturday and Sunday stretching, om-ing, expanding our unenlightened minds and indulging our total hippy sides. It was great, which I'll try to remember tomorrow morning, when I can't get out of bed.

Because Yoga is all about balance, we also had a scrumptious meal Saturday night, with plenty of wine and my first shot of Tequila, and we went to the mall today before coming back to Columbia. Even though I know Yoga attracts all kinds (like my own strange self), I'm still always surprised to see the number of fake bosoms at these workshops. I suppose they're no more distracting than the hot Yoga dude without the shirt. Or the Yoga dude in tight pants who likes to do back bends. Or the any-gendered Yogi who thinks deodorant is for nature haters. Or the person who can't carry a tune and insists on chanting louder than everyone else. But I digress. I was talking about bosoms.

Please understand. I'm not in any way criticizing owners of fake boobs. I know and love plenty of ladies who have them. I want fake boobs, even though I'm probably too chicken and cheap to get them. I agree with the guy who said,

"Hey, if I can see 'em and I can touch 'em, they're real."

Amen to that. But I just don't expect to see them in Yoga. I saw one set so large they must have challenged the balance of their owner. I saw another pair trying desperately to escape their meager sports bra container. I saw a few sets that led me to wonder,

"Did she or didn't she?"

I wish I knew a graceful way to ask that question, because if she did, I want to know who the artist doctor was. And how much they cost...and how long the recovery was... But you have to know someone pretty well to ask that question. In fact, if you know them that well, you probably already know the answer, because you brought them soup when they were recovering.

Yoga attracts all kinds, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Crazy people.
• People obsessed with their bodies.
• People who really like big boobs.
• People romantically involved with people who like really big boobs.
• People who do things for themselves, in a positive way, because they're in tune with their feelings.

Any of those people might also be people who would have boob jobs*. If I can ever figure out which one of those people I might be, I'll consider getting the boobs. I'll only get them if I become enlightened and realize I'm the in-tune-with-her-feelings sort. It will take a lot of meditating to find the answer. But, man, would I ever love some fancy boobs, the kind I could take anywhere and put into any sort of clothing without worrying where they might end up. The sort of boobs that didn't wander into my armpits or towards my belly button at the slightest provocation. The sort of boobs that wouldn't reach up and slap me in the chin if I went running without a bra**. Boobs 2.0.

By the way, if anyone ever sees me and wonders if I did or didn't, please ask. If I didn't, I'll be thrilled that they look good enough to be manufactured. If I did, I'll be happy to share. Not "share" as in let you touch them, but "share" as in tell you all about them. You'll wish you never asked. Eh. You could just wait to read about them on my blog.

Namasté, y'all!

* There's a lesson in here somewhere about sets and sub-sets, but you won't get it from me. Math teachers take note! Venn Diagrams could be involved. Venn diagrams of two sets look like fake boobs, so it would be a great visual reminder. I've always found Venn Diagrams very comforting. Maybe because I was breastfed. Yup, this is the stuff I think about.

** Not that I would go running without a bra. I'd be very protective of my fancy boobs.

Book clubs are like museums.

I want to like them. I should like them. My parents paid a lot of money for my education, presumably so I could enjoy book clubs and museums. But I don't. Because they're boring. There, I said it. My mother-in-law was right: I'm simple. She, by the way, is in a book club.

It's not that I don't like to read, because I do. I even enjoy talking about a book I've read, if it comes up in conversation by chance. I can't deal with forced reading and study questions, though. I didn't love school, but I slogged through and finished, dammit. I have some nice pieces of paper to show for it, too. I even have a Masters Degree. Surprised? Don't be. Masters Degrees are the new high school. When you meet a new mom at the park, it only takes about ten minutes for her to mention her Masters. An un-used Ph.D. is wasteful. A Masters? Eh, not so much. I couldn't even cover the cost of all the new clothes I'd need with the salary that my Masters in Social Work would bring. And I'm not making fun of the moms who feel compelled to mention their graduate degrees at the park, apropos of nothing, because I've done it. I'm not sure why, probably to prove I'm at the park by choice, because I could be out earning a million bucks with my fancy degree. Huh. That is so embarrassing. As of right now, I resolve never to mention my degree again. Especially because I couldn't Social Work my way out of a paper bag.

There are risks to joining a book club. It's a lot of pressure. What if you have to read a book you hate? A lot of book clubs read Eat, Pray, Love. Hated it. I'll spare you my opinion of the first thirty pages, because that's as far as I got before I wanted to put my head through a wall. I settled for reading a passage or two out loud in a grating, whiny screech to my husband. He didn't like it, either*. Not only would you have to read it, you'd have to go discuss it, being careful not to offend anyone who loved it. Or you might be the person at book club that everyone secretly (or not so secretly) hates, because she shoots down everything. Or you might be the person I fear the most, the person of mediocre intelligence with no sense of humor who dominates the entire discussion. I had enough of that person in every English class I ever took. I might have been that person. Either way, I don't want to relive it.

And what about the study guides? Do book clubs actually use those? Scary. Almost every book marketed to women has them now, even those chick lit novels I love. They have questions like, "Do you think Amelia should have, like, broken up with the rich, hot guy and hooked up with the smart, but poor guy or should she, like, have rejected both of them? Why?" I solemnly swear that, if I ever write a novel and it gets published, there will be no study guide at the back. Well, unless I get paid a bunch of money and can't say no. But it would have to be a whole bag of money, like at least a thousand dollars. Or five hundred.

I feel more guilty about not liking museums. Maybe it's my ADD, but I just hate staring at stuff that doesn't move or do something. And museums are full of stuff I can't buy, so what's the point? I've been to the Louvre. I was far more interested in seeing if they had a café where I could stare at people than standing with the proletariat in front of the Mona Lisa. I like reading about artists. Their stories are usually chock full of drug abuse, sex and other interesting things. But staring at it? No thanks. Mona Lisa is just a person in a picture. I can't even remember what she's wearing.

Although I like to read so-called intelligent literature, I also have an affection for trash, the kind of books you buy on vacation when you can't go to the library, enjoy and never read again. The other day, I noticed about twenty such titles taking up space on my book case. Tonight, I'm hosting the Anti-Book Club. My party isn't anti-books, just book clubs. I've invited a bunch of ladies to come to my house, bring as many paper backs as they like and swap. These are the rules:

• Drinking, eating and yakking starts at 7 pm.
  
• Books will be dumped in a central location and book choosing will begin around 8 pm, or whenever I remember the point of the party.
• The books should be ones you've enjoyed but don't need to keep. Chick lit, mysteries, biographies of people you don't really care about, etc. No parenting manuals or religious study books, please. Cookbooks might actually be okay, especially if they include cocktail recipes.
• If you try to tell anyone about your book, you'll be kicked out. Immediately. And you won't be able to take your books with you, because we might like them.
• If you ask anyone about one of their books, you'll be kicked out. See above for procedure.
• The Book Swap is based on the honor system. Only take as many books as you brought.

If I forgot to include you as I was randomly emailing people, call me and let me know you're coming. I'd love to see you! But do not try to sell me on your book, m'kay?

Namasté, y'all!

* I wonder if any guy read that book. Not that they would admit it if they had.

Omphaloskeptics Don't Wear Overalls

When my nephew was a toddler and had to make a decision, his hand would race to his navel and he'd start digging. He couldn't decide between waffles or pancakes, mommy or daddy, chocolate or vanilla...or strawberry. And he couldn't wear overalls, because the stress of being unable to reach his navel was unbearable. After the decision was made, he still couldn't relax. Second guessing and over-thinking is natural for some people. My nephew is a classic maximizer*. Even after making his choice, he still worries that he could have done better.

In a lot of ways, my sister-in-law V. is like a sister to me. We don't have the same parents, but we do have the same parents-in-law (if it's taking you a second to figure that out: our husbands are brothers.) Sometimes, I think we're married to the same guy, because our very minor complaints about our nearly perfect husbands are so similar. One think we've noticed about our in-laws, including our husbands, is that they're all belly button diggers. It's become so ingrained that I realized the other day that I use that phrase a lot and no one but V. has any idea what I'm talking about. Allow me to explain.

Belly button diggin' is closely related to navel gazing. It's just more agonizing and less productive. The navel gazer can produce entire works of art about him or herself (or, um, a whole blog.) The Belly Button Digger (BBD) agonizes endlessly to no avail. When I was pregnant with our third child, I decided that we absolutely had to go to Disney World, within weeks. I am not a Belly Button Digger. As soon as the thought entered my head, I was sure it had to happen. And it had to happen fast because, if history repeated itself, I would be on bedrest soon enough. The big boys were the perfect ages to enjoy Disney World and a baby would postpone the trip indefinitely. So I told my husband I was booking the trip and the Belly Button Digging began.

"I don't know...Disney World? I'd rather go to Europe."

Like that's going to happen, you Belly Button Digger.

"I don't know if I can miss five days of work."

Hello? Cell phone? No one will miss you.

"Maybe it's too expensive."

Lalalala...

Imagine him saying all of those things with an excruciating look of pain on his face. One would think I had asked him to choose between walking the plank or Russian Roulette, not a trip to Disney World or...not. Because I had no time for Belly Button Digging, I told him I was making the reservation and, while I would be happy for him to come, I would be equally happy taking my mother, who the boys adore. And he started anew.

"But they'd never forgive me."

They'd be far more focused on, I don't know, DISNEY WORLD than you, dear.

"I owe it to them to go."

There will be no martyrs at Disney World!

"Your mom doesn't want to go."

Does, too.

I made the reservation and told him to let me know. In the end, he went, strictly forbidden by me to make any negative remarks or ugly faces before, during or after the trip. I made him buckle up his overalls and enjoy himself, which he did.

My husband has been browbeaten out of much of his Belly Button Diggin', but others are not so lucky. And BBD's can miss out because they spend too much time thinking. It's a particularly agonizing form of procrastination. You can't decide if you want to go out Friday night, so you don't get a babysitter. But you have children, so of course you want to go out Friday night, which you finally know for sure on Friday afternoon at five o'clock, when all the babysitters are taken or on their way to Happy Hour. V. and I realized long ago that it was pointless to ask our BBD husbands on Wednesday if we should get a sitter for the weekend. They always said no and they always whined on Friday that they wished we had gotten one.

I suppose that I could do a little bit more belly button digging; I do tend to make rash decisions. I was whining to my sister today about how I'm not stupid, but not in possession of any kind of useful intelligence. She claimed that I'm plenty smart and I've made choices about what to do with my life. The truth hurts, but I guess she's right**. I do tend to choose the easiest path, not the most advanced or even the most interesting. But at least most days I'm content; some days I'm even wildly happy, like when we went to Disney World or when I got my lucky jeans. And even if I had a big, fancy life, wouldn't I still be unhappy sometimes? And wouldn't I have to work a lot harder? And not go to Yoga as often?

In the end, I think balance in a family is good. Let's say your wife is jumping on the bed with an empty Margarita glass, yelling, "Do it! Do it! Do it!" in reference to quitting your job. A little contemplation is probably a good thing. If my husband was as impulsive as I am, we'd live in a house that needed a lot more renovating than we could afford, because we'd have twelve children. And tattoos. And if I was more like him, we'd only have one child and we'd be driving the same car we had when we got married. I like to think that my impulsiveness has given him the courage to go farther with his career and do other cool stuff, like go to Disney World. And the kids never would have gotten those faux hawks. I could be wrong but, frankly, I'm just not going to think about it too much.

So, next time you want to do something like steal plants from the park in the middle of the night to plant in your yard and your friend says, "I don't know...," feel free to say, "Quitcher dang belly button diggin' and git in the car! Yer drivin'! Whooooooo!"

Namasté, y'all.

* If you followed that link and read about the quiz, you may find it interesting to know that I scored 17 and my husband scored in the 70's. Fun.

** Well, sort of. It's hard to explain how having three children limits you. And how you desperately love the children and wouldn't change a thing. And how you had no idea from one year to the next what you might want five years down the line. A little belly button diggin' might have left my options open, but I wouldn't have as many children and my children crack me up, which is pretty much all I want out of life. Except...oops, I came pretty close to Belly Button Diggin' right there.

I Am So Cool! I'm Totally, Like, a BLOGGER!

And I know this because I got tagged by Meagan, whose blog, Equilibrium, I love. She also writes some great articles about parenting for national magazines and has a column in her own local paper, so I'm feeling smart by association.

So here it is:

First, the Rules:

1) Post these rules before you give your facts

2) List 8 random facts about yourself

3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) people and list their names, linking to them

4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they’ve been tagged

And now… my facts:

1) I was born in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, when my Dad was in the army.

2) I drive my dream car. I know this because my kids asked me what my dream car was and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather drive than my Toyota Highlander Hybrid. I still can't. That car is perfect.

3) I would love to have seven or eight kids, but only if we had at least two people working for us full time, a nanny and a housekeeper.

4) I had really easy recoveries from my C-sections, but I don't like to tell people that because I don't want to encourage them.

5) I'd like to have a surprise fortieth birthday party for my husband, but he has so many friends through work and tennis that I wouldn't know who to invite. It makes me feel like a bad wife that I haven't met a lot of his friends and I couldn't even tell you all of their names.

6) I have fantasies about having a beautiful and functional yard, entirely cared for by someone else. We have a much smaller yard than we used to, which is great. Much less guilt!

7) As you may have read on this blog, I see Botox as a step on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

8) I was able to blog as soon as I let go of the idea that what I wrote had to be interesting to read.

And I tag you:

Lisa

and

Robin