What does he mean?

My dear husband TF "almost wants" to do a lot of stuff, as in,

"I almost want another helping of that pork roast."

or

"I almost want to keep fresh basil above the sink all the time. It smells so good."

or, the most annoying one my personal favorite,

"I almost want to break Lent and have just one beer."

I fail to understand how you can almost want to do something. I mean, either you want to do it, you don't or you are confused. His "almost" means something else entirely. Usually, he does in fact want the full-fat pork/beer/third Krispy Kreme/tickets to his umpteenth Morrissey show very much, but he wants my permission. I have three children, not four, so I refuse to entertain this sort of behavior. He can either do it or not. Not my decision. In the second example listed above, he wants me to do it. In that particular case, he hopes I will voluntarily obtain fresh basil every week, keep it in a cup of water and make sure it stays fresh for his smelling pleasure. I don't want to do that - not almost - just don't. So, like the grown-up that I am, I...um...don't do it. His mother would probably oblige, as this seems like the sort of thing French people do, and this is just fine by me. But I won't do it. I also won't passive-aggressively not do it when it might be convenient, because I am either passive or aggressive, rarely both at once.

Speaking of being passive, I'm not much for dragging myself to the gym, but I have to go, because I am old, have three children and eat like a trucker. And I like booze. I teach Pilates so I can get a free gym membership and also so I will be forced to go there. Unsurprisingly, I like to chat while I teach. I talk about any number of things - trying really effing hard not to cuss - including food. People in gyms love to talk about food. After all, our love for food is often what brings us to the gym in the first place. I try to keep it healthy, so of course I had to talk quinoa. One of my totally awesome clients passed on this recipe, from something called the Sonoma Diet, and as she expected, I love it. So did my kids. And, given that I almost want to wholeheartedly endorse, nay* insist on cooking quinoa a second time before serving, I had to alter the recipe just a little. This is my so-close-to-the-original-it's-not-even-really-different version.

So-Close-to-the-Original-It's-Not-Even-Really-Different Sonoma Diet Southwestern Grain Medley (Catchy, huh?)

Put some olive oil in a big pan and heat it.

Add a heaping half-cup of frozen (or fresh, you go-getter) corn and a heaping cup of cooked quinoa to the pan. Sautée them for a little bit, until they're brown. Sautée them long enough to add the following to a large bowl:

1/2 cup cooked brown or wild rice. I use the frozen kind in the little pouches from Trader Joe's. How freaking lazy is that? Bite me.

1/2 cup canned black beans, rinsed and drained.

1/2 cup chopped red bell pepper.

1/2 cup chopped green bell pepper.

1/2 cup chopped and seeded cucumber.

a thinly sliced green onion.

a whole lime's worth of lime juice.

a big splash of olive oil. I recommend using lemon-infused olive oil if you have it. Good stuff.

a little bit of finely chopped fresh jalapeño pepper.

a bunch fresh cilantro. I love cilantro, unlike TF, who almost hates it, but has managed to narrowly avoid hating it. Even though he almost does. So I don't add too much, but I put it on the table so the rest of us can go nuts.

Now that the quinoa and corn are lightly toasted, add them to the bowl with the other stuff and mix it all together. Season with salt and pepper. Or not.

Now eat it. So good, so healthy. Do you still like me? I still haven't had any caffeine. I think it's been a month. Wheeee!

Namasté, y'all!

* Nay. Another word I hate. I once heard it used in casual conversation, by someone not even almost British who tried to play it off as totally normal. I could barely contain my laughter, nay, my hysterical guffawing. I almost wanted to let loose. But I did not.

Happy Birthday to me!

The Tank is turning into a pretty nice guy, both charming and considerate. This morning, he marched through my darkened room where I was sleeping peacefully allowed to remain in bed because it's my birthday, even if it wasn't quiet enough to sleep really.

"Come give Mommy a birthday hug!"

I anticipated him wriggling up the side of the bed, jumping on me and showering my face with kisses, his arms wrapped around my neck.

"No, Moooooom, I have poop! Dad, you wanna' change my poop?"

How very thoughtful. Not only did he not wish to interject the offensive poop into my birthday snooze, he also had the decency to ask someone else to change it. On your birthday, you shouldn't have to deal with anyone's poop but your own*. If only he would start using the d*mn potty. Eventually, he climbed onto my bed - poop-free - and sang "Happy Birthday" to himself.

Once he uses the d*mn potty, my life will be pretty close to perfect, because I'll be able to organize the laundry room. No point in doing it before the Age of Waste-Related Reason, because his diapers and diaper-related items take up so much room in there. I can't wait. I've been on an organizing jag recently, all inspired by a makeover I performed on the top of my dresser. Which lead to sorting and tidying the drawers below. Which lead to an overhaul of the small older-than-dirt-Ikea-dresser-that-won't-die** in my closet containing my pajamas and underthings. Which inspired me to sort and organize my pocketbooks and shoes. Which ultimately effected the organizing of my hanging clothes. And the drawers in my bathroom. And my jewelry boxes. I now have a designated place for those extra buttons that come with clothes. I feel happy. So, so happy. I would take a picture, but have the decency to feel embarrassed about the number of pocketbooks and shoes I have.

The Tank has left for the gym with TF, the big kids are sleeping and I'm gearing up to go to the All-Local Farmers' Market at Rosewood. The fourth Saturday market is my favorite, because it's close to my house.

This has nothing to do with anything I just said, but I need to share. Have you seen these signs?



I saw one, at Burger King in Lexington. I thought it was a prank. I thought it was so funny, I pulled a u-ey and took a picture. Several days later, I saw the same exhortation on another Burger King sign. I happened to be on the phone with my friend Angela at the time***. She happened to be on her computer and Googled, only to learn "ANGRY WHOPPER FEEL THE HEAT" is a new marketing campaign. Somebody needs to get fired. Don't know about you, but I picture a greasy hamburger, teeth bared, chasing me down the street and growling, "FEEL THE HEAT! FEEEEEEEL IT!" And the hamburger is bigger than I am. And angry. The Whopper has good cause to be angry at me, too, given how many of them I consumed in my youth without appreciating the amazing curative properties. One reason I gained so much weight in my first pregnancy (eighty pounds, yo) is morning sickness felt like a hangover, which I knew from experience could only be cured by a Whopper Combo with cheese, no onions and a Diet Coke. Of course, I didn't want my baby to have three heads, so I substituted full-calorie Sprite for the Diet Coke. Or maybe the Whopper is just angry because I dumped it as I approached my thirties and was no longer able to maintain a lady-like weight and eat Whoppers five six times a week let's be honest here every day. Whatever the reason, Burger King, I do fear the angry Whopper and I do feel the heat. I fear the angry Whopper will catch up with me and exact revenge by making me gain those eighty pounds back, along with the eighty pounds I gained while pregnant with the X-Man and the mere thirty I piled on for the Tank. No, Whopper, no! Let me be!

Anyhow, today is my birthday. I'm going to the Farmers' Market, coming home and setting my hair, maybe going to the gym to ward off the return of the Angry Whopper and cooking a big dinner. And don't be mad at my husband. I like cooking and have asked him to remove everyone, especially the Tank, from our home and let me cook in peace. What a gift!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. For the curious: The reason my closet and dresser were such a mess is because I was pregnant with the Tank. When you get pregnant, you wear a bunch of different sizes over a period of two years and your closet organization gets all shot to hell. "Two years?" you novices might be asking. "Really?" Well, yes. There was the brief, three-month pregnancy before the Tank that ended in mis-carriage. Early pregnancy necessitates "fat clothes." During the two months in between that and getting pregnant with the Tank, I needed depressing clothes. There were more clothes to hide my pregnancy with the Tank, because after a miscarriage you might be a bit gun-shy and don't want to announce your new pregnancy right away. Then came the maternity clothes, followed by the post-partum clothes (non-maternity clothing in a larger size so you don't feel like a fat hag.) A couple months after he was born, I started on the back-to-my-normal-weight-except-for-in-the-boob-department clothes, followed by the slightly-smaller-boobs clothes. Now I'm pretty much the size I was before each pregnancy. Now that the Tank is over two, I got my closet mojo back, y'all! I plan to be this size until I die. What a roller coaster.

* Frankly, any time TF is home, diaper changing duties belong to him. I am not a nice wife.

** Did you got to college with me? You might remember the dresser. It will not die. Even the cardboard drawer bottoms remain intact, although they do pop away from the plastic drawer backs and have to be slammed back together. And, yes, I should buy a new dresser, but I have fantasies about a California Closets makeover that would include built-in drawers, so I don't want to spend the money. Maybe I'll have the closet and the laundry room done at the same time. Did you just get chills? I did.

*** Yeah. I talk on my phone while driving. I drive better on the phone. It keeps me awake.

This is really rather nice.

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

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

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

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

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

Wish you were here!

Namasté, y'all!

What would you have done?

So, this one time, I was in exercise class. The girl in front of me had a small hole, just right of center, in the back of her stretchy exercise pants. My first instinct was to tell her, but why go with your gut when you can over-analyze something to death? Especially if that over-analyzing distracts you from the agony of exercise class.

If I told her, she'd feel obligated to skip exercise for the day, lest the hole enlarge and expose more than just a small patch of skin. And I hate missing exercise, especially when I've counted on it and gone to the trouble of getting dressed, getting childcare and showing up. That was one reason I didn't tell her. Also, I checked to see if there were any men in the class. Because I wouldn't mind if a few women saw a patch of my bare behind, but men would be a whole 'nother thing. Their imaginations are too vivid for my taste. Give them an inch of skin and, before you know it, they're picturing you totally nude and running through the grocery store singing Marvin Gaye, wearing pasties if you're lucky.

Of course I questioned my decision throughout the class, especially when she would twist around, looking for the hole when she felt a draft. Every time she twisted, the hole would close, so she never saw it. I thought about telling her so she wouldn't think she was losing her mind. I got very nervous as the hole moved closer and closer to the middle. I mean, bare skin is one thing. It looks the same all over, so a patch of bum could be an arm, cheek (face-type) or any other inoffensive body part. Not that a bum is offensive. It's just that you should only share it with certain people, like your doctor, your husband or that guy who wanted to take a cell phone picture of your bare bum for thirty dollars your personal waxer.

And it's not like I was the only person not telling her. There were several people who could see it. I know they could see it because, like me, they were trying to monitor it without seeming like they were staring. Besides, doesn't the end justify the means and all that? The hole never made it to the fifty yard line. It settled around the thirty five, not close enough to inspire real panic. And that girl got to finish her exercise for the day, which makes the rest of us practically saints. Or guardian angels, since we were all keeping an eye on the progress of the hole.

I sincerely hope, when that girl got home and realized she hadn't imagined the draft, that she didn't feel mad at everyone behind her. I hope she understood our careful consideration. There are some things that aren't covered in Emily Post and it's hard to know just what to do. And, by the way, if you see me with a hole in my pants at the gym, tell me after I finish exercising, but before I go out to lunch, okay?

Namasté, y'all!

Yay, AnnaBelle! Yay, Pretty Dresses!

I'm at the beach and writing from the lovely Latté Litchfield today. My husband thinks I'm at the gym. Ladies, do not let yourselves go just because you're on vacation. Plus, the gym is a perfect excuse to ditch your husband with all the kids. If I told the truth, that I was going to shop and drink adult beverages, he'd make me take them with me.

AnnaBelle, fabulous designer and owner of LaRoque, has a big spread in the paper today. I have two of her dresses and a skirt and love them. Even though I bought off the rack, they fit like they were made for me. I go in there planning to "just look" or maybe buy one of the Hardest Working Bras in town from Kristy, owner of Tullulah. But it seems like every time AnnaBelle manages to talk me into trying one of those dresses on, I can't bring myself to leave it there. You should never walk away from a dress that fits that well. It would be like leaving a puppy at the pound that wouldn't quit giving you that puppy look. She picks the best fabric, including some Liberty prints. Do you remember those? My mother had a Liberty Print blouse with a Peter Pan collar that I loved. It had seafood on it. Well, it wasn't actual seafood, just the uncooked crustaceans that eventually become seafood. It was really cute, I swear, and that fabric felt so light and cool. I might have to get just one little shirt made with a Liberty print fabric, or maybe two, but definitely not more than three.

And having Tullulah in the same building is a bonus. Usually, I have to take things home on approval to see if I have an appropriate undergarment, but Kristy is right there with the best bras in town. Woo! And both of those ladies are a riot. If you hang around long enough, you'll hear some wicked funny stories. Or you can wait for the chick lit novel I plan to write about them. I'll be embellishing the stories a lot, though, so don't go thinking they're (all) true.

Namasté, y'all!

Game!

In honor of yesterday's game (GO COCKS!!), I'm going to tell you a story, a story that I believe will give you a real feel for what it means to be a Gamecock.

A few years ago, I was glamorously employed as a background person in a series of exercise videos. It was actually a lot of fun. I've never had an actual job*, so it was pretty cool to be the returning hero for a couple of weeks; I was the one the kids were excited to see at the end of the day, not boring old Daddy. And, I must admit, it was pretty relaxing to hang out with grownups for eight to ten hours a day. The catering was another perk (and so Hollywood!) We were exercising all day, albeit in short spurts, so I had to eat like crazy to keep from losing too much weight. At one point, I did a rough calculation and realized I was eating about the same amount as a high school athlete - and losing weight - every mother's dream! The taste of peanut M&M's, shoveled into the mouth by the handful between takes, I will never forget. But, I digress. The videos were filmed at a studio in an old, not-so-genteel part of town, very near Williams-Brice Stadium, Home of the Fighting Gamecocks. The producers had leased a big warehouse, behind a taxi company, down the street from Sonic and across the street from some actual houses.

As it happened, we were filming on the day of the Gamecocks' first game of the season. On that day, my friend (who was a background drudge like me, but also an assistant to the producer/director and choreographer, so much more important than I) was outside having a cigarette. Yup, plenty of fitness people smoke, including my trainer. How do you think they stay so thin? As it happened, she was out there with a very quiet and shy guy from the film crew. The contrast between the crew and us exercise-y people was fun. They were professionals and we were boring housewives. Did I mention the videos were going to be marketed to the ancient, thirty five and up crowd? No? That's probably because I wanted you to think I was some kind of jock. In fact, I was instructed not to mention my age, as I was not yet thirty five. My age was irrelevant; I was the only one without Botox and/or enhanced tatas, so they all looked younger than I did anyway. The film crew was disappointed; many of them had worked on exercise videos for regular people. According to one of the guys, who I knew from my bar-hopping pre-kids days, he was just disappointed that we were all married. He said we were all good looking enough, just married, with kids. I think he was being kind (Thank you, George!) I think they would have preferred hotter, younger exercise ladies.

The crew was made up of really cool people - the kind of people who make me wonder what might have been if I had grown a pair and tried harder instead of having babies and buying couches all the time. They were a lot of fun, and smart as hell to boot. But. I. Digress.

My friend (picture a glamorous blonde who was mistaken, while in New York City, for Kim Catrall) was outside smoking and was joined by one of the crew members. He was the strong, silent type and very cute, in a scruffy band guy/but smart kind of way. The kind of boy who makes me nostalgic for my misspent youth...and almost immediately happy that it's over. This guy never talked, ever, unlike my friend, who's a talker like me. As she tells it, they smoked in silence for quite a while before he turned, ever so slightly, toward her and said, out of the side of his Cool Alt Boy mouth, "Look across the street. You gotta' look." After she recovered from the shock of hearing him speak, she looked.

Across the street was a house, a bit dilapidated, but definitely a house. In the yard of the house was some stuff. A lot of stuff. With price tags on it. In front of the house was a hand-lettered sign, advertising a (fairly obvious) yard sale. Cool Alt Boy informed my friend that they'd been out there every day, the whole time we were filming. It was not clear to him or anyone else whether they were out there year round or just while we were there. The extended yard sale was not enough, though, to make Cool Alt Boy speak. That sort of thing is not exactly unheard of where I'm from. The thing that forced him to speak, pushed him over the edge, was the person in charge of the till.

She was pregnant, so pregnant that she was ready to pop, by anyone's calculation. She was at the stage of pregnancy where it's no longer risky to ask, "When are you due, honey?" She was wearing cutoff jeans, not abnormal in this part of the country, and a belly-baring halter top, also not abnormal 'round these parts. I'm pretty sure none of these things would have forced Cool Alt Boy to speak. The thing that rendered him incapable of not sharing (his girlfriend would have been jealous!) was the fact that the ripe young lady had the word "COCKS" painted across her belly. As in, I say, "GAME," you say "COCKS!!!!!"

All I'm asking you to do is picture it. I wish I had a photograph, but I don't, because I was inside at the All-You-Can-Eat Peanut M&M bar. It doesn't matter if she was a true Gamecock or just trying to drum up business. Being a Gamecock is all about being proud and showing the love, without shame. When I say, "GAME," you better yell, "COCKS!!!!"

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, it just dawned on me: I once said I never wanted to have a full time job. I'm pretty old and I don't have one yet. Let's see how far I can go with this.