It's just hair.

One summer, I let my children get faux-hawks. For the unfamiliar, the faux-hawk is a classic cut involving spiky hair in a strip down the middle and buzzed sides. Because the sides aren't shaved, the style can be converted into a church-ready 'do by removing the gel. The first faux-hawks happened when the Tank was a baby. School had just let out for the summer, we didn't have a routine (like we ever had one) and it was hot as h*ll. Like any other mother in the same situation, I drove to the mall, where air-conditioning runs like mad and Starbucks is always within walking distance. After loading up on a venti-whatever-the-heck, I headed to Williams-Sonoma to see if there were any free samples. I then attempted a trip into some store or another to try on over-priced, ill-fitting clothes that wrinkled*. By that point, high as a kite on coffee and sugar, I really didn't care what we did next. I only knew I wasn't going home. Besides, the caffeine buzz was allowing me to enjoy a soundtrack that existed only in my head, mostly Violent Femmes with a little Pixies and old Liz Phair for good measure.

The children spotted a hair place. Master Cuts? Hair Cuttery? Cutz R Us? I do not recall.

"Moooooom," they salivated. "You said we could get faaauuuuux-hawks! Can we get them now? Pleaaaaaase?"

After they agreed to turn the hawks into buzz cuts if someone died, I said yes. While wacky hair is fine by God, it can be offensive to people whose loved ones have passed. Personally, I might enjoy an odd hairdo or three at a funeral, but that's just me. I turned the stroller towards the store and marched them up to the counter. I made them ask for the cuts themselves, because if you're man enough to get a faux-hawk, you're man enough to talk to the stylist. The stylist didn't quite understand. She looked at me like I was nuts. I only stepped in when it became apparent she might accidentally give them mullets. Funny story about mullets. I met someone who had trained as a stylist in a small mountain town. You may think little mountain towns are fancy, because people have cute little cabins up there where they entertain and get away from the summer heat of the city. Guess what. Real people live in those towns. Some of them are fancy. Others? Not so much.

"You know," she confided, "People really shouldn't trust me to cut their hair, because all I ever cut in school was mullets."

A trainee has to cut whatever the client wants. I had to know,

"Did they actually ask for mullets?"

"Never."

Apparently, people with mullets don't even know what they have on top of their heads. MULLETS. That word makes me laugh, even just typing it. Mercy. But I digress.

After insuring my sons would not walk out with mullets, I relaxed. They were not as brave as they had pretended to be and nervously argued over who would go first. I don't remember who won or whether first or second was considered to be the winner, but by the end, they were cackling like monkeys and couldn't wait to rock the new look in public. The stylist sold them some gel (For Men, of course) and they were ready to go.

We walked through the mall and my boys, in the universal way that boys do when they feel very proud and are trying not to show it, kept their mouths closed, cramming their tongues into their cheeks to keep from grinning. We heard awe-filled whispers.

"Mom...look at those GUYS...They look AWESOME...can we please?...so cool...I want...wow..."

The kids loved the attention and had great fun all summer, faux-hawks at the ready. The next summer, the X-man - who had been told at soccer camp he looked like a young David Beckham - wanted a buzz cut. Twelve bucks, five minutes, no maintenance for months. Loved it. His cool older brother continued to rock long, curly hair...for about three days.

"Ahhhhh..." the X-Man would sigh, tickling his nearly bald head in the one hundred degree heat. "This feels so good!"

O. might have only made it two days. He had to have that cut. Months later my brother, who buzzes his own hair, offered to re-do it and I was thrilled to save twelve dollars. Buzzing a seven-year old is harder than you might think and my brother and I now agree that the twelve dollars is well-spent.

School ended on Friday and, in preparation for the summer, the X-Man wanted to go for another faux-hawk. Fine by me. TF took him to the barber shop in Five Points, which was closed. They went to some other place, where TF asked,

"Could you please give him a faux-hawk?"

The response? "I am not giving that boy a mohawk."

TF tried to explain the difference in the two styles. The faux-hawk is really a mohawk-lite. The shop, of course, was filled with friends. Men are worse than women when it comes to socializing at the barber shop. Unlike women, who will yak for the sake of yakking, men need a purpose. Weekly haircuts give them an excuse. The men laughed. And heckled.

"Like Mr. T...bwahahaaaaaa..."

"I am NOT giving that boy a mohawk."

TF has lived in the south long enough to know when to back down and the X-Man was born knowing. He climbed up into the chair as the experienced barber promised,

"I'll make him look good."

Which he did. He made him smell good, too, like a clean-shaven older man's after-shave, which is probably exactly what he used. I don't know if there was any kind of lecture during the cut, but the X-Man had an explanation when he arrived at home sans crazy cut.

"Since I have a piano recital today, I thought a buzz cut would be more appropriate."

True, that. And he played beautifully. He also led the audience in singing The Star Spangled Banner, all four verses. Did you know it had four verses? Well, I didn't either, until I heard him practicing. He wanted to sing it in his school play, "even though it takes, like, fifteen minutes. Or twenty." Never one to discourage my children, I told him he could ask his teacher.

"Oh, I did. She said no."

Good call, although it was pretty awesome. Especially with the old-school, respectable summer haircut. He also rocked a seersucker suit. I love that kid.

Namasté, y'all!

* Is it any wonder I started an entire blog about shopping local? Our mall is so lame. So. Lame.

Ouch.

Saturday night, my husband and I went to a party. It was a grown-up party, the kind you have to pay money to attend (for a good cause and all that.) Unlike the bona fide adults we are, we decided to go to Bar None for a vague after-party.

1. We are too old for any after-party, unless it involves a cup of warm tea and an old episode of Law and Order.

2. Bar None? In Five Points? What were we thinking?

I should have known. The party we attended included shuttle service from downtown, to and from the Lexington venue. We took our car, because I was covering a wedding for Carolina Bride right before and got home too late to make the last shuttle. In retrospect, this was a good thing, because I am way too old to ride in a van with a bunch of drunk kids. To be embarrassingly honest, the only reason I wanted to take the shuttle was so I could have a drink. I had abstained at the wedding, because I was working and not technically a guest. Although the lovely hostess surely would have been happy for me to shotgun a glass of bubbly, I didn't want to take advantage and - if I'm completely honest - my tolerance is so low that one drink when I'm trying hard to act like the professional I am not would not be such a great idea. Anyhow, by the time I arrived home for a costume change, I was ready for that drink. While packing myself into my dress, I announced to my husband I was bringing a toter for the road. Yes, I planned to break the law, but it's a fairly new law, so does it really count? I thought he would tell me no. He didn't and I realized we were way too old to get pulled over for probable cause and get charged with the additional open container violation. Cops don't usually go after dressed-up old people in Priuses driving within three miles of the posted speed limit, all exterior lights intact. TF even uses his blinker.

As the party wound down, some people invited us to Bar None. Or maybe we invited them. That part is somewhat hazy. We offered to drive them there and removed the carseat so all three could fit in the back of the car. My age reared its head again when they had trouble locating the seatbelts. I got out of the car.

"Kids, we are not going ANYWHERE until everyone is buckled in! I MEAN it!"

And I stood there. I even offered to reach between them and dig out the seatbelts myself. I think I threw in a few words about permanent injuries changing your life and how they weren't as warm and fuzzy as they are on t.v. I may have gone off on the evils of television, too. This behavior should have been a clue. I tend to ignore the obvious after one glass of bubbly and two cocktails, no matter how light they were. We drove to Five Points, had a brief debate about the chances of getting towed from the parking lot behind a closed shop and headed to the bar. It was nice, really. Thanks to the smoking ban, some of the charm was gone, but still.

I convinced TF we should take a stroll through Five Points, for old times' sake. I felt pretty darn cute, rocking a new dress, with my hair freshly blown out by the fabulous Wesley. In fact, I felt really cute, thanks to the three drinks and my newfound love for my weathered adorable breasts*. As we walked past a sidewalk full of drunks college kids who probably have parents, one of them looked me in the eye and squalled,

"Happy Mother's Day!"

He might have even added a "ma'am" at the end. Wow. Is it that obvious? Maybe not. Maybe that kid was so wasted he couldn't see straight and we came across as old because we looked so fabulous, right? We walked on, laughing at the folly of youth. Until we approached another group of revelers,

"Yo! Pimpin' old school!"

Ouch. Seriously? Ouch. I don't even know if he was referring to TF as an old pimp or me as an old hooker. Or both. Honestly? I do not want to know at all. I still think I'm cute (enough.) I have no idea how the first guy knew I was a mother or why the second thought I was a hooker. I mean, my dress was tea-length. What kind of hooker wears a tea-length sundress? In fact, I say "Beware the hooker in a tea-length sundress, 'cause that ain't right." And, although I don't know any personally, I bet pimps do not as a general rule wear Hickey-Freeman sport coats. B*tch, pleeze.




I love that skit. It grows on you. You might not have laughed just then, but you will later. Trust me. I know these things, because I'm ancient and have loads of experience.

Namasté, y'all!

* Do you ever wonder if you've had too much to drink? If your sweet grandmother says to you in a very sweet voice, "My goodness! I know all about the history of your breasts now," your final drink of the evening is in your past. True story.

Do what?

99¢ KIDS HELP

MEAL WANTED

PART TIME

What's the deal with the strange Burger King signs? They need to include something about this in the training manual. Or maybe they need a new department. If I wrote the manual, I would include these rules.

• Be careful when you climb on the ladder to do the sign.
• When you're finished, climb down carefully and read the sign.
• Ask someone else to read the sign. Maybe a few other people. Maybe some people who don't work at Burger King.

I don't want the sign editor position, as it might not pay very well, but employment is down and creating jobs is a good thing, right? It seems that particular Burger King is hiring. For what? Not so sure. Do they want a "part-time meal?" What is a "kids help meal?" And why is it only ninety-nine cents? Is that a meal kids help prepare? That would explain the price tag. Our oldest son, at the tender age of two, made us breakfast - an entire cannister of salt stirred together with a whole carton of milk and a piece of pita bread floating on top as a garnish. I didn't try it, but I doubt it was too tasty. Around that same time, we realized giving a two-year old free access to the fridge had been a mistake. We should have known better, but we're slow learners.

I was planning a dinner party. I was pregnant. I steamed three pounds of asparagus, put them in a plastic container in the fridge and took a nap, trusting my darling toddler to behave, which he always did. When I awoke, I found him on the floor of the kitchen, rubbing his fiber-filled belly with a smile. My twenty-five pound child ate three pounds of steamed asparagus. How much do you weigh? Imagine eating more than 10% of your weight in asparagus. Before that moment, I wasn't sure what people meant by "asparagus pee." Now I know. Did you know that only some people have funny smelling urine after eating asparagus? And only some can detect that smell? Some people are in both categories and some are in neither. In other words, some are excretors, some are smellers, some are neither and not all excretors are smellers. This is all up for debate, but I know you aren't here looking for scientific accuracy. I wish I knew how to make a Venn Diagram on the computer. I love Venn diagrams. But I digress. Just so you know, my son is most definitely an excretor and I am a smeller.

Back to that sign. Maybe they are offering child helpers for ninety-nine cents. If so, does that mean someone who will help with your kids for less than a dollar? Or do they provide an actual kid to "help" you. We all know how that goes. You get a bowl of milk and salt soup for breakfast. And do they still want a meal part-time? Too confusing. I don't think I'll take them up on it.

Perhaps they would like to enlist this local kid's help. He is like 99 million dollars worth of cute, but probably not much help. He is a Boy Scout and they are reputed to have mad camping skills. The Tank has the same hair as little Johnston and a similar personality. A winsome personality.



Namasté, y'all!

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.

Chocolate-covered bacon. Hell yeah.

So, down in Charleston recently, I popped into Ted's Butcher Block to pick up a salad. I'm trying to eat healthy. Know why? So I can eat stuff like chocolate-covered bacon while patting myself on the back and murmuring,

"Oh, dear, you are so healthy. You deserve this little treat. You are so special!"

While I was waiting for my salad, a lady came in with a really cute dog, possibly a French Bulldog. Maybe a Pug. I don't know much about dogs, but I liked this one. In addition to having a sweet temperament, it was very stylish. She was talking to the guy behind the counter, lamenting the fact that she had bought bacon somewhere random for her favorite snack. She burned the bacon and figured this was her payback for having been too lazy to make the trek to Ted's. I sympathized, because I think like this all the time. Might need to up the meds. Or not. Ted's is big on bacon. I've actually been to a bacon tasting there, something they host regularly. As you can imagine, a bacon tasting is a fine way to spend an afternoon, especially if you enjoy a glass of wine while tasting eight bacons. And enjoy another one afterwards while having a pedicure at the place across the parking lot from Ted's. But I digress.

I half-listened as the lady dropped such intriguing terms as "bacon," "chocolate," "crushed almonds and pistachios," "delicious" and "more bacon." I left with my salad. No sooner had the door closed behind me, I spun on my heel and went back inside. I had to know.

"Excuse me," I asked, clutching my salad and trying not to look psychotic, "Can you tell me just exactly what it is you do with the bacon? And chocolate? And almonds or pistachios?"

She was happy to answer and I didn't seem to make her nervous in the least, perhaps because she had the dog for protection. Today, I did exactly what she said. S'good.

Chocolate-Covered Bacon with Toasted Almonds

I found a package of bacon in my mother-in-law's freezer. Actually, I found several. I chose one at random. I think it was Oscar-Mayer and contained a reasonable amount of fat. I know that higher-quality bacon from a place like Ted's would be great, but we're here in Litchfield and I don't think the Piggly Wiggly has that. Or the Food Lion. Baking the bacon is the best way to go because you'll end up with nice, flat bacon. So I put the raw bacon on a pan lined with foil. When using other people's pans, you should always line them with foil, because you don't want to mess up other people's stuff.



Cook the bacon in a 400° oven for 15 to 20 minutes. Keep an eye on it and take it out when it looks ready, about like this.



While the bacon is cooking, put some chocolate in a double boiler. If you don't have one, make one by using two pots and filling the bottom one with water. Duh.



As far as chocolate goes, fancy is always good. I used this kind by Hershey's, with 60% cacao because it was the fanciest thing the Pig had. After it melted, I realized I needed more chocolate. The Tank was asleep, TF was playing tennis and the big kids were far too engrossed in some trashy television show to be responsible for the Tank while I ran to the store. Also, at the beach, a trip to the store takes like three hours, not seven minutes like it does at home. But I digress.

Given that my mother-in-law is French, I knew I would find chocolate somewhere. I found Dibs and Twix in the freezer, but I didn't want to take the time to remove the chocolate. In the back of the fridge, on top of some crumbled cellophane, I found the chocolate below. Although it had been left open, it smelled like chocolate rather than onions or cheese, so I threw it in.



I still didn't have enough and I remembered what the lady had told me,

"Nobody will admit they like milk chocolate, but they do, so use that with the dark."

I went in search of more chocolate. I found these in a drawer and added them to the mix, a lovely assortment of milk and dark chocolate.



They were a little harder to melt.



I toasted the sliced almonds with very little fanfare. Aren't you impressed?



Finally, it was time to start dipping the bacon, which had cooled enough to touch. I wanted smaller pieces, so I cut each piece in half. You know what wasn't cool enough to touch? The melted chocolate. That hurt like a b*tch. I quickly located some tongs (meant for removing toast from a toaster) and used those to dip the bacon in the chocolate, letting the excess drip off before laying each dipped piece of bacon on a pan lined with waxed paper.

Before the chocolate cooled, I pressed toasted almonds into the chocolate. In the end, I had this:



I put the pan into the fridge for about ten minutes so the chocolate could harden. Then I put them on a plate which was only slightly more attractive.



Then I felt bad, because the X-Man is a vegetarian and my endeavor seemd unecessarily cruel, so I did the same thing with strawberries. Yum.



And, dear reader, we ate them.

Namasté, y'all!

Excellent advice about lice.

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

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

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

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

Dear Mother,

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

Love,
Me

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

More words I hate and more quinoa.

The other day, I expressed my irritation with a product I was reviewing on my other site, Nivea Creme. Yup. You read it right. They misspelled "cream" and didn't even misspell it right, "crème." Also, I ain't French or nothing and it's been pointed out before that my French is really bad, but wouldn't it be Creme [sic] Nivea rather than Nivea Creme? I would have been most pleased with Nivea Cream, but no one asked me. This annoying detail probably a lot to do with my preference for Fresh's Crème Ancienne or the famous Crème de la Mer. I prefer Fresh's crème for many reasons, one of them being that it's available right here in my town at Pout. But I digress.

I am also irritated by American shopping malls named "Such-and-Such Centre." As far as I know, "centre" is not a word in English, which is fine, but they need to call it "Centre Such-and-Such" instead. Which is stupid, because everybody's just going to call it "Such-and-Such Mall" anyway, now aren't they? Upon reading my mini-rant, a friend sent me this e-mail:

I JUST thought about you when I washed my face. I was using a sample and the directions said "use about half the packette". Excuse me, it is no longer a packet. It is the much more sophisticated packette. I am getting in my bedde to have a blissful sleepe now.

which cracked me up. My friend, incidentally, owns a shop located in "The Shoppes at W--." You know that place, "W-- Mall." *snort* She is a funny lady, my friend. She e-mailed a couple days later.

I used the rest of my PACKETTE last night.

which cracked me up again. Guess what other word I hate...eatery. It's a freakin' restaurant, a café if you must. It seems I have even more Bad Words than I thought. And I haven't formed a complete opinion yet on "artisan." We'll see.

In Quinoa Week 2009 news, I plan to toast a little quinoa and pine nuts to toss in a salad tonight, a salad that will accompany beef brisket from Eubank Farm, turnip greens and collards from the All-Local Farmers' Market cooked with Miso, Parmesan foccacia from Heather's Artisan* Bakery and Carolina Plantation Gold Rice from Rosewood Market. Yes, I am bragging. I'm also really looking forward to dinner.

By the way, someone asked after my last post if I rinse my quinoa to remove the bitterness. I do not, even when I get it from the bulk bins at Rosewood. I re-cook it after boiling, either by roasting or toasting. Maybe that removes the bitterness. Also, as TF mentioned in the comments section, roasted or toasted quinoa is delicious with just a little balsamic vinegar. The batch he used had been toasted with lemon-infused olive oil from Perrone's. You could go nuts and add a handful of herbs, too. Just sayin'. Please excuse me. I gotta' go marinate a brisket.

Namasté, y'all!

* Huh. Can't hate that word when the bread is so damn good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

Do you ever get nervous?

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

Oh, the Tank.

Just in case you were curious, the Tank still claims the potty is "not for him." I commiserated with another mom over tea* today about that. She has a toddler close to the same age who isn't much interested either. As a mother of three, I wanted to reassure her, so I told her all children potty train when the weather gets warm**. Hope she didn't hear the shaky kernel of doubt in my voice. Oh, well, it was a lovely, toddler-free chat anyway. About once every week or two, the Tank likes to announce a need to use the potty, remove his diaper and use it. Just like that. I suspect this is to show us he could use the potty, but enjoys watching us getting our hopes up before he dashes them. What a charmer.

His new catch-phrase, which is probably from some movie or another is, "This is serious, Mom." Or Dad, or whoever will listen. After this dramatic announcement, he's unable to articulate exactly what is so serious. I'm sure he'll let us know when he's ready.

He also has a new game. I went to get him in the gym nursery the other day and the young lady watching the kids looked at me apologetically,

"I swear he keeps asking me to do this."

And she was telling the truth, because he was laughing and, as I well know, the Tank does not do much he doesn't want to do. She sat behind him, holding on to his hands as he pleaded, with increasing drama,

"Lemme GO! Pleeeeeaaase! Lemme GOOOOOO!"

Then he would let go of her hands, pretending to escape and tumble onto a pillow in front of him. Presumably, he put the pillow there to break his fall. We play this game at home now, too. Fun times. Kids are strange, aren't they? Oh, well. As the Tank likes to tell us on a regular basis, "The Tank is a two-year-old kid." Which explains it all.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup. Still rocking the herbal tea.

** I tried to say this with great authority. I also told the other mother, a fellow writer, that blogs are good for practice writing. They keep you in the habit of writing, especially if you set a goal. I am long past the age when I believe in lofty goals, so mine is this: I won't skip more than two days of blogging. As I type, I'm standing at the kitchen counter, cooking miso soup for dinner while helping the X-Man with his homework, listening to "Thunderbirds" (old-school version) while the Tank demands various things and yelling at O. to get ready for soccer while I wonder if I'll have the energy to go to the gym after dinner, because I never did make it there today. My point is, this may not be my best work, but it's something. Practice, just practice. Now the Tank is explaining to me, in great deal, how he brushes his teeth. "THE TEETH IN MY MOOOOUUUUUTH!"

Seth Myers is hot. And funny.

And would make a great parent. Love his suggestion for how to respond to the kids when they ask about Bong-gate.



In other news, thanks to a relatively new reader who so gets my sense of humor it isn't even funny (Mwah!), I plan to order this:

Yes, it is a potty that looks like a slot machine and rewards the potty trainee with a fancy noise each time he adds more "currency." I can feel it. This is going to work for the Tank, who has already been expelled from school. Oh, I didn't mention that? Yup. It's true. TF and I have finally gotten our karmic payback for that one time he criticized some other hapless parents, in the privacy of our own home, and put forth the theory that they should "try our way." I tried to stop him, but the words were out before my hand clapped over his yammering mouth. Ergo, the Tank is our just reward. I was working at home sitting around in my pajamas, sucking down coffee and trying to beat my a-hole sister's damn Scramble score on Facebook on Friday morning when I got the call. I knew it was bad when the drop-in nursery's name appeared on my phone's screen*.

"Hello?" I tried to sound clueless.

They were actually very, very nice. He had been put in time-out three times for sh*t kicking being less than kind to his friends. After a fourth assault, he got to sit in a chair beside the director's desk. You may think this is unpleasant. It is not. She is one of the kindest people I've ever met and he probably likes hanging out there. He's been there before, but this time was different. I didn't ask for details, but let's just assume he was pissing and moaning so much they couldn't take it. Thankfully, they were too kind to say.

I think the Viva Las Vegas potty will appeal to my little thug. I think dry pants will transform him into a kinder, gentler Tank. I think a lot of things that aren't true, but humor me. Just in case, we also took him for his first haircut, a rite of passage we hope will inspire him to use the d*mn potty and stop kicking his friends.

Namasté, y'all!

* See. I'm not all bad. I do have the numbers of the kids' schools saved on my phone. And I could look up their pediatrician's number in the phone book any time I wanted to. Or I could drive there, because I know exactly where it is. Gold star for me!

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.

Risotto = Advanced San Francisco Treat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leek Risotto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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

In which I am confused. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyhow, these are things that befuddle me.

Namasté, y'all!

Kids are so weird.

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

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

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

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

And there is silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey! Are these your keerus pants?"

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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.

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 awesome stuff.

And I got some pretty awesome stuff this weekend. Saturday, I rushed into the All-Local Farmers' Market at the very last second, snapped up all three and a half dozen eggs that were left and managed to catch the delightful Donna of Floral and Hardy Farms in Lexington. I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Donna is a floral genius. Rather than choose my own bouquet, I prefer to leave it to the expert. I name a so-reasonable-I-can't-type-it-out-because-you-big-city-folks-would-cry price and she creates...

Because the flowers are so fresh, they smell as good as they look and last more than a week, sometimes two or three. I also gushed about her work here, here, and here. Oh, and here, here and here. Ahem.

I also canceled an order from Target online and went to the store instead to see their new line from Hayden-Harnett. I've been hurt before by Target's attempts to have higher-end designers create lower-priced lines. And I feel such affection for Hayden-Harnett. Don't tell anyone, but I just counted and I own...gulp...seven of their bags. And I might be leaving one or two out. I lost sleep worrying about how Hayden-Harnett for Target would compare. It was with great trepidation that I approached the rack of Hayden-Harnett for Target bags. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and...surprise!...felt pretty good once I opened them. I reached for the Chain Bag in brown, one of the ones I had considered ordering. I carried it around the store as I filled my cart with other important items, such as magnetic curlers, a shower cap to protect my new hairstyle, a travel-size can of Elnett, a can of that stuff you spray in the shower with the little talking bubbles with eyes and a pair of blue Converse One-Star suede soccer shoes for the X-Man. When I finished my shopping, I checked the rack again and someone had returned the bag I really wanted, the Canvas Hobo. I debated buying both, felt greedy and chose the Hobo.

Here it is, but for some reason it looks more blue in the picture than in real life. It's more purple than blue.

Although Hayden-Harnett style rocks, function shouldn't escape mention. Every single one of their bags allows me to access my stuff really easily. Do I sound like an infomercial? Whatever. Listen to me preach it, sisters. These folks design pockets and compartments like no one else. I thought the Target line would skimp in the pocket department. Au contraire, ma chère! Look at these...

The front pocket is actually two pockets, a bigger one where you could stash keys and a phone and a smaller zippered compartment for spare change, gum and lady products, like lipstick and...other lady products.

Inside the bag, the large zippered pocket could hold fourteen lipsticks and a compact if you're like me or lots of other stuff if you're not such a freak that you need fourteen lipsticks and a compact.

Across from the zippered pocket, three open pockets hold your phone, iPod, a small camera, business cards or whatever else you want. Far be it from me to judge.

I never manage to lose anything in my Hayden-Harnett bags, which makes them a perfect choice for this ADD-addled housewife. Long-time readers will remember this one - and it's contents - still one of my all-time favorites. Isn't it refreshing to find a bag that doesn't force you to sacrifice your style in the name of organization?

For those of you who care more about form than function (I understand. Have you seen my new Louboutins with the 5-inch heels?), the hardware on the bag is decent, much better than Target's usual, if you ask me. Which you didn't, but you're reading my blog so you must care a tiny bit what I think. Right? Do you like me? Do you? Here's a side view:

And a close-up of the front.

If you've made it this far, you might even care to know I'm considering buying the Hayden-Harnett for Target Flight Tote in black, which appears to be remarkably similar to the Flight Tote from their regular line...which is back-ordered and $150 more. Whee!

Another awesome thing I got this weekend was a new set of eyelashes. I even took before and after pictures, because who doesn't love before and after pictures? Maybe I'll take before and after pictures of my stuff in a regular bag and the same stuff organized in a Hayden-Harnett. How exciting!

Namasté, y'all!