People are nuts.

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

I received this letter recently:

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

Dear Devoted Daughter,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

The voice in my head.

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

"Phone is ringing. Oh my god."

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

“I hear Q-Tip in my head.”

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

* What are those things called anyway?

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

The Bad Word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

Hey! You want to hear me on the radio? Do you? DO YOU?

Well, if you do want to hear me on the radio, you can!

Listen to me on the radio, right this very second.

Now a seasoned veteran at radio talking (three times, yo), I think I'm starting to sound a little less like a tranny and more like a born-female, which in fact I am. I don't care what my mother told you. Frank Knapp, host of U Need 2 Know, and Marti Bluestein, host of the Chick Chat segment, are very nice to let me on the show, because I do love to hear myself talk.

SO! [insert syrupy, southern accent here] HAVE Y'ALL DONE ALL YOUR SHOPPING? This question, usually followed by a litany about how hard it is to have money to buy presents and family to buy them for, must stop, along with all the complaints about hosting and attending parties. Last I checked, parties and presents and not being broke were considered to be good things. In fact, those three things top my list titled "Stuff I Like."

I also like Christmas trees, Santa Claus, appetizers, fancy shoes, massages, nice children...I even like children who just pretend to be nice. The Tank likes to wriggle between me and the back of my chair and offer me back rubs.

"You want back rub, Mom? Dat feels good?"

Yes, I do and yes, it does. It would be very nice if it lasted longer than four seconds and wasn't followed with an immediate request for cookies or wrestling or a movie or chocolate. But, gosh darn, that little fellow owns cute.

Hey, speaking of cute, donating money to worthy causes is one of the cutest things you can do. And it makes a great, passive-aggressive present. No matter how much they might have preferred a "real present," no one can complain when presented with a donation to a worthy cause made in their name. And you get the tax deduction. And they don't have to know how much or how little you donated. Best gift ever! You'll appear more thoughtful if you choose a charity based on the person you're donating for. My mother, for example, received a donation in her name to "Reformed Sex Workers Anonymous." If you don't have a reformed sex worker on your list, you may want to choose one of these:

Sistercare

St. Laurence Place

Harvest Hope

Oliver Gospel Mission

Children's Garden

Palmetto AIDS Life Support

Epworth Children's Home

Sexual Trauma Services of the Midlands

The Nurturing Center

CASA

The Family Shelter

MIRCI

Animal Protection League

The Heifer Project (this is a cool one for kids!)

The Free Medical Clinic

Go Red for Women

Most of those are local, as in where-I-live local, so you may want to explore options near you. In fact, I want you to give money so bad, if you email me your location and what sort of organization you want to help, I'll do my best to find one for you. True cliché: Even five dollars makes a difference.

Namasté, y'all!

The difference between men and women.

Oh, wait. As it turns out, one incident in my (ever more exciting life) does not translate to everyone else's experience. Go figure. But I was just trying to come up with a dramatic introduction. I think a more accurate title would be "The Difference Between Me Going out and That Lunkhead Going Out."

A's nights out are actually an extension of his day. He leaves at 8 in the morning, goes to his "job," heads directly to "tennis*" and arrives home between 10 and 11 pm. In case you haven't done the math, no worries, I have done it for you, many, many times. That's 15 hours. Sometimes, he comes home to slack off, change into his tennis clothes, get the children all fired up, spill food on the floor and leave a dirty cup on the counter help me with the children before he goes to tennis. I hate tennis. People ask if I play and, unable to answer, I just shudder.

When I go out, I leave after dinner, which I've made and, as often as not, cleaned up. If I don't stick around for dinner, I make sure to tell him what to feed the kids. Otherwise, he might forget. Or believe them when they say they're not hungry (Translation: I want to play outside and, once you get me in there, I know there's going to be a bath involved.) He lets them sleep in their dirty clothes. This practice is hardly verboten in our house, but I think it should be a special treat, reserved for weekends. No matter what I leave for dinner, he'll call me with a question.

"Does the rice go with the stir-fry or beside it?"

"Should I heat this or eat it cold?"

"Can you come home and spoon this into my mouth? Food scares me."

Some of my lady friends will remember fondly the evening about ten years ago, when A. called me while I was out to ask what he should do with the changing pad O. had peed on. When he couldn't reach me, he called one of my friends (Hi, Karin!) to ask her. For all I cared, he could have just thrown it in the trash. But I digress. What I really wanted to talk about was what he did Thursday night.

I hired our neighbor** to come over and entertain the children while I tidied the house. What a nice wife! The evening promised to be a difficult one for A, because I was meeting two friends at Garibaldi's around 6 pm - before dinner, homework, teeth brushing, wrestling match refereeing, forced room tidying and bedtime. To his credit, A is the man when it comes to putting SK to bed. I have washed my hands of the long and arduous process. In order to preserve the sanctity of the clean kitchen, I ordered a pizza from local favorite Dano's - spinach, pineapple and bacon, for the curious.

I know ordering a pizza with loud hungry children afoot can be a challenge and I still had the neighbor over to distract them while I performed the difficult task. Before I left, I shared the ETA of the pizza with Alex and made sure he had enough cash to pay. Away I went.

When I arrived, my two friends were already there. I cut to the chase and ordered a glass of wine. I started to relax. The time for the second glass of wine, the one that seals the deal, was approaching. Then the text messages started coming.

"Sorry to text in middle of lady dinner but where is pizza guy? I'll call. Did you Dano's?"

How thoughtful of him to make that call for me. And seven minutes later:

"Not yet and they are busy signal for 15 min."

Thanks for the update. Six minutes later:

"pizza just got here. enjoy crispy flounder."

Was this passive aggressive? I don't know. You be the judge. If it was, the folks from Dano's can take it up with my husband, because I think in a side by side taste test, their pizza is just as good as Garibaldi's Crispy Flounder. I didn't even order the crispy flounder. I had salmon and asparagus with a lemon beurre blanc and capers, an excellent choice. I enjoyed the leftover pizza for breakfast, equally excellent. Grazie e bravo, Dano's.

Now, you might be thinking I'm being a little hard on the guy. Really, he didn't hear me order the pizza and me thinking I ordered a pizza while not actually doing so isn't completely outside the realm of possibility. But get this. When I returned, there was a message on the machine.

"Hey, I'm calling from Dano's. Are y'all home? I knocked on the door and you didn't answer. I went around back and knocked on the door there and rang the bell. Trying to reach you. Give us a call."

For the record, these are the things my husband missed:

• A knock on the front door, probably followed by more knocking. I would venture to guess extreme knocking.
• A knock or ten on the back door. The bell, in fact, doesn't work, so I'll give him that one.
• Repeated phone calls.
• A blinking message light.
• A message from the pizza guy, pleading to be let in.

I know how the pizza guy felt, too. A. once locked me out "accidentally" and slept through my repeated attempts to entice him to let me into our house. I had to spend the night with a neighbor. That was not a pretty week. But I digress.

How could he miss all of the signs of impending pizza? It arrived right on schedule - Dano's is good that way. Maybe next time I'll hire the neighbor to come over and facilitate the pizza delivery. Or maybe I should handle the delivery myself. But then he'd call to find out if he should heat it...and for how long...

Namasté, y'all!

* Probably better described as "drinking Coors Light while wearing athletic clothes."

** Best Sitter Ever. She's increased the value of our house by at least $50,000. If you bring me a sandwich, a really good sandwich, I might even give you her number. Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

Please refrain from making love to your food in front of me.

One of my pet peeves (and there are many) is when people order in a restaurant by saying,

"I'm gonna' do the Grouper."

That just sounds filthy to me. May I suggest some alternatives?

"I would like to make mad passionate love to the Grouper."

"I'd like to hump the Grouper 'til the break of dawn."

"I'd like to do something to the Grouper that can be very special when a man and a woman are married."

"You should try the Grouper. I had a hot one night stand with it back in July."

"A la Marvin Gaye, I'd like to get it on with the Grouper."

How about a little Van Morrison?

"I wanna' make love to the Grouper tonight. I can't wait 'til the morning has come."

Why not take a page from the ever lovin' Smoove B?

"I would like to get freaky with the Grouper and her friend Cherise in my whirlpool."

Or Tracy Morgan on 30 Rock*.

"I would like to take the Grouper out back of the middle school and get it pregnant."

Just don't announce to the table that you're going to "do" the Grouper. That's disrespectful to the fish and classless. And weird. What you do in your own house, behind closed doors, is your business, but keep it out of my dining experience, m'kay? Whatever happened to a simple "I'd like the Grouper, please." It makes your intentions clear and even includes a charming "please" at the end.

Speaking of restaurant-related pet peeves, I have a few more.

• I don't like it when waiters refer to something on the menu as a "must-do." I rebel against that. I find myself wanting to stomp my foot and say, "Will not!" I refrain.
• Please don't interrupt my conversation to ask if I want more water. Just pour it. Or don't. Has anyone ever gotten mad that a waiter poured them some water without permission? Well, probably, because restaurant patrons can be jerks, but I won't get mad, so go for it.
• Loud talkers in restaurants are the worst. They never let their friends get a word in and they are always boring.
• Please don't ask me if I want to keep my knife. If I do, I'll wipe it off and slip it in my pocketbook. If you want me to keep it, let me know. Own your feelings.
  
• I know all about that study that showed waiters who use the phrase "for you" earn more money in tips, but you can overdo it. Don't use that phrase more than once each visit to the table.
• I don't get people who walk in looking unhappy and peruse the menu with pinched lips and a wrinkled nose. They listen to the specials with a scowl. Why go out at all if it makes you so miserable?
• I didn't like the lady who used to come into the restaurant where I worked with her hemorrhoid** pillow. I get that maybe she wanted to go out, in spite of the 'rhoids, but I couldn't help but judge her food choices. She put it out there! If I had hemorrhoids (which I never have!) and wanted to go out, I would strap the pillow on and wear a voluminous skirt. No one would be the wiser.
  

I'm sure there are more, but now I'm starting to sound picky. Like a patron I observed this weekend in a local restaurant. I'll spare you the details, but she had a complaint. The dish she had ordered wasn't prepared the way she was used to. That's fine. The waiter tried to correct the mistake, even offering to let her order something else. The dish in question is very popular and the staff let her know, very politely. She complained some more and, unsatisfied with the response, let loose with this zinger,

"Of all the places I've complained, I've never had this response."

She sounds like a fun date. Her date, in fact, was looking more than a little embarrassed. Wonder how long that one will last? She was really hot, so that might hold them together for a few more weeks, but can you imagine planning a wedding with this woman? The only advantage would be the potential for getting refunds galore from anyone who wanted her to just leave them alone. Worth it? Eh. She wasn't that hot.

Namasté, y'all!

* I LOVE YOU, TINA FEY!

** Thank you, Spell Check.

All the best husbands are funny, even when they're annoying.

My husband really irritates me. I'm happy for you if your life partner never annoys you, I really am, but I kind of think you're missing out. The laugh that kills your irritation is the best. I think it's similar to the feeling described by "some guy I used to hang out with." He said he liked getting tattoos and...um...even a brand* because it felt good. He claimed that the euphoria he felt when the pain was finished was incredible. So, yeah, my husband annoys me that much. Good thing he's funny.

Once (m'kay...maybe more than once), I told him I hated him. He giggled girlishly, twirled and shot out of the room, calling, "Ha, ha! I know you love me! Heeheeeeee!" There's actually no way to describe how funny it was. Well, there probably is a way, but I'm not writer enough to do it. You'll have to use your imagination. He was wearing a towel. Does that help?

My husband has a very annoying habit - more annoying even than my habit of telling him I hate him. Every time I say something**, he responds the same way.

"Huh?"

Even when he is listening, he assumes he's not. He's so sure he's not paying any attention to me that he's confident with the "huh" before he takes even a split second to consider whether or not he heard me. And sometimes he actually listens, maybe 17.6% of the time or so. A long time ago, I decided to experiment. After his "huh?", I count down from five, waiting. More than half the time, he responds to what I actually said, without the repetition. Cool. Huh?

I'm fascinated by the expression "Do what?" It kind of means "huh?" but there are variations.

"We're going to the store. Need some more ciggies?"

"Do what?" This is the "I didn't hear you. Could you please repeat?" type. Pretty much the same as "huh?"

"I was up at yer cousin Lula's place the other night and I mighta' had a few too many. But if you hear anything from Lula, she's lyin'."

"DO WHAT?!" Can you guess what that one means? Something like "I heard you and I didn't care for what you said. I do hope I misunderstood. Please explain before I have to crack this here fryin' pan over yer damn fool head."

Today after lunch, I informed my husband that "Do what?" is my new response to everything he says. I'm tired of him pretending not to listen when he's secretly fascinated with everything I say. "Do what?" is the new "Huh?" So, he said something - I don't remember what - and I responded.

"Do what?"

And he responded.

"Huh?"

This made me laugh so hard I could hardly drive. Guess you had to be there.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup. Like a cow. There are many, many reasons I'm glad I ended up with my husband and not some of the other possibilities.

** Really. Every time.

Sometimes I wish he had a twin to distract him.

It's no secret that Baby J is a wild man. My own mother made me come get him after she kept him for twenty minutes, during which time he broke one thing, then broke two or three more while she was fixing the first, smiling sweetly the whole time, I'm sure. He's not unpleasant, just "busy," as little old Southern ladies like to say. Very, very busy. I never understood the magnitude of the busy child before this one - and I sympathize with parents of children out there who are even more industrious. Some people aren't sympathetic. At a birthday party recently, I said, to no one in particular,

"I'm not used to taking care of him all by myself!"

No one in particular answered, "Your own child?" And laughed, adding an eye roll for effect as she walked away. I was reminded of the very funny blog someone brought to my attention recently. I'm not the Best Parent Ever. But did I really deserve eye roll for that? And...wait... does my sympathy for other parents make me the Best Parent Ever? I hope so. And I hope there's a big, shiny trophy to go with the one I already have for Meanest Mommy Ever.

I don't think children were meant to be brought up in a vacuum. I say, the more grownups involved, the better. That way, when they ask you a hard question like, "Have you had Botox?", you can direct them to a mature adult.

My husband has been in the mountains since Sunday with our two oldest children. To Baby J's immense relief, he got back today. He didn't bring the brothers with him and I know Baby J is disappointed. This week has been hard. Almost everyone he sees on a more or less daily basis is out of town, Daddy, his brothers, my parents, his aunt, uncle and cousins. Even the neighbors and our regular babysitter are out of town. I thought this would be a good week for her to take off. I mean, how hard can it be to take care of one child?

Answer: Very hard. Especially when he's used to constant companionship. Every time I go to pick him up out of bed after a nap or in the morning, we have this conversation.

Baby J, smiling, "Mommy!"

Me, "J! I wubs you sho mush! Chan I pich 'oo up?*"

Baby J, ecstatic, "Yay!"

Then he switches to a serious face, "Where Daddy/O/X-Man?" He chooses one of the three at random.

Me, "He's in the mountains."

Baby J, mad as hell,"NOPE! NO THANK YOU!"

Wouldn't it be nice if we could just say "no thank you" to answers we didn't like? Lucky for both of us, Daddy came back today. Baby J went to the drop-in nursery this morning, insisting on carrying Daddy's newspaper with him. He dragged it in from the driveway and wouldn't let go of it, even when he went into his classroom. With the newspaper tucked under his fat, wittle arm, he looked like a tiny version of Daddy on the way to the bathroom. What kind of kid uses the New York Times as a security blanket? A cute, wittle boo-boo bear who wuvs hish daddy, that's who!

Namasté, y'all!

* I talk like this to all my children and they don't seem to have lingering speech problems. So there.

Book clubs are like museums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

What is it with me and dudes who fix the internet?

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

What is it with me and internet repair guys? Why do they all say this to me? Don't they know how that makes me feel? Like I'm about to get dumped, that's how. In this case, by some guy I'm not even seeing. Just how can you get dumped by someone you've only just met?

"It's about your husband..."

Well, that certainly took it up a notch. I considered the possibilities and there were only two:

1. The guy was a sexist jerk who assumed my husband had tried to fix it himself and screwed it up worse. In fact, I am far more likely to attempt such a thing, although in this case I had not. But I've been known. And it works about 50% of the time.
2. My husband had done something to offend him that was so awful I would be compelled to leave him...and run away with the internet guy, who wasn't really my type.

I suppose it was the second, although there was no invitation to run away together. Guess I wasn't his type either. My husband's unforgivable sin was neglecting to save his card and call him when the internet broke again. It had broken a week or so before and the same guy came to fix it*. Apparently, when our evil empire ISP gets another repair request within two weeks of the first, the initial repair person gets a "bad report." I guess this is like the opposite of a gold star. Maybe they put a little frownie face sticker in his file. It sounds like a horrible way to evaluate employees. The second problem had nothing to do with the first one. The most recent was caused by lightening busting up our surge protector or some such nonsense. As far as I can understand, the surge protector died in the line of duty. The computer was saved. Hooray! But I digress.

The guy was very upset with my husband for not saving his card and calling him. But we didn't know the rule of the evil empire! Frankly, I don't think it's my problem. I would change phone companies, but I've only heard of one other company. And only one person I know uses them and she's crazy, the sort of person who, whatever she does, you should do the opposite. I don't think the guy should have bothered me about it. I think he needs to take it up with Toby, or whoever the HR person is at his office.

I told him what he wanted to hear so he would go away. I promised to save his card and made a big show of putting it somewhere safe. He went on and on about how my husband should have called him. It was late and I just wanted him to leave so I could pour myself a glass of wine, which felt awkward with him standing there, even though it was already seven in the evening. I thought adding alcohol to the mix might send the wrong message.

When he finally left, I relaxed by watching this video of my grass, over and over again, with a nice bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. The video was so relaxing I didn't even finish the bottle. Please enjoy the following thirty seconds of freshly mown grass in the morning. Don't miss the soothing sound of the Woodpecker about halfway into the clip. I freakin' love that guy!


Thirty Seconds of Freshly Mown Lawn in the Morning
Originally uploaded by The Daily Digress

Namasté, y'all!

* Incidentally, this was not B'Gary, who remains my favorite internet dude of all time. This second guy had potential, too. The first time he fixed the internet, he was charming in his lack of desire to explain how the magical internets work.

ACDC moves me to say inappropriate stuff.

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

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

Fun Lady: Hi!

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

Other Lady: [walks off in a huff.]

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

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

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

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

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

I'd be all,

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

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

Ooh! Controversy!

"Penis! Penis! Penis! Penis!"

That's what the random three year old at the pool was yelling when Baby J escaped mid-diaper change and streaked across the deck.

"That's a funny penis! Penis! Penis! Penis!"

And I cracked up laughing. I have no desire to make my kid feel embarrassed, but he's not even two and, frankly, it was hysterical. The pool was pretty quiet right at that moment (Why is there always a lull in conversation right before your child says something embarrassing? Why?) I noticed that no parent claimed the heckler. I, too, have turned my head and pretended not to know my child in public. No harm in it, as long as you take them with you when you leave.

Sounds like someone's mommy and daddy made sure he knew the anatomically correct term for his junk, but neglected to inform him that current circumcision rates in this country are at about fifty percent. What that means is about half of the little boys look like elephants and half look like mushrooms. Neither elephants nor mushrooms are particularly humorous in general, but I suppose they can be in certain situations.

Circumcision rates among my friends' sons are about the same as the national average, but I really don't know for sure. The reason I don't know is because I hold this very controversial opinion: The elephant or mushroom decision is personal and the most important thing is that both parents are at peace with the choice. There are so many more hard parenting moments ahead. If a couple can't resolve this one, they're in for a long and difficult road. Frankly, so is their child. Given that the rates are about fifty percent, no child is going to spend much time worrying that he might look funny, unless his parents suggest he should. Confidence is everything.

My husband and I made our choice and stuck with it. I've never made any judgments* about other parents' choices on the circumcision front. Well, except for one time. And I was provoked. At the time, I was a volunteer breastfeeding adviser and I was invited to speak at a childbirth class about breastfeeding newborns and any potential problems that might arise. As luck would have it, they were covering circumcision the same evening. Fun times.

There was one guy (there's always one, isn't there?) looking for a fight. The teacher presented both sides as diplomatically as possible. Several students expressed strong opinions, as un-diplomatically as possible (as parents-to-be tend to do). This guy wanted to talk about everyone's penis. He was obsessed. It wasn't enough for him to control the fate of his own child's foreskin. He wanted everyone on his kid's team. He wanted to be the coach. He kept polling the class, many of them still shell-shocked from the video**. He turned to me. I felt scared. I hadn't opened my mouth or even made eye contact with anyone during his tirade.

"YOU HAVE TWO SONS! DID YOU CIRCUMCISE 'EM!?"

Well, no. I'm neither a mohel nor a doctor. Oh wait, he wanted to know if my sons were elephants or mushrooms. Stunned, I answered the question. Then he wanted to know about my husband. It was so seriously creepy.

When he learned that my husband and my children didn't match, he freaked. He accused me of ruining my husband's life. Interestingly, he assumed the decision had been all mine. He wondered aloud (very loudly) if my husband cared that our sons would be freaks and how he felt, knowing his children looked different from him. That's when I got mad.

"Well," I said with a dirty little smirk, "Thing is, my husband doesn't need any reassurance in that department. He's got plenty reason to be confident about his p-"

I think I even managed to manufacture a little blush, but I didn't get to finish my sentence, because the guy left in a teeny bit of a huff. And I was left feeling violated, but oh well...

Namasté, y'all!

* At least, not out loud.

** It was the breastfeeding video that freaked them out, by the way. The circumcision one was tame in comparison. There was a lady in the breastfeeding video that had the most freakishly long nipples I've ever seen in my entire life. They were disturbing. And I don't get disturbed very easily.

And it only took me three years.

I'm slow. There are two things I've learned in the last two weeks. Two things that have loomed over my head since we moved to this house.

1. Turns out, I don't need to borrow a really tall ladder to clean the fans in the bathroom. I can just stand on a short stool and vacuum them with the long attachment thingy on the vacuum. This may have taken so long because I don't actually use the vacuum, I sweep. Not really an excuse, but...
2. I don't have to empty out the contents below the kitchen sink, put on old clothes and slide on my back into the cabinet to unscrew and re-fill the soap dispenser. Since I no longer have to do that, I also don't have to slide back under there to screw the damn thing back in, which takes forever because I can't see what I'm doing because it's dark in there. And...I no longer have to wash my hair every time I refill the dispenser to rid it of under the sink crud and dish soap that spilled on my head during the process. Because I can just lift the pump out from above and pour soap into it, no screwing involved*.

Life would have been so much less stressful if I had figured these things out sooner. I wouldn't have had to feel guilty and unworthy every time I looked at the dirty fans. I wouldn't have had to feel irritated during the week between the soap running out and my re-filling it every time I had to reach under the sink for the aesthetically displeasing bottle of dish soap.

Is anyone else like this or is it just me?

Namasté, y'all.

* That's what she said. You had to have seen that coming.

I don't want you to take this the wrong way...

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

"Oh, no!" My mind was racing. "He's going to break up with me. Or tell me I have bad breath. Or tell me he hates my friends. Or there's something in my nose. Ennnhhhh..."

I was wrong, of course. The internet repair dude proceeded to explain to me, in excruciatingly boring and incomprehensible detail, that I was never, ever to move some little box thingy that had to do with the internet. I explained we were only renting the beach house for a week and hadn't touched the mystery thingy. He gave me a world weary look that said he was onto me and all the other saboteurs of the World Wide Internets. I love the internets. Why would I try to kill them?

He held up a little machine, kind of like the one they used in Ghostbusters, that he had used to prove we moved the thingy. He brandished it, insisting it had shown him that "those levels were extremely low, which means somebody [insert raised eyebrows here] moved the blahblahblah." With a physical demonstration, he explained exactly how he had held the fancy machine up to the internet thingy and measured the levels. My husband stood behind him, laughing silently as I tried to defend our family honor. I felt kind of mad at him for not punching or at least threatening the guy. There are times when I'd appreciate a well placed, "I ain't gonna' stand by and let you talk to mah little lady like that."

"Wait," I asked, "Do you mean bump it or actually move it to another room? Because we might have bumped it."

"Blah, blahblahblah...move it to another room...blahblah. Blahblah, blahblahblah. Blah," the repair dude answered. During the lecture, which involved a lot of hand gesturing, I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. I might have zoned out for at least a minute and a half and it might have occurred to me that his wife probably never argues with him, in a desperate attempt to avoid long speeches like this one. I explained again that I might have bumped it, but hadn't moved it. I was rewarded with another smirk. I'm not above lying, like the time I insisted I had no idea how my cell phone had gotten wet, inside and out (Truth: I let the baby suck on it for about an hour during a long road trip.) But this time I was telling the truth.

I mentioned several times that we were renters and hadn't moved or rigged anything. He did not hear me. He also didn't hear me when I assured him we hadn't added the piece of "store bought" something or other that he thought was obstructing the internets. I wish you could just wave a little flag and call a truce in these situations. I don't have any real need to be right; I just want the car/internet/phone/dishwasher/other high tech thingy fixed. No explanation necessary. But repair people are the new priests. They want a confession. Problem is, they don't offer absolution, only scoffing.

He did manage to fix the elusive internets, for which I'm grateful. And he finally left. I was beginning to think he wanted to stay for a drink and talk about our treachery some more. The last we saw of him, he was in his truck, talking on a cell phone and rolling his eyes, probably telling one of his colleagues about the big, fat liars who tried to kill the internet. Oh well!

Namasté, y'all!

It would seem that I am a hag and didn't know it.

"Hi, Xenobia*," said the goofy jerk at the dry cleaner's.

I'm not Xenobia, which he realized, but not quickly enough to save my ego. He felt compelled to tell me how much I looked like his friend Xenobia, who happens to be the sister of a local public figure, who happens to be nearly seventy years old and looks like a man. He thought I was old enough to have a sister who's older than my parents...and looks like a man. I haven't seen Xenobia, but I have seen her sister and, while I'm not the prettiest person alive, I really don't think I look that bad. Or that old. Or that mannish, damnit. What a jerk.

Not that I care too much about my looks. Well, no more than any woman. Some days, I wish I was smarter or more employed, and others, I just wish I was prettier and had better clothes. But I digress. When I was in college, grunge ruled and we made a point of not being pretty. I didn't shave my legs** and I wore combat boots with granny dresses and mini skirts, when I wasn't wearing overalls and a tank top. Messy hair wrapped up in a rubber band ruled and I at least pretended not to wear makeup. My girlfriends and I wanted to prove that we didn't have to go out of our way to make ourselves attractive to men (oh, the folly of youth!) The whole look was supposed to scream, "NOT SEXY!"

Which is why I felt mildly annoyed at a local bar the other night (Hint: The name is kind of like "Aerial Platter," but not.) The waitresses there were rocking my college look, but all wrong. They had the ugly plaid mini skirts and boots, but they had added tons of makeup, hair gel and, in several cases, fake boobs. It seemed so hypocritical, tarting up grunge that way. Of course, I didn't really care. I'm not so old that I don't know that every generation will do their own thing, fashion wise. And I was probably a teensy bit jealous of the fake boobs; I'm not that brave, but it sure would be nice to have those.

I did want to tell them that they didn't have to try so hard. It's true what your mother said, by the way,

"Just be yourself and you'll have plenty of friends! But put on a little lipstick. You look washed out."

Every time I tried too hard to be something I wasn't, I ended up with a boyfriend or friends I didn't really like. I don't blame them, either, because I made every effort to seem like I was their sort of person. "Be yourself." "Remember who you are." "Act natural." However you want to put it, your mother was right. She was right about the lipstick, too. You do look washed out, just a little.

At the end of my grunge phase, when I was headed into my garish lipstick and high heels phase***, I went on a camping trip with a bunch of people, including a boy I liked. I'm so not a camper and one of the best things about my husband is that, like me, he will only camp at a Westin or some place even nicer. I love him. And I love the Westin. Anyhow, at some point during the trip, Outdoorsy Boy caught me surreptitiously putting on lipstick, just like my mama taught me. He was merciless, ignoring my protests that the color was called "Twig," hardly a color at all, and was made by MAC and had never been tested on animals. He was nice enough, but all wrong for me and I should have known it right then. Be yourself, and you'll end up with someone who's just right for you. Try and be someone else and you'll end up with their boyfriend, who, no matter how attractive, you do not want. But put on a little lipstick. It really will brighten up your whole face.

Namasté, y'all!

* Name has been changed because I live in a small town.

** Correction, I experimented with not shaving my legs. That counts, right?

*** Which I'm still in, by the way.

What's the deal with those psychotic birds?

I was going to sleep in this morning which, in my pathetic world, means sleeping until about 9 am. I hate psychotic birds. I can sleep through the sound of my children and husband talking; I do it all the time. I have to, because they think nothing of approaching me while I'm in a dead sleep and starting a conversation, in a really loud boy voice.

"TODAY I WANT TO PLAY SOCCER AND GO OUT TO LUNCH. DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY BLUE SHIRT IS? AND MY LEGO HELICOPTER THAT I JUST MADE? MY TOE HURTS."

That's the husband. The kid's morning chats are even more inane. Question: Do they notice that my eyes are closed, I'm lying in my bed under the covers and the room is very, very dark? Answer: No, they do not. Or maybe they just don't care. When they start conversations like that, my eyes snap open, or clench closed, depending on how delusional I am that day about going back to sleep. My heart starts racing and I feel like Queen Latifah in that movie she's in with Steve Martin where they hook up on the internet and she gets out of prison and goes to stay with him and he startles her and she bolts up in bed and starts punching the air and makes really funny noises. Have you seen that movie? It's a terrible movie, but that scene is hilarious, well at least that one moment in that scene. And I totally understand how she felt. Well played, Latifah.

So, this morning as I was ignoring my family and waiting for the moment they would all leave the house so I could really sleep, the birds started going nuts. According to some study, boy birds try to out-sing their buddies just to be louder. Girl birds get loud when they're alone, but can hear other birds nearby. Much like lady humans, lady birds just want to hang out with someone. Also like their human counterparts, boy birds just want to be the loudest. I'm just happy to know that the birds weren't plotting to kill me and my little family. Have you seen that movie?

In other news, I measured the X-Man this morning after he came into the kitchen looking really tall. It's amazing how kids can do that. I think they really do grow overnight. I stood him up against the back of the laundry room door, where we record their heights sporadically, and found that he had grown five or six inches over the last year and a half or, as he said,"as much as my face when I was a baby."

Namsté, y'all.