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?

Detox Day 3.

As it happens, the food I'm eating for this thing is really, really good. And some of it is actually going into our normal rotation, like the carrot and ginger dressing (just like at the Japanese place!), the broccoli and arugula soup (delicious, ridiculously easy) and the miso soup (never knew how to make this, now I do and it's easy.) This morning, I had steel-cut oatmeal with rice milk instead of water. I cheated and threw a few raspberries in, which isn't really cheating since there are raspberries in the diet anyway. I had forgotten how much I adored steel-cut oatmeal. Much like deviled eggs, I love it so much I need you to love it, too. Call me and we can talk about it. Steel-cut oatmeal is not like that gluey stuff other people call oatmeal; the consistency is closer to grits and I love me some grits.

And I bought a juicer, the cheapest one at the store, the Juiceman Jr. I like the Juiceman Jr. and, let's face it, I may never use it again after this week. My first juice, cucumber, basil and lime, was a winner. When this week ends, vodka will perfect it. The second juice, made of kale, celery, ginger, pear and lemon, was not quite so delicious, but did not in any way induce gagging. But all of this is kind of boring, isn't it?

Monday afternoon, I had a headache, which I chalked up to caffeine deprivation, until I slept for eight hours and it didn't go away. And was joined by a sore throat, achy bones, scratchy ears and malaise. The thought of teaching a 9:30 am Pilates class filled me with dread. Once I realized there was no way I could do it without every single person in the class complaining and cancelling their gym membership, I texted, emailed and called each one of my fellow Pilates teachers and, much as I would have done, none of them responded. This is my payback for claiming that flu is an invented illness and not for grown-ups. Finally, someone saved me and volunteered to teach. I spent the rest of the day at home and found it easy enough to stick to my diet, which was heavy on soup and actually quite soothing. My regular sitter showed up and I explained that I would be hiding in my room, slowly dying, while she wrangled the Tank, who had just gone down for a nap. The sitter kindly offered to let me off the hook and come back on Thursday, which sounded great. Until the Tank woke up less than an hour later. I cried.

I cried some more and called my husband to beg him to cancel his tennis match for the evening. He said no. I cleaned up the forty-third mess the Tank made and called him back, screaming and crying and begging him to come home after work instead of playing tennis. He still said no. We called each other several times, I felt even worse and he finally agreed to come home, which he did around 5 pm. I promptly fell asleep, even though the feeling of the sheets against my aching skin was excruciating. Really, I brought this on myself. I never should have mocked people when they claimed to be sick.

What I really hate is the sick voice. You know the one.

"...ahhhh...i can't...unhh...come to work...i'm...ahhhh...really sick..."

I refuse to do the sick voice. I don't care if you just vomited, you can still muster up a semi-normal voice. Really. But here's the thing, my husband wouldn't help me until I threw a full-on fit. I'm too old to be a thrower of fits; those days are past or they would be, if people would just believe me the first time.

And what about after a sick day? Abs class was on my schedule this morning and, even though I still felt like crap, I didn't want to impose on my fellow teachers yet again and figured I could muddle through, which I did. But I saw the look one of them gave me, the look that said, "Sick? Really? You look fine to me." I suppose it would have been better if I had languished another day or so. And sick is as sick does, so I probably would have been sick for a week, just so I could prove I really had been sick. How silly is that? And I'm still sick, so feel sorry for me, d*mnit!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Next time you are sick, I recommend you follow Day 3 of lovely Gwyneth's detox diet, which seems to have excellent healing powers. I promise not to mock you behind your back.

Detox Day 2.

Well. I survived Day 1, although it ended with a raging headache, thanks to caffeine withdrawal. The good news is I wasn't hungry and the meals really looked up after the vomit-with-sawdust-in-it tasting smoothie. The broccoli and arugula soup was so good, I served it to my family for dinner. They got a side of teriyaki tofu. I got more soup. Wasn't it nice of me to make something for them that I wasn't even going to eat? I thought so. Also, I did not lose any weight and I didn't feel hungry, which is good because I'm not trying to lose weight and I hate being hungry.

Today's smoothie was much, much better. In fact, I'm drinking it right now and am able to type at the same time. I used frozen raspberries because they are much, much cheaper and I like how they make the smoothie cold. I also took Anonymous' advice after my last post and added four cubes of ice and substituted rice milk for the almond milk. And I cheated and used some yummy hazelnut flavored rice milk, which has Xylitol and a couple of other things I probably shouldn't have. But I gave up coffee. Coffee, dammit! And Diet Coke! And, really, this is much healthier than a Bojangle's Cajun Filet biscuit and handful of Goldfish crackers, don't you think? I'm really looking forward to the unfortunately named Detox Teriyaki Chicken. Why hate on the chicken like that? It doesn't even demand any really freaky ingredients. I will mount a full defense of the chicken after I taste it.

Just in case you thought I was, I am not complaining*. I realize what a luxury it is to go on a diet like this - how could I not after seeing my grocery bill? I'm enjoying it, even the part with no coffee. In fact, I love that part the most, because I am dreaming of how divine that first post-detox sip will taste. Next Monday, I'm going to the Gourmet Shop for hot coffee and a Brie and bacon croissant. Ahhhhh... Anyhow, my sister-in-law's sister-in-law posted this video on FaceBook today. Love.




Namasté, y'all!

* I am going to complain right here, for just a moment. I am sick. I have a sore throat and my ears ache. This never happens to me. I blame it on the fact I saw live music Saturday night, which I'm too old to do. Is it normal that my ears are still ringing? I'm guessing the sore throat cannot be blamed on the music. WARNING: TOTALLY OBNOXIOUS COMPLAINT AHEAD The Tank's regular sitter is coming today. Normally I go out, but I want to stay in and sleep, which I can't do when they're here. I actually considered checking in to a hotel for the afternoon to sleep and watch television, but I don't like cheap hotels and I'm too cheap to pay for a good one for just a few hours. My brilliant sister-in-law pointed out that since I would probably feel better by tomorrow, I should go stay at the Westin in Charlotte and go shopping before coming home tomorrow afternoon. I was on the verge of doing it until I remembered my d*mn husband has tennis tonight. I hate tennis. And him. And now you all hate me for being a selfish baby. But I never get sick and my ear hurts and I have a stomach ache and a headache and a sore throat. Hrngh.

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.

Appetizers are my favorite food.

Cooking is like sex and exercise. If you get out of the habit, you lose interest. Once you start again, you realize what you were missing. Well, it's not quite like sex. Or even exercise. But, um, whatever. This metaphor is boring.

When I've lost the habit of cooking, I start with appetizers. Appetizers fascinate children and entice them to eat vegetables they would otherwise shun. I shun sweet potatoes, or I did before I knew they could be served without marshmallows. Although I have nothing against them, marshmallows on sweet potatoes make me gag. I'd like to propose we put the "potato" back in sweet potatoes. The "sweet," although it comes first, is secondary. It's comparative, not definitive. Sweet(er) potato chips and fries thrill me to no end. But, 'tis the season to eat hors d'œuvres...fa la la la laaaaaaa...la la la la!

Potato (Sweet-type) Appetizers
(Or...Hors d'œuvres de Patates Douces)

Peel and chop two large-ish sweet potatoes. Boil them in a pot until soft.

Drain the potatoes and add half a stick of butter, a dash of cinnamon, a splash of milk, salt and pepper to taste and a dollop of crushed ginger, like this, from Trader Joe's.



This recipe is interrupted for a brief whine: Why can't we have a Trader Joe's? Why? Please join me in my campaign to bring TJ's to Columbia. /whine

Mash everything together until you get this*:



A pbrrrt would perform this task nicely. I abused mine mercilessly until it finally broke, so I used a bamboo spoon. Allow the mush to cool and shove it into a plastic zip-loc bag or one of those fancy pastry squirters. Set out a bunch of these

or these on a tray. Or if you want to do a taste test, use both.

Now you are here:



Cut off one of the bottom corners of the zip-loc and start filling the shells. Sploosh...sploosh...sploosh...away you go! And now, shall we discuss garnish options? I *heart* garnishes! I tried two yesterday, pecans and chives, which seem to be the only thing I can grow consistently. Probably because they qualify as weeds in certain cultures. But I digress. And not for the first time.

Et voilà! Je vous présente...Hors d'œuvres de Patates Douces**!



Perhaps you would prefer to offer them to your guests on a cool tray from Target (damn them and their inexpensive, well-designed home accessories!) with a bottle of wine ($13.99 at Simply Savory, even less with the 15% case discount) and some mildly humorous cocktail napkins (Cloud Nine).



In a taste test performed by one ten year old boy and his friend, the small shells won out in a surprise upset over the fillo pastry. Only one judge participated, as the friend merely eye-balled the appetizers and politely declined. The friend, previously responsible for turning us on to the delicacy known as M & M's Dumped in a Bowl of Popcorn, remains a favorite. The ten year old expressed a mild preference for the chives, but he doesn't like pecans. I like them all. I found the fillo somewhat overwhelming, but tasty nonetheless. I like funny cocktail napkins. Is that gay?



Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you don't use all the mush de patate douce, freeze it for another party.

* Please enjoy this brief apology to anyone who thought yesterday's picture of broken eggs was actually a picture of diarrhea all over my kitchen floor. I'm sorry if you had nightmares. I know looking at a pot of orange mush can't be easy for you during this difficult time. Be strong!

** I am so totally into the French version, in which "douce" follows "patates", as it should. Vive la France!

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.

Bake Sales are a feminist issue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namasté, y'all!

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

** I love you, Nora!!!!

Can I just have one day of nothing?

I want a day of nothing. I want to wake up in a silent house, stay in my pajamas for a while and drink coffee in bed while I check email and watch television. I don't have a television, but this is a fantasy, right?

I love television so, so much and so does my husband. We love it so much, we can't have one. We love it so much, we'd probably marry it. And we're already married to each other. I knew we had to let it go when I ended up shrieking at him after he interrupted my third attempt to watch Kirsten Dunst in one of her finest pieces, "Fifteen and Pregnant," on one of those lady channels. I just wanted to know how it turned out, dammit.

Now we get all cracked out over Netflix. My husband has been known to call me from work to find out if his movie came in. I download endless episodes of television shows from their instant download thingy - Law and Order (in every incarnation), Coupling (Do I get credit because it's British?), Leave it to Beaver. I get desperate for a fix. I think they invented instant downloads to try to suck us back in. That stuff is like crack for someone like me. By the way, Ward and June are pretty good parents. Instead of reading all those boring parenting books, just watch a few episodes. You'll learn a lot. Promise. They really know how to talk to the Beaver*.

But I digress. The day of nothing. I think every parent would like one. Having children has made me a much more efficient person. I can get more done in thirty child-free minutes now than I could in three days pre-kids. Really. Maybe I should have had them in high school, or at least college. I would have been a much better student. If only I had seen the rest of "Fifteen and Pregnant," I might have known if it was a good idea. Maybe I just need a television. My heart rate actually goes up when I think about missing the new 90210. Maybe I don't need a television. Huh.

Namasté, y'all!

*That's what she...never mind.

Mama said there'd be days like this...

Well, not my Mama, at least not in so many words, but it's still a great song. Do you ever have months weeks days like this, where you feel like the worst person in the world? The fattest, ugliest person, worst mother, most pathetic wife, not to mention crappiest friend, sh*tiest daughter and stupidest daughter-in-law. And you can't name anything specific that's making you feel that way. Small things happened. You waited an hour and a half for an appointment with your dermatologist and had to leave (after offering five times, meekly, to reschedule if they were too busy) so you wouldn't miss your son's school play. You weren't late, but your toddler was so loud your Dad had to take him outside and miss the play. You almost cried when your husband told you later they sent a note home before the play requesting that no toddlers attend. You were too lazy to read it. Or maybe you read it and forgot, because you're an idiot.

You got a note from your child's teacher the night before, because she didn't realize you emailed her because you found it funny that your child asked for "a bunch of balloons and safety pins" to make his costume for the play the next day. At least it seemed funny, until you realized what a loser she thinks you are. She thought you were emailing her, at 9 at night, to tell her she needed to make the costume. Are you really that bad?

You feel pathetic for buying a mix to make cupcakes for your son to take to school for his birthday (why didn't it feel pathetic when you did it a month ago for your other son?) And it gets worse when you realize the chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing look like little piles of poop. And the M&M's you bought to decorate are some Indiana Jones kind of M&M's, in colors like off-white, diarrhea-orange, dried blood-red and brown. Ew.

You are fat. You are ugly. You are worthless. But somehow, you weren't like that a month ago and, when you think about it honestly, nothing much has changed. But all of a sudden, you have to force yourself to smile when your baby is singing,

"Walk back down! Stand my ground!"

which he learned from the movie "Barnyard," which he calls "Bombarn," which you normally find too adorable for words. And you don't laugh as hard as you normally would when you find this note, from your seven year old to the Tooth Fairy.

Normally, you find his materialism funny ("Remember I don't need money I need toys.") You aren't even happy that he's actually telling the truth this time about losing his tooth, unlike the last time, when he tried to con the Tooth Fairy. The note just makes you feel like a crappy parent, raising children who are never satisfied and destined to be miserable, just like you.

You had an article published, but they edited out a sentence or two, which resulted in you sounding stupid. Or so it seems to you.

The fact that you still haven't gotten your child's medical form signed for camp is sending you into a panic. There's the guilt, but also the rage that no one has to worry about it but you. And you dread the packing involved before camp. Now you feel like a jerk for not just being excited for your kid about camp, which he loves.

Your husband falls asleep when he's with you and forgets everything you say because you are boring, boring, boring. Everything you do is lame and boring and no one wants to know about it. It's not them, it's you. Probably no one likes you, including your husband, because you're fat.

I'm just so tired. If I could just get three good nights of sleep, I think everything would be better. I should go to sleep now, but I'm too wound up. Now I feel guilty and pathetic for whining. So, how was your day?

Whine.

I hate buying toilet paper, hate it. There's nothing fun about it, it's not all that cheap and it's a hassle to carry, especially when you buy enormous quantities, like I do, because I don't want to have to go back to buy more for a long, long time. One of the happiest times in my life was when I bought something like 144 rolls of paper and didn't need more for almost two years. That was great. So, yesterday, I had to buy toilet paper. It was definitely time, because we had been passing one roll from bathroom to bathroom and, really, each bathroom should have its own roll, for convenience. I try to avoid big box stores, but I try to avoid buying toilet paper even more, so I get it wherever they sell the biggest package. I had to take Baby J; it was not fun. I was feeling put out.

I love that phrase, "put out." I'm pretty sure it's exclusively Southern. It's used to describe someone who acts like they're being asked to do something entirely unreasonable. When I was younger, and whining about cleaning my room or something even smaller, like putting my own dish in the dishwasher, my mother would say,

"Oh, stop acting so put out."

Like many things my mother used to always say, that's become one of my catchphrases, because I've become my mother. Anyhow, yesterday I was feeling put out, after having to buy toilet paper in a big box store with Baby J. Still feeling put out, I went to my favorite non-hippy grocery store to buy a mix to make cupcakes for the X-Man's birthday today. The big box store didn't have lemon cake mix, which is what he wanted. I am ashamed and embarrassed about what happened next.

I wasn't concerned about going into the second store*, because every grocery store in town, including that one, has free cookies for kids and shopping carts with trucks on the front for toddlers to ride in. The truck carts are hard to push, but well worth the effort when you have a toddler who likes to be held every moment of the day. Baby J loves trucks and cookies and started talking about them as we pulled into the parking lot. I was really looking forward to peeling him off of my neck, strapping him into the truck and quieting him with a cookie. When grocery stores first started putting the cookies out, I whined about it to anyone who would listen.

"Why must we reward kids with unhealthy food just for doing something they have to do anyway? It's normal to go to the store and they have to accept it. When I was little, they had broken cookies every once in a while, but it was a special treat and a surprise, not a given. Ugh."

Which is why my behavior yesterday is so embarrassing. When will I learn that acting superior never, ever pays? Baby J was in the truck, chanting,

"TOOKIE! TOOKIE! TOOKIE!"

There were no cookies. I waited at the deli, thinking for sure they would give me one. I was going to buy one if they had no free ones. I'm not an unreasonable person. I thought everyone behind the counter was busy. Baby J got louder. And I noticed one of the employees pouring himself a Mountain Dew and poking at it with a straw. That really got my goat (another Southern expression for you). I marched over and said, "Excuse me!" rather aggressively. I asked about the cookies. I got a long, boring explanation about people taking more than one and how they just couldn't put cookies out anymore because of blah, blah, blah, blah. I said that was fine, but that I was switching grocery stores, forever.

I was going to buy the cake mix anyway when Baby J informed me that it might be best if we left the store, right that second. On my way out, I ran into L, a nice, polite lady from my church. I needed to vent, so I told her why I was leaving. L. has three (redheaded) children of her own and sympathized with my plight. She thought I should talk to a manager, but Baby J was about to lose it, so I had to go.

The very efficient L. sent a very brave grocery store employee out to my car to explain the cookie situation and ask me to continue shopping at the store, which I will. Mainly because she told me the cookies will be there in the future.

L. and the grocery store employee should start a PR firm; they saved the day. I called her on my cell phone and left a message, apologizing for my temper tantrum and thanking her for talking me down off the ledge and saving me from having to find another store. She left a message back saying that she hadn't noticed any sort of tantrum and that she had done similar. Did I mention what a kind person she is?

Namasté, y'all!

* I should have been concerned. It was five o'clock and I have three children. When will I learn? maybe next week. *sigh*

Tuesday is the worst day.

Tuesday is terrible. It shouldn't even be allowed, because it messes up the whole week. Tuesday is the day on which I have no childcare: no drop-in nursery, no sitter for Monday afternoon homework party with the big kids*, no Big Yoga Thursday sitter**, nothing. And, to add insult to injury, my husband often plays tennis in the evening. He goes there from work, so I don't see him until really late, when he's in a great (read: tired from playing tennis and drinking beer) mood and I'm ready to scream. I almost feel bad for him when he walks in the door and straight into my seething wall of resentment and self-pity.

Womens' magazines can be really annoying, like when they write articles about how to get your husband to have more sex. I wasn't aware that it was that difficult, but maybe there are some husbands who like to play hard to get. Not mine, or anyone else's that I know, according to me rudely asking people when I've had too much to drink my extensive research. Those articles could be summed up into a sentence:

"Honey, you want to do it?"

Most husbands will say yes, even if they have the flu and you're wearing sweat pants. You probably don't even have to call them "Honey." According to a lot of those articles, busy couples, especially new parents, should set aside a specific time for...ahem...marital relations. I had a friend who did that once. She and her husband had three young children, two full time jobs and one full time house guest. Her husband picked Tuesday. What a moron. As a result, she began dreading Tuesday a full six days in advance, on Wednesday.

Tuesday is the worst day. Sunday might be good, especially if one was raised in a church, because it has the bonus of seeming naughty. Monday might not be so bad, because it would feel like a way to extend the weekend. Wednesday, well, they don't call it the Hump Day for nothing. Thursday could work, because that's basically the weekend and "Thrilling Thursday" has a nice ring to it. Friday is date night for a lot of people so the mood is right, as is the level of intoxication. Saturday is good because you can sleep in a little bit the next morning. But Tuesday? Nothing is good about Tuesday. Sex should never be a chore and, if you try to do it on Tuesday, that's exactly what it'll feel like. Trust me.

Instead, I suggest that you take this day to reflect, perhaps on how you can help me on Tuesday, which is the worst day of the week, officially. Happy Celibate Tuesday!

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup, I actually have a sitter for the baby so I can spend the afternoon with my big kids getting them started on their homework. It's more fun that you would think.

** Yup, I actually have a sitter for four hours in the middle of every Thursday, so I can go do Yoga. I know: My life isn't hard and I promise to try to complain less. Or, at the very least, complain in a way that is entertaining.

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.

When you see Fair walking down the street, let me know.

When I was little, right around the age when children constantly claim,

"That's not faaaaaaaair!,"

I had a friend, who had a mom, as most of my friends did. This mom was a comedian, like most moms in the seventies were. When we would whine about the lack of fairness in the world, she would invite us to sit and look out of her living room window.

"You just sit right there, sweetie, and when you see Fair walking down the street, call me, because I sure would like to know what she looks like!"

Ha, ha, ha. So, while I understand the futility of trying to determine what's fair and what isn't, I still need to whine every now and then. You know what isn't fair? The fact that I don't get enough sleep. My husband snores, which he claims isn't his fault. I'm not so sure about that, but I can't prove it. The baby still wakes up at night, often in response to the husband's snoring. I've tried putting him (the baby) in another room, but he wakes up anyway and we just have to go farther to get him. I've also tried putting him (the husband) in another room, but his snoring is loud enough that distance doesn't really help. And, to be honest, I miss him. One of the reasons I got married is so I wouldn't have to sleep all by myself. I get lonely. The snoring keeps me awake and, as soon as that ends and I go to sleep, the baby wakes up. Gah! I swear, the two of them are in cahoots. They want me to be tired all the time. Must be because I'm so charming when I haven't had enough sleep. Not.

Sometimes, life is really unfair. Like when I can't sleep because of the snoring and I go into a panic because, for almost a minute, the snoring stops, along with the breathing of my irritating, but much-loved husband. Then he starts breathing again, with a barking whoop and a huge snort. Like, the hugest snort you've ever heard or imagined. It's the snort to end all snorts. I recorded it once and my tape recorder burst into flames*. The snort is so loud that it wakes him up (probably our neighbors, too, but that's not my problem.) And when it wakes him up, he rears his sleepy head, sits up in bed, glares at me and says,

"SHHHHHHHH!!!"

Like I've made some horrible noise, deliberately, just to wake him up. I admit that I've been tempted, when he's in a deep sleep and I'm lying awake, to bark in his ear, really loud, just so he knows how it feels to wake up in terror. But I haven't done it, because waking him up would just start the cycle all over. But, um, it's so not fair that he gets mad at me in the middle of the night, when I haven't done anything. And then I have to lie awake for at least ten more minutes feeling self righteous. Sorry, I had to say it. And now I'm off to look out the front window, in case Fair is out for a jog.

Namasté, y'all!

* That's not true, I just said it for effect. Sorry.

There are a few things wrong with my city, but only three that infuriate me.

1. Why on earth can I not buy Kiehl's in this town? Three other cities in my state have it. Why. Not. Mine! Damnit! I must admit, though, that it's kind of nice, because when my dear husband goes to one of those cities for work, it's perfectly reasonable for me to ask him to pick up a few things. Kind of like having a personal assistant. Hooray! These are the things I can't live without:

• Amino Acid Shampoo. Oooohhh. Smells like coconut and makes my hair purty!
• Lip Balm #1. Duh. In the jar, please, not the tube. I like the tinted ones in the tube for the beach.
  
• This stuff. Now that I'm old, I get dry patches of skin. This stuff rocks.
• Hair Creme with Silk Groom. Don't understand it, but when my hair looks gross, this stuff magically transforms it.

2. Why don't any of the bartenders here know how to make a Mendelssohn? This is the best last drink of the night ever. Bailey's Irish Cream, over ice, with a splash of club soda. It's like Yoo-hoo for grown-ups. In fact, I might try to turn it into a brunch drink. Mendelssohns are the new Mimosas. You heard it here first.

3. As far as I know, I can't get Chie Mihara shoes here. I can get them in Charleston, at Worthwhile, an absolutely brilliant store, but not here. Why not? Wah! To make me feel better, perhaps you would like to buy me these or these. Perhaps. Or maybe these? I wear a 38. Just sayin'.

I know there are many other problems in my town and it might seem that I'm being glib, but I'm all about glib, and I'm far too shy to get into discussions about the real problems, m'kay? If we could fix the aforementioned three, I might be willing to tackle the others.

Namsté, y'all.

Unhh!

We've been known to call the X-Man, our six year old, "The Moaner." He moans, or maybe it's more of a groan. It's a drawn out, guttural unnnhhhhh sound. We first noticed it on family walks; he would lag behind, shoulders slumped and mouth hanging open and moan as he dragged his tired feet. And that was just in the first block. He spent a lot of time on my husband's shoulders. Lucky for my husband, the X-Man is a light weight.

He'll moan in response to anything.

"Honey, you need to clean your room."

"UNNHHHH!"

"Bath time!"

"Unnhhh..."

"Are you dressed yet?" (yelled up the stairs for the fifth time in twenty minutes.)

"Uuunh...uuuunnnhhh!"

Sometimes, he moans in response to his mental anticipation of a difficult, perhaps insurmountable, task. He got in the car last week and before he sat down, moaned.

"Uuuunnnhhh..."

"What is it? Did you have a tough day?"

"I need my birth certificate and I know I don't have it! Unnhh!"

Of course I asked why. I was pretty sure it wasn't as urgent as he imagined. Last I checked, six year olds don't usually have to submit their own paperwork for anything.

"I need to know my date of birth!"

He was surprised to learn that this was in fact the same as his birthday, which he knows. But he wasn't quite ready to let go of a good moan.

"Oh...ohnnhhh. Well I still don't know the year!"

Which I told him. It was the least I could do. When he pointed out that he would "never be able to remember" this, I assured him I would remind him until he had a chance to write it down. That kid is really smart in some ways, but sometimes I wonder...

Anyhow, I always accused my husband of passing on the moaning gene. He's half French and half Serbian, so he's genetically predisposed on both sides to being easily dissatisfied and vocal about it. The combination of the two is greater than the sum of its parts. My husband likes to say, slightly altering something he heard on the Sopranos, "Nobody suffers like the French Serbs." Whining is absolutely not sexy, but self-deprecation takes the edge off, so he comes out ahead, lucky for me. I recently had to acknowledge, however, that the X-Man may have picked up the moaning habit from someone else.

My husband and I were in the backseat of my brother and sister-in-law's car; we were all going to a party in Lexington. Lexington is about a million miles from where I live, although people who live there will swear that it's just a twenty minute drive from downtown. Lies, lies, lies. It is so far, forty five minutes at least, really more like an hour. And people insist on inviting you out there anyway. The upside is that they feel obligated to make the parties really fun, probably to reward you for your trouble, and I've never had less than a rocking good time out there. But I digress.

At some point during the drive, I heard,

"UNHHHH! This is taking forever!"

I looked around, thinking the X-Man had somehow eluded the babysitter and hidden in the car. I didn't see him, so I glared at my husband, surely the culprit. Slowly, it dawned on me.

It was me! I was the moaner! And I sounded exactly like my over-dramatic boy. Wait, did I say over-dramatic? I meant outspoken. And assertive. Yeah. Unnnhhhh! I hate it when I realize I'm not perfect!

Namasté, y'all!

Mother!

I really hate the way my mother can ruin my night with one sentence. To be fair, "ruin" is a slight exaggeration, I'm willing to let her plead down to "taint." I think I'm being generous.

Last night, we went to a benefit. I love benefits; you give money that you would have given any way and you get to have a great time. Bonus! And this one was really fun. We've been several years in a row and won't miss it. They bring in several musicians that you've actually heard of and they give a show similar to MTV's unplugged, but with jokes. The whole shebang is emceed by Jim Sonefeld of (local, famous band) Hootie and the Blowfish. This year, Darius Rucker was one of the artists. For a hometown girl like me, it was awesome. Last year, Don Dixon came. My husband, a real music fan, was over the moon; Don has worked with a bunch of great bands, like the Smithereens, Hootie, REM, Moxy Fruvos, the Connells...I'll stop there, but the list goes on. I am not nearly as hip as my husband and, a few minutes into the show, I realized that Don was the star of one of my favorite movies of all time, Camp. For the first time in my life, I was the nut who just had to tell the artist how much his work meant to me. Don was very kind and didn't laugh at me. But I digress.

Anyhow, we were enjoying the music and banter, a lot. Apparently, I was talking to my sister in law too much, because my mom had to lean forward and point out that I was being rude. I felt like I was nine years old. I wanted to tell her, as I have in the past, that it's too late. If she doesn't like my behavior now, it's out of her hands. She can either hang out with me or not. I'm sure there are adults out there who choose not to spend time with me because of my ill behavior. There are a few people in the world who I avoid because I don't like the way they act. That's my prerogative as an adult*. And I wasn't talking that loud. And other people were talking, too. But I didn't say any of that, because if I had, she would have asked why I was being so defensive. Plus ça change...

Although I know that I shouldn't be so perturbed by a single comment, I can't help it, because it's my mother. My sister in law heard her and might have thought her behavior was included in the negative assessment, which I'm sure it wasn't. Plain and simple, I was embarrassed, which is silly because I always say that you can only be embarrassed by your own behavior. And if you usually try to do the right thing, which I optimistically believe most people do, you should be fine. I didn't think my behavior was bad, so I'm not sure why I felt so sad. I keep thinking back and questioning my actions, which were not so horrible, I swear! Now, I really am getting defensive. Oops! I really need to let it go, because it taints an otherwise great night.

I hope I remember this feeling when my kids are grownups. At a certain point, you've done all you can do to mold their personalities and you can either like them or not. If you feel that you've failed to turn them into decent adults, so be it. Get a therapist and complain to them about it. Or complain to your co-parent. Or your friends. Just don't tell your kids, because even if they disagree, your opinion will still hurt their feelings. That's just the way it works.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Mom, if you're reading, you know I love you, and never fear...I'm quite sure you're not the only parent who's done this. And don't worry about the way I behaved. I really don't think it was that big of a deal that I took off my shirt, lit my hair on fire and danced on the table. Most people thought it was cool.

*By the way, if you are anything like me, you are now humming that Bobby Brown/Britney Spears song in your head. Or even out loud. "Duh duh duh duh DUNH! It's the way that I wanna' liiiiiiiive..."

I Should Never Complain

I am filled with joy. Right now, as I type, a nice man is in my kitchen installing a brand new dishwasher, one that works. It's going to be so awesome; I may have a party for it this weekend. At the party, we could use all the glasses in the house and just run the dishwasher again and again, until they're all clean. The house is peaceful; O and the X-Man are at school and Baby J is napping. And I'm trying very hard not to laugh out loud. Not because of my giddiness over the dishwasher, but because the dishwasher guy just farted. No lie*. I could hear it from the other room. Farting aside, I'm thrilled he's here.

Sunday night, I came home from Yoga to find a very happy and proud husband. Happy, because he was about to leave for a beach trip in the name of work (translation: several days of hanging out with all his lawyer friends at a conference, with no kids, of course. And getting to write it all off. Lucky.) Proud, because, as he announced before I was all the way inside, "I emptied the dishwasher for you!" That's nice, I thought, in my Yoga-induced haze. But, as I walked past the dishwasher, I noticed that it had only completed half a cycle.

I've always had issues with that dishwasher. In fact, it's probably my fault that it didn't work, low expectations and all. It was here when we moved in. It looked so smug sitting there, in all it's stainless steel, European glory. It was a Bosch. Please don't tell me how much you love your Bosch. I'm thrilled for you, I really am, but we had no love for ours, nor it for us. We may have found it intimidating; perhaps it was just too sophisticated for us. One problem with the Bosch is that, down heah in the backwoods, there are only two companies who will work on it. One of them we've used for other things, so we called them when it broke the first time. Within that company, only two guys are trained to work on Bosch. One of them is Sully.

Sully is mean, pompous, insane and not, I'm sorry to say, all that bright. And he came to our house, several times. He talked the whole time he was here, whether or not we were in the room with him. I think he evened talked when we weren't home. His final analysis was, "It's fixed. Make sure you run the hot water for three minutes every time before you start it." I expressed my feeling that this did not equal "fixed." Sully told me I was wrong and that every dishwasher in the world is like this. Never mind that the heat part was working fine until he messed with it; we had called about something else entirely. Sully was like a dog worrying a bone. He refused to admit that there was any problem other than the fact that we were too selfish to warm up the water for the pampered brat of a dishwasher. He came again and again, chipping cabinets, spilling water and in general being a nuisance. The only nice thing he ever did for me was turn off a pot of chicken stock that was boiling over. But, who wouldn't?

Herr Bosch still didn't work and the company sent the other worker, after my normally mild-mannered husband called and told them that Sully was never to darken our door again. In the end, the dishwasher sort of worked and I got to think my husband was pretty hot, standing up to the repair company like that. He was defending my honor: Sully called me a liar when I mentioned that I had never had to run hot water for a dishwasher before. When I realized that the dishwasher was, once again, not doing its job, I decided on the spot to buy a new one. I couldn't take another (six or seven) visits from Sully.

Anyhow, as I considered the possibility of searching through the cabinets and drawers, seeking out everything that still had food and soap streaks on it, I felt a sudden need to kick something. I went outside and kicked the fence, which hurt. I'm immature like that sometimes, Yoga or not. When I was pregnant with Baby J (hormones!), I got mad at A about one thing or another. Maybe he was walking too loud, who can remember? I got so mad at him that I threw a nectarine at the wall. I'm far too uptight to leave a smashed nectarine just lying around, so I picked it up and headed towards the trashcan. When I got there, my loud-walking husband was bent over the can throwing something else away. I'm not proud of this, but I squished the nectarine on his head. I ground it right into his bald spot, and it was totally satisfying. In fact, the enzymes from the fruit may have helped him grow more hair. So, in a sense, I was being nice.

After kicking the fence, I went in to help A. reload the dishwasher. Finally, the job was done, the cabinets cleared of all soapy food remnants. And the dishwasher wouldn't start. And it was time for my hapless husband to leave with his friend. As they drove down the road, listening to stupid boy music, I would be at home, with four hungry children, and a crop in the fieeeeeelds. Wait. That wasn't me, that was Kenny Rogers. I would be left with three hungry children, a load of dirty dishes and a broken dishwasher.

Before Lucille A. arrived at his destination, the clouds had parted. I realized I was having a pity party for nothing. Not only would I be getting a brand new dishwasher, I could get whatever I wanted. A. would feel so bad for me that he wouldn't dare question the price. He'd be so happy to be able to come home, guilt-free, new dishwasher installed. The very next morning, I called him to let him know how tickled I was, so he could enjoy his vacation work and come home with a clear conscience. I dropped Baby J off at the nursery and headed down to the best appliance store ever, Jeffers-McGill. I was greeted with a smile by the salesmen, who looked like a band of Angels. I swear I heard harps as I walked through the door.


I was giddy with anticipation, secure in the knowledge that I could let the dishes pile high, because the installer would be here the very next day. Jeffers-McGill does not carry Bosch. Wise choice. And I will never buy an appliance from anyone else ever again. I really should have saved myself the pain and embarrassment of kicking the fence.

The dishwasher is in, the sink is empty, the husband is on his way home and all is right with the world. Without further ado, I present to you, Miss Tag. The very lovely Miss May Tag:



Namasté, y'all!

*In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that the sound quite possibly could have been his shoe sliding across the floor. But, I was still laughing because...it sounded like a fart!

Wah.

I'm just going to have a little whine here, so carry on. Nothing to see!

You know a whine is going to be pretty pathetic when it starts with, "My house cleaners are coming today.." So...ahem...

My house cleaners are coming today, so I need to stay out of the house pretty much all day, even though they're only there for three or four hours. They never tell me when they're coming and every phone number they've given me is disconnected after I call it once. But they do a good job and they're nice, so what are you gonna' do? I had a great plan for today, by the way. But, as I should know (pounding head with fist), the best laid plans (and the best plans for gettin' laid..heheheh) can be destroyed in a moment by a baby, even a really cute one.

This morning, I had to teach two classes in a row. Baby J stayed in the gym nursery for those. You might want to punch me for this, but I like starting my day with an hour and a half of ab exercises. It makes me feel more comfortable for the rest of the day. After that, I planned to take Baby J to the drop in nursery across town so I could grab a quick solo lunch and blaaaaaaaahg. Long story short: Baby J fell asleep on the way to the nursery, so I decided to put him in the stroller and let him sleep while I ate in a coffee shop back across town and blaaaaaaaahged. I've done it before and it always works. He always stays asleep for at least an hour. I got him in the stroller, ordered my lunch and coffee, sat down and turned on the laptop and, no more than two seconds after my food arrived, I saw the kicking of little feet in the stroller. Little feet are cute, really cute, but not when I just want to eat! And at the top of the little feet, there's a cute fat body and sweaty little curly head that says, "No...nooooooo...nuh-no...naw" The random "nos" are Baby J's new experiment. He likes to say it in different tones of voice to see how it sounds, which doesn't bode well for the future. The "no" he left out was the primal scream, kicking myself in the head, punching the wall over my own stupidity- type "no" that was echoing in my head. But I digress...

So I gulped my lunch, cut my losses and decided to go for a walk with the Supreme Ruler. But I forgot that it sucks to drink hot coffee and push a stroller in hundred degree weather. So I looked at my watch (11:32 am and the drop in nursery closes at 1 pm), cut my losses again and drove Baby J to the nursery. Instead of the cool local coffee place (which I love because I worked there during the summers in high school and college), I could go to the chain bagel place with free WiFi and grab an hour. And a cookie, because I'd have to buy something and I'd already gone a little overboard on the coffee.

On the way, I called my husband, just to vent a little. Sometimes I get mad at him, because when he wants to do something self-indulgent, he can just cancel an appointment and do it; I have to really finesse it. And somehow, I think I feel guiltier for doing it. When he vents, I usually try to express sympathy. I even try to express it in a non-sarcastic way. I've quit saying, "Awwwwww...I hate it for ya'," because that doesn't sound all that nice. On the other hand, when I vent, he has to one up me. I think he (and, so I've heard, maybe a few other men) does it so I'll understand that he can't help, because his own life is so hard. When I called him today for a quickie (a quick whine - get your mind out of the gutter), his response was to tell me how hard his day was. I'm being genuine when I say that I do get that his day is hard. I do. But, at the moment, I couldn't feel all that sorry for somebody who has an awesome job and who was on his way to a solo lunch at one of my favorite places to do a little paper work. Granted, the paper work was preparation for a trial that started after lunch, but still. He chose the profession and can't even appreciate how lucky he is to get to have a fancy lunch as part of his work day. All he had to say was, "That sucks. I hope your day gets better." Then I would have been happy to listen to him talk about being nervous about the trial, but I don't even think he was nervous. I'm pretty sure he was desperate to think of something that would get him off the hook and that was the first thing that came into his head. Kind of like when I'm puking my guts out and sick as a dog and, to deflect any requests for help, he wanders around rubbing his stomach and saying, in a strained voice, "I think I might be getting a stomach bug, too." Oh yeah? Well, Show Me the Vomit!

And I got really pissed off when I came out of the nursery after dropping Baby J there and that jerk of a husband had left a really nice message apologizing. The audacity! He robbed me of my righteous anger! I hate it when that happens! As*hole.

So, here I am at the bagel store, with a big cup of water. The oatmeal raisin cookie's all gone, but it was pretty good. And I still have thirty minutes. Time for some shopping on the portable mall (aka the Laptop). Yay!

Please feel free to leave your own petty whine in the comments section or call me on my cell. I'll be out of the house for the rest of the day and most likely starved for adult company.

Namasté, y'all!