One day

Today--October 27th--the worst day of the year, I’m going to play a game.

I’m going to pretend I get my Mom back for one day.

Actually, I play this all of the time, and I have a nightmare about it at least once a week, but today I really thought about it.

First off, I’d cook you something. Something delicious and decadent and totally wonderful. When you got sick, you lost your appetite. You lost your ability to enjoy a meal with your family and I always hated that was another thing that got taken from you. I would make you Beef Wellington because you loved that. And one of the first real meals I ever cooked for you was that and a homemade mushroom bisque. You said you liked it--maybe you were being a kind, but I thought it was good.

Then we’d play a game. Double-solitaire. Which is a really stupid game, but when we played it our way it was fun and I loved that scurrying play to the finish. We would not play Scrabble because you would beat me--you were the true wordsmith of the family.

And then, like I was five again, I’d say, “Mom! Look what I made!” And I would introduce you to your grandchildren. And I know a day isn’t enough time, but you would be able to see how smart and kind they all are. You’d notice that Stevie LOOKS JUST YOU which you would deny out loud but secretly covet because you could even see it. You would see Matty and know that as old of a soul that Stevie is, Matty is a young one--forever a little boy who loves his dog and his little sister and isn’t at all embarrassed by that.

And Amy. Oh, how you would love Amy. And you would know. You would just know.

And Jessie needs a grandmother to spoil her and keep me from losing my mind with her. She would entrance you with her smile and personality, and you wouldn’t be able to get mad at her when she poured paint on your carpet.

And no matter what time of year it was--I don’t care if it was June--I would set up a Christmas tree and make Sean string lights through the palm trees. I would fly Wendy and your other two grandchildren in, Dad, your Dad, Uncle Norm, Gram and Gramp--anyone who is left and we would have a Christmas dinner and eat again around a huge table laughing and taking a million pictures. I’d make you pecan pie. (I put chocolate in mine and it’s really good.)

I’d wear your shoes. I’d play Neil Diamond. Grandpa would recite poetry from his amazing memory.

I would ask you to wear extra perfume so that it lingered on everything you touched and when you were gone again, I’d bury my face into the blanket and recall you.
I’d hold you.

I would be held.

And to those who would say that a day wouldn’t be enough, I’d risk it.

Because this day is long.

This day is way too long.

Today

I will tell you all about happy things like Princesses and magic tomorrow, but today, like every year on this day for the last ten, I just want to think about my Mom.

And miss her without apology.

Meeting princesses this week

I got a tremendous amount of work done today out of necessity for the sheer amount of work I have to do for the week ahead. Yes, everyone has clean socks and it's not even Monday yet.

On Friday, we have our annual Trunk n' Treat event at school, the day in which the entire year orbits around. At least it does for me since I am chairing this, and I basically suck at doing anything more than 10 minutes out.

But before I fall flat on my painted face on Friday, tomorrow I get to wake up two hours earlier than a normal Monday so that I can go cover Princess Tiana's debut at Disney World, complete with parade, press box seating for her new show and interview opportunities with Disney staff.

And that is a pretty cool way to start a long, full week.

Learning more about this everyday

A few weeks ago I did a lot of research on the Swine Flu for the article in The St. Pete Times.

Since that article was published, things are still changing with this bizarre disease, and I’m still learning more about it as we go. In our own school, many more cases were diagnosed and confirmed, but luckily, none were severe and as far as I know, all of those students have returned to school.

But that doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to join a Walgreen’s teleconference with Dr. Gwenn O’Keefe of Pediatricsnow.com and Dr.Gwennisin.com, and I learned a little bit more about the H1N1 and why we need to be aware of it.

~First off, it’s seems to target our kids most of all. For some still unknown reason, this flu hits ages 0-24 the hardest, leaving the 65+ group almost untouched. Pregnant women are given the top priority on the vaccine list.

~90% of the flu circulating in the U.S. right now is H1N1. So chances are, if you feel like you have the flu, it’s probably H1N1.

~This strain isn’t peaking like the seasonal flu does every year. Instead of ebbing and falling like typical flu seasons, this one shows no sign of slowing down. Dr. Gwenn says we really need to pay attention to the statistics to realize how differently this strain behaves.

~She recommends both the regular flu shot as well as the H1N1 when it becomes available in your area. To the critics that say the vaccine for the Swine Flu isn’t “tested,” she says that it is the exact same science and testing as the seasonal flu shot that has been in existence for over 60 years with a rather impressive track record.

We also spoke extensively about the need to be prepared in case you get sick--stocking up on items and food well before you actually need them.

But a couple of things remained constant--wash your hands frequently and make sure your kids are as well. This is still our number one preventive measure.

And definitely don’t waste your money--and false confidence--on the facemasks.

Six

Happy Birthday, A-Dog!




Someday you'll appreciate what we went through for your present.

Happy Birthday, here's a fake I.O.U. for your fake hamster

I am currently on the last minute hunt for hamsters. Of the mechanical variety.

It's A-Dog's birthday tomorrow and I am scouring the entire greater Tampa/Orlando area for Zhu Zhu Pets, an endangered species according to Toy R Us. Who knew that they would be sold out before freaking Halloween?

Store clerks are laughing at me when I call and ask if they have any in stock. Amazon just has a huge 'LOL' banner across the page, and I swear Target had the Twitter fail whale on their toy site. It's crazy with a capital Zhu.

The absolute worst part of this whole thing? Not the disappointment when she opens her rain check, but that she might actually want a real hamster instead.

*&^%$ holiday Ebay conservationists...

Giving away goodness this week

I know you're thinking that with all of this partying and blog avoidance that I haven't been working, but you're so wrong.

I've been working incredibly hard giving things away. Make sure you enter all of these current contests to score some swag:

See's Candy (2 readers will recieve gift cards for $25 delicious dollars worth of sweet goodness)

Michael Buble's new CD (5 readers will receive sweet sounds of goodness)

A Journal from Energizer and Susan G. Komen for the Cure (to make sure we are all spreading the goodness.)

Make sure you're entered...

A Tasty Weekend

Since my last update regarding partying through October, we partied some more...

Took advantage of the long weekend to head to Disney. We hadn't ever done Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween party (totally worth every penny--no lines!) and I got invited to Epcot's Party for the Senses, so it seemed like a good time to do both.

We stayed at the new Waldorf-Astoria which opened on October 1st, and was absolutely gorgeous. They were offering some pretty sweet Grand Opening specials which actually made it cheaper to stay there than at the Nick Hotel. No choice there. My only criticism may be that it they are going to tout their historic culinary contributions to the world in their in-room brochure--the Manhattan, Veal Oscar, 1000 Island Dressing, the Waldorf salad and Red Velvet Cake--they may actually consider offering them on their pricey menus. I would have paid a handsome sum for the original Red Velvet cake.

But I got my culinary freak on elsewhere.

You'll have to rely on your sense of imagination when I tell you about the Party for the Senses at Epcot since I forgot my camera like the slacker reporter that I am. If I had indeed brought it (which I desperately need a new one) I would have snapped impressive photos of an enormous room with dozens of stations offering the best wines and finest classic cuisine you've seen gathered in one place. Visiting chefs from around the world as well as Disney's award winners prepared an offering of amazing dishes that were delicious. My personal favorites included Confit of Berkshire Pork Tenderloin with Toasted Almond Pain Perdu, Heirloom Apple, and Calvados Cider Reduction, the Herb-Crusted Lamb Chop with Red Wine Cherry Sauce and Crispy Triple Onion Polenta or the Roasted Beef Tenderloin "Diane." I'd list more, but each one has a descriptor twenty words long and it makes me hungry just with the recall.

You probably won't believe me, but I swear it's true: This was my first trip to Epcot's Food and Wine Festival. I may be the only Floridian to ever have written those words in 2009. It is a hopping place and people take their food and wine very seriously. Or at least their wine.

It was absolutely packed on Saturday--the lines for the food stands were decades long and pushing a stroller or seven through the crowds of matching drinking gear T-shirts wasn't exactly a good time for me. Veterans at the party later, which was such a welcome respite from the crowds outside, told me that weekends are usually like that--your best bet is to come during the week. Which is what we'll do if we ever return (sans kids).

But the Party for the Senses was indeed a feast, and I loved every delicious moment of it.

We got home yesterday in time to celebrate the remaining hours of Sean's birthday and the cool weather and gear up for the busy week ahead.

I'm off to the store for that Calvados...

This explains a lot

Hey you...yeah, you over there in the fetal position in the corner after another football game and Columbus Day party. Yeah, move over, but don’t speak too loudly or she’ll hear us and I could really use a break.

Who? October, silly. The Calendar Party Girl. The cute one who looks to her right at September with its Back to School buzz kill and to the left at solemn November Black Friday and Election Day and determined frivolity is all up to her during autumn. She makes sure that all parties, school events, weddings, festivals, birthdays, tailgating and general fun are planned during her short weeks.

She stocks her crib with lots of food, drink and Fun Size Snickers so you can't possibly refuse her generous invitation even though you know you'll regret it later. There's no cover, but you'll pay the price of admission ten times over as you try to squeeze everything in.

She's the kind of roommate that plays the Black Eyed Peas too loud when you're trying to study or hides your shoes to make you late for work. She plays hooky and forges notes to the teacher. She's forever ordering the “final final.”

Oh, look who the black cat dragged in. Another late night I see, October.

We are half-way through this festive month, and I just wanted to let you know that I'm on to you, October. You may be dressed in that ridiculous Farrah Fawcett costume (that I stayed up late one night to make, I'll remind you) but I see right through you.

Don't look at me like that.

Yes, it would be fun just to stop by that Halloween party dressed up as Jon and Kate, but I don't have time to shop for an Ed Hardy T-shirt and a wig. We've got a book report due, remember?

No, we can't watch Charlie Brown in the car on the way and write something up in the morning, there's a rubric involved.

Of course a pumpkirazzi would be funny, but that would take hours to carve and we should have a nice healthy dinner and go to bed early tonight.

What? I don't think bobbing for apples counts as a serving of fruit. Neither does Tropical Skittles so don't even ask.

Seriously, we should really clean something and get a good night's sleep.

I know you could clean my clock in pumpkin corn hole, but I'm not playing tonight.

You're so 2000 and late.

You seriously need to step away from the World Series watch parties and run some bases around the gym. An imported beer belly is not any more sophisticated than a domestic one.

That is the sound of me putting my foot down, not a lead-off to a polka--you’re going to have to go to that Oktoberfest without me.

Is she gone?

Not yet? That’s right, it’s only the 15th. Unfortunately she doesn’t turn into a pumpkin until the 31st.

Yeah, fine. I’m coming. One refrain of “Monster Mash” and we’re out of there. I swear.

It’s no wonder why we’re so thankful in November...

Quasi-Friday

Maybe I just needed a quasi-festival to get me out of my quasi-funk.

Last night we headed down to our town's Okctofest--which was neither fest nor October themed. Under a 95 degree blanket, we walked past the kiosks of Italian Ice and Empanadas and quickly realized that we were not going to get the Brats and beer that we craved, so we all decided to walk down to a restaurant instead.

Our original table of 14 quickly doubled with other friends who completed their festival tour in 4.2 minutes, and pretty soon we had half of the outdoor restaurant in our pod.

We sat in front of a quasi-band that played their karaoke too loudly, but J. and J. got on the dance floor and quickly drew a crowd of cell phone camera paparazzi with their little toe heads bopping to "Dancing Queen." One woman asked if they were twins, then if they were brother and sister, and finally when she looked at me asked if they were adopted.

Dude, it's blond hair not a Roswell discovery. Is it that much of a stretch that I could have given birth to her? I don't think so...

Anyway, it was fun despite not having any of my fall-related cravings satiated and my maternity questioned.

Tonight we're off to a wedding after sports, and this morning the paper printed my swine flu tips because when our community faces a pandemic, it is Suburban Diva to whom the city looks to for quasi-guidance.

Experiment over

This telepathic blogging isn't as effective as the old way.

I'll probably go back to writing it down tomorrow.

A story problem

Question: If there are three confirmed swine flu cases at your elementary school and you have three kids enrolled in grades K-8 and at least two are running fevers at 100.1 or above, what is the total number of minutes your family will be in school next week?

Answer: 2.3 minutes. (But I will accept the 12 minutes of whining in carline before we turn around and come home tomorrow morning.)

Extra credit: How much money will I spend on Kleenex, hand sanitizer and doctor's office copays over the next 3 days?

(Hint: anything under $17,000 is wrong.)

Well hello, blog.

It's been a little tough to be funny this week.

Not that there has been any earth-shattering disasters, it's just the everyday stuff that normally makes me laugh, hasn't.

Perhaps it's that the sense of humor is located in the sinus cavity, and everyone around here has theirs infected. Doctor visits, Nyquil and hand washing doesn't exactly tickle anyone's funny bone. Or at least not mine.

Usually when I have trouble finding humor at home, I can always find some at work. Or in the assignments I get. This week, I wrote about swine flu. Instead of surfing the Net for preschool pasties, I spent hours on the CDC website. Not exactly a knee-slapper.

The words left over at the end of these tough days ended up fixing a broken heart or writing emails for one of the many crazy events October brings. Or being sunk into the dangerously close end of the first draft of the novel.

Oh yeah, the novel.

I'm serious when I say the end is near. Very near. And the gift I'm giving myself this month (and my family which has to live with me as I pen this) is a completed first draft. It's time.

So this Sunday's dinner menu will be a little less-ambitious, and I'm going to get a haircut this morning hoping to take a few inches of weight from shoulders to make room for something else.

Or at least I can write hair jokes about myself.

I think they grow weary of my art

Somehow, the "Oh, great," Sean muttered under his breath when I announced I was making homemade sausage for tomorrow's Oktoberfest seemed a little less than sincere.

It could happen

Our writer's group hasn't met since early last spring, so at our reunion meeting this morning I am hoping my last 20,000 words will magically appear in the foam of my skinny vanilla latte.

P.S.

Here's that link to my Kouzzina by Cat Cora post on Whoa Momma.

Whatever it's called is not helping

Well, that actually lasted much longer than I thought.

The first day of fall coincidentally marks our first Sick Day.

I might have thought A-Dog was faking it, but I, too, woke up feeling like I’d swallowed a sea urchin during the night, so I let her go back to bed.

Sean keeps pushing the Eukanaba (or whatever it’s called) on me saying it boosts the immune system or something.

It is now Day 2 of this horrendous head cold lodged where my tonsils used to be, and I feel worse than ever.

I think this Euthanasia (or whatever it’s called) is just Spanish Fly for Strep.

Me and my friend Cat were doing shots of ouzo together...

I wrote about the actual restaurant, "Kouzzina by Cat Cora" over on Whoa Momma, but for my friends, I wanted to tell you about the experience of meeting her yesterday.

First off, you know how much I love food. Eating it, making it, watching it, talking about it. So when I got the invitation for this about a month ago, there was absolutely no way I was going to miss it. No. Way.

But I had absolutely no idea what to expect. The restaurant soft-opened in August, but this was a special Grand Opening event. All the invitation gave was a date and time and that a special "tasting menu" would be served. In my head, I set the bar for "tasting" to mean either supermarket samples in paper cups or if I really reached, waiters walking around with small portions of miscellaneous food to serve the perhaps thousands in attendence.

Oh no, my friends. Oh no.

There were 8 tables of 8, with one of those reserved for Cora and her immediate family. So by my twisted math, I figured I was one of Cat's 64 best friends. And please don't correct me because it's better if you leave me to my delusions.

There was assigned seating, and the tables were set beautifully with 3 glasses of wine, a shot of ouzo and Pellegrino in front of every chair. There were about 3 waitstaff per diner, and the same for chefs in the kitchen.


We sat down and were greeted by the President of Disney--ah hello--who introduced Cat Cora who might be the only adult woman under the age of 109 shorter than me. (She stood on a box to address us.) There are cameras set up along the entire perimeter, and I just know I'm going to be re-living this moment on a Food Network special soon. She gave her very nice opening remarks, juggling her son on her hip like every other mother I know, then instructed the guests to share a shot of ouzo with her, as she likes to do. It is also her custom to do this after an Iron Chef battle, so then my delusion builds, and I think this must make me an honorary Iron Chef. Or not.

And then they start bringing out the food. Either Cat,(cause BFF's call each other by their first names) her head chef, or her mother, each introduce a dish and give the history behind it. And they are not miniscule portions in sample cups. Nope, 12 courses of the most delicious and full, Mediterranean-inspired plates of flavor you've ever seen, paired with wines from her own winery label, "Coronation."



Cat starts making the rounds and personally speaks to every single person in the restaurant. Graciously posing for pictures, answering questions, smiling...and then her mother comes around and does the same. When Cat comes to me, I think I just sputtered out some unintelligible garlic-scented drivel since I had just tried the Chilled Salt-roasted Beets with Skordalia which I think translates to "big pillow o' yummy garlic." I am a little star-struck. I admit this freely. I kick myself for not asking for a photo.

So we proceed like this for a couple of hours, dish after dish, until our limbs have petrifield into bubbling souflee cups. But I seriously don't want to leave. I feel like I should help with the dishes or something.

Because it really was that intimate. It shouldn't have been--who am I to be treated to something the exectuive chef of Bon Appetit is preparing? (Did I mention I have every single issue of that magazine since 1994? Seriously, ask Lisa.)

But I was, and that's how it felt--being treated like I was a guest in her home--a great big, well-staffed home--but a home nonetheless. And as I looked around the room, I realize I'm glad that I am star-struck. I am glad that I eat everything placed in front of me--not that anything is a stretch except for the Brussel Sprouts because I really, really, really hate Brussel Sprouts--and allow myself to enjoy the gift I was given as my hostess intended. I am glad that I can be appreciative of every single bite whether it was something I was familiar with or not.

On the way out, I get up the nerve to say "Thank you," to her as she's cutting up dessert for one of her four sons. She smiles, I know she's got hours of interviews ahead of her, and thanks ME for coming which I almost have to laugh out loud at the lop-sided absurdity of it.

But I don't.



Instead, we pose for a picture together and I try to absorb all of the sights, sounds, tastes and scents of a memorable afternoon.

Even the Brussel Sprouts.





We start with Greek salad but it's made with arugula--a much better choice for a Mediterrean salad than wet iceberg lettuce if you ask me. It had a lovely oregano vinegarette, and tomatoes that are actually grown on property.



Spanakopita. Deliriously good Spanakopita.



Pastitsio, a Greek lasagna, but this one has this cinnamon-stewed meat sauce, Bucatini pasta and a Bechamel. I am still full.




these are the salt-roasted beets. I didn't even know I liked beets, but hello? Seriously good stuff, and so pretty...



Traditional Gigantes beans--Cat's mom taught us how to pronounce it, but I can't remember.



Here's the Fisherman's Stew--scallops, red snapper, mussels, fennel, sea goodness.



This is the oak-grilled Lamb burger. If there was anything on the menu that I couldn't finish, it was unfortuantely this because it was just too spicy for me. Which made me really sad, because I love lamb, and the homemade roll and tsizki sauce were lucious.



And finally, dessert. Or should I say, desserts? Chocolate Budino cake (molten), Baklava, and Greek-style yogurt sorbet with fresh berries in that little jar in simple syrup. We were also served a Frappe that was a deleicious ending.

Maybe they should issue a membership card like Costco

The only analogy I can come up with is that guy at the grocery store.

Now before my husband busts me for making such a sweeping generalization--he who buys 2 oz bottles of Coca-Cola in collector miniature bottles for $27 per 4-pack--not all men, just the one with that deer in the headlights look that accompanies a trip to Publix on Saturday afternoon when he's caught in the headlights of oncoming grocery carts filled with BOGO's driven by professional shoppers with photographic memories of Sunday circulars and unexpired coupons while all he wanted to pick up was a case of Miller Lite and toilet paper.

Dude, I've been there.

Today, at Michael's.

I know, I don't belong there, and I apologize right now for attempting to crash the club at 10 am on a Tuesday morning when that time slot is clearly reserved for the professional crafters among us--of which, I am not.

I think they set up that store to purposely confuse the uninvited. I don't understand the subtleties of paint--why can't all of the paint be in one aisle instead of divided into fabric paint, wood paint, craft paint, spray paint, kid paint, floral paint and really expensive, If-You-Have-To-Ask-What's-It-For-you- shouldn't-be-using-it-paint. I need to paint a pumpkin but I see no aisle designating that. Oh, and by the way, I need 23 more of those pumpkins in the exact same size and I can only fit 1 and half in this miniature cart you've supplied.

I manage to get 20 of the pumpkins in three carts, and a smattering of other supplies when I go to check out. The looks from the line--which is inexplicably long for a Tuesday morning--were sinister. Hatred spewing from their eyes as I wheeled my Jack o' lantern caravan through. The cashier has me bagging the pumpkins, which doesn't make it easier because less pumpkins can fit into the cheap plastic bags than the cart designed for hobbits.

But no one will help you.

And it's not like it's even the service hell that is Joanne's because at least they sell fabric that needs to be cut and so the bolts of seersucker and gingham get the lion's share of personnel.

But anyway, the old ladies behind me are guffawing, which flusters me to no end. Guffaws are my Achilles' heels. I don't know why, it's stupid and rather immature, but I really can't take guffaws from old women. Combine that horrendous chin music with the ridiculous awkwardness of 10 inch craft pumpkins precariously balanced and Jessie grabbing chocolate from the cash wrap, that needless to say, I forgot the tax exempt number I was supposed to use as well as the two coupons that I had managed to garner the foresight to cut on Sunday.

I'm sure you can't tell, but the whole experience--which isn't even over yet because in addition to having to get 4 more pumpkins, you know that the paint I bought is probably Vaseline-based and is going to right slide off of those suckers into a pool of black and orange despair--has me once again wondering why I do these things to myself.

And really, the paint will be the least of my problems because you know this pumpkin is never going to look as cute and clever as the one I've designed in my mind.

No, it's going to look like that guy at the grocery store tried to use a glue gun and popcicle sticks after that case of Miller Lite.

Guffaw.

Did I mention I love stuffed grape leaves?

Either the culinary gods are applauding my efforts of late, or they are completely disgusted and want to show me how real chefs cook.

I'm okay with either one of those reasons.

Because on Thursday, I get to meet Cat Cora of Iron Chef and general culinary brilliance fame.

I get to meet her, and taste some of her new dishes she's whipping up for a new restaurant in Disney, "Kouzzima." And I am so excited I've started fasting right now.

So fellow foodies, don't hate me because I'm about to eat beautifully. I will check on doggie bags...

Friday goodness

I think I may just have turned down some alternate path in the universe--I am actually looking forward to going to the gym this morning because it makes me feel good. That's equivalent to saying I prefer a bowl of some foreign-sounding cereal in an unbleached cardboard box to eating Trix by the handful.

Anyway, here is all the Friday news that's worth mentioning before I continue acting like a grown-up.

The Walt Disney World Moms Panel is selecting its 2010 panelists. Please enter here if you are interested.


I put a new column up at Suburbandiva.com.Are you a subscriber? You are missing out on all of my giveaways and new content if not.

Have a nice weekend.

I'll spare you the trouble of sending me hate mail

I've been around long enough to know that the below blog that was posted this morning on Whoa Momma will elicit hateful comments from one of the following themes from anonymous posters all of which have absolutely nothing to do with what I wrote, but via bad spelling and grammar I will be yelled at for one or more of the following:

a)How could I dress my child in such clothing. (I didn't and would never)

b)How dare I bash strippers.

c)Michelle Obama.

d)Remonstration from the Women's Movement.

e)Remonstration from the pedophiles.

f)Remonstration from the art community.

g)Remonstration from Great Britain.

Should be a fun day.




We must put an end to sexy clothes for children! Sing it, Sister!

Young girls are constantly inundated with social messages that concentrate too much on their looks! Preach on!

Let’s combat this social injustice by putting our infants in nipple-tasseled onesies! Ame--WTH?

Clothing designer Suzi Warren said in a recent Aol Parent Dish article that her nipple-tassel shirts and "C is for Condom" tees are actually a protest against sexually inappropriate clothing for children. "There is nothing very sexy about a baggy, lap neck, long sleeved t- shirt for a 6-month-old. So by embellishing this style of garment with printed nipple tassels, the result is not that the baby becomes sexualized by the tassels, but that the tassels are made benign and silly by the baby. In fact the more inert, innocent and unaware the infant is, the more ludicrous the contrast becomes."

Um, ok?

"The trap set to ensnare girls into a life-time of preoccupation with their looks is a subtle one. My garments are not part of this trap because they are about a subtle as a blinking brick and are aimed at parents of children too young to read or speak.”

I am all for a revolt on the short shorts and tube tops for preschoolers, but I’m not quite sure if putting my infant in nipple tassels is the most effective way to show my support for this particular protest. I realize real change has to start somewhere, but I’m not sure birth is the place to announce, "I’ve Done F**k All Day." While I’m irony’s biggest fan, there’s just too many w’s in the Ewww factor of this fashion statement.

Which is considerably better than too many X’s, because X is for X-rated.

An album

I have to admit that sometimes I forget.

I don't know why I do, it makes perfect sense, but it still knocks me over every single time it happens anyway.

I forget that all photographic record of my mother doesn't start and end with the few photos that we have in our possession. There are others out there--other friends and family have pictures of her throughout the years that I've never seen before, and they surface like lost treasure upon a shore. I open them up and I am once again floored by her brief presence here, and I just want more.

Tonight, my Uncle shared some photo scans from 1963-75.



This one is probably 1971 and it's my Mom, my Grandmother, Aunt Edna, Aunt Marge and Aunt Karen. Beautiful, smart and very funny women all getting their Juleps on in the backyard.



That's Mom and Edna and Grandmother. They have all passed in the last ten years and that makes me so sad.



And this one just makes me ache.

Sundays are more delicious than Mondays

On this week's episode of Sunday Dinners Gone Wild, I prepared the traditional Labor Day weekend fare: Beef Wellington Aux Duxelles with Bordelaise sauce. Which translated means Beef Wellington with Mushrooms instead of duck pate so you don't gross out your guests, potatoes with creme fraiche, green beans with caramelized shallots (or shallots sauteed really, really long instead "caramelized"), homemade pickled vegetables, salad, bread, birthday cake and panna cotta with sweetened strawberries.

A serious improvement over hamburgers.

I'd be lying if I said I couldn't get used to this type of dining: cooking for two days so as to linger over multiple courses, friends and bottles of wine for three hours. It beats wolfing down a meatloaf in front of the tv. But in addition to raising the bar a bit high so that on a Tuesday night after baseball and homework you can't throw that meatloaf at your gourmands-in-training, my menus do have one serious drawback.

Dishes.

I use every single one when I cook. Ever. Single. One. Even when I run the dishwasher six times before the actual meal to cut down on this droll post-meal chore, I still end up with sinks, counters, floors, tables and couches filled with souffle cups and pickle forks. I cannot seem to streamline the number of last minute serving dishes before serving.

And so Sunday Dinners have now lead to Monday Dishes. Which is not nearly as much fun, but since eating Beef Wellington on paper plates would be a crime against humanity, I guess you know where to find me on Mondays.

(And since I made twelve servings of panna cotta, Tuesdays as well.)


Speaking of food, here's a link to a food-related post in Whoa Momma! today.)

My love/hate/hate relationship with routines

We have just completed our second week of school, and my jury is still out on whether this whole education thing is really working for me.

Kidding. The kids absolutely love it, which is already worth the early days. We're still working out those new routines though, and that's where the transition still has some kinks. There are some new things that are great, but there are some that might drive me to gouge out someone's eyes with a number 2 pencil.

New Routine I Like: Going to the gym in the mornings with Jessie. For one hour, she loves to play with some other precocious 2 year olds and I get to scowl at their thinner, younger mothers on the treadmill.

New Routine I Hate: Jessie waking up at three a.m. asking for popcorn and Yo Gabba Gabba. I dream that Luno is chasing me on Jack Black's talking motorcycle.

NRIL: Having the kids sit down and do their homework at the kitchen table while I cook dinner.

NRIH: The homework part of the above equation.

NRIL: Watching Amy stand and walk a little taller everyday.

NRIH: The fact that Stevie is taller, growing 2 inches last year.

NRIL: Forward momentum on the novel. I see light.

NRIH: Putting some other reading and writing on the back burner for a while until I finish.

NRIL: Picking them up in the afternoon.

NRIH: Dropping them off in the morning.

Once I find the balance between all of those activities, I should be all set.

I figure that should be around April.

Beef Bourguignon. It's what's for dinner.

Butter Croissants

Ingredients:

1 recipe croissant dough(2 3/4 lb), chilled


Special equipment: a ruler, a pastry brush, parchment paper, 2 or 3 garbage bags (unscented), a spray bottle with water


I would add "courtesy of Epicurious.com," but when the only ingredient listed for butter croissants is "1 recipe croissant dough," well, I don't think that's very courteous.

But if you do take yet another click on Epicurious, you will find the actual recipe for croissant dough, and then spend the next 18 hours rolling, buttering, folding, chilling and repeating until the angels come down from heaven and share their lunch with you in the form of the perfect pastry.

The croissant project was part of a larger gourmet dinner menu which featured Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon which I have been craving since reading the book, Julie and Julia. So I whipped up the croissants, beef, noodles, farm salad with goat cheese, baked tomatoes with blue cheese, creme brulee and chocolate souffles.

Of course it was absolutely delicious--if not incredibly time-consuming--but it was also healthy.

But wait, you say. How could anything with that much butter, bacon and wine possibly be healthy?

According to my completely unscientific research and biased opinion, I think there is more to heath food than the Acai berry. For quite some time now, I've been craving food that actually tastes like food, and I think that's where the secret lies. The less processing and more cooking, the better. Less factory machinery, and more kitchen stand mixers. Less cardboard and more Calphalon.

Now granted, I don't think there will be many Tuesday nights in between baseball and homework that I'll be able to prepare recipes that call for use of a ruler and the simmering of lardons, but I will be making more of a concentrated effort of the actual cooking of food.

Or die of heart disease and gout trying.

I don't think it was because I leaned against that flagpole with the wet paint

We may be moving somewhat slower today than previous mornings of this first week of school, but I am high-tailing it to the salon shortly after Pepe le Pew just tried to seduce me with a full dip and something about the Casbah at the French perfume counter.

Let the messy truth be told

After three full days of having no older siblings around to take the rap, I realize now that it is, in fact, all Jessie's fault.

Tears of awe

I present to you the mother cliche of motherhood cliches: I am having a tough time getting through Amy's first day of Kindergarten.

I know, I know. You're thinking as you roll your eyes across the mommy blogoverse, Of course you are--you and everyone else with a URL and an offspring are lamenting over babies growing up so fast...yada, yada, dabba dabba do. What makes you so different?

Nothing, really, but while I of course share that nostalgic element that this historic moment dictates, I don't think that's exactly what has me so melancholy today.

After we dropped A-Dog off wearing her new uniform and a smile, Jess and I headed out to try out some things to add to our own new routine. We went to the gym where I read worked out unenthusistically and J played in the playroom with a couple of other younger siblings. Afterward, we headed over to Fresh Market for some caper berries and fresh fruit for the kids' snacks tomorrow because that seemed like a good thing to do. But as we loaded up the bags of over-priced guilt organics the tears began to come in earnest, and I realized maybe it wasn't sadness or nostalgia or anything like that. It was something different, something familar like when the boys were having their first Kindergarten days, but I couldn't quite name it back then.

I can now.

It's awe.

Pure, quiet awe.

Perhaps it's because of her special childhood and all of the unique obstacles she's overcome so beautifully. Maybe it's because we arrived at this place by such a different path that it feels so strange. Maybe it's because she's my little girl. Or it could be that motherhood feels differently as we age. (I really hope not.)

Maybe all or none of those, but that's kind of the cool thing about awe as opposed to just wonder or amazement.

Awe isn't everyday (or then it would be clueless bewilderment) so when you do feel it, no explanation is needed. You simply drop to your knees by the sheer beauty of it, and accept it as is--no conditions.

I'm not going to overanalyze this moment, feel silly or mislabel it. I am in constant awe of these gifts that I'm lucky to unwrap a little more everyday, and if some moments are more transparent than others to appreciate them, so be it.

Those were not sad tears nor joyful ones.

They were awe-inspired.

Paper, pens, and BLT-Rexes

As reported earlier, we bagged the early Back To School prep and headed over to Orlando instead. Although there is no official commandment regarding coveting thy neighbor's vacation, we were guilty nonetheless when we heard that some friends were staying at the J.W. Marriott. We decided to join them uninvited, because it is the greatest hotel ever.

It was a good call.

We had fun lazing along the lazy river, and then we ate one of the best (and most expensive) dinners I've ever had. It was absolutely divine, and had me Googling "caper berries" this morning as the taste lingered on my tongue. So. Good.

On Sunday, we made our way back home by way of Downtown Disney which is our way of appeasing the kids when we come within 50 yards of the entrance to Magic Kingdom but never make it inside of a park. So they got a souvenir to a place we didn't go, and then we sat down to eat at the T-Rex Cafe or something. It's similar to the Rain Forest Cafe in size, scope and robotic giant things, but the theme is prehistoric. You and your party of seven get to journey back to a simpler time when man and dinosaur could share a quesadilla in peace before the next meteor crashed into the planet.

Jessie was not at all impressed by the entire display. It was the first time I've ever witnessed that child intimidated by anything, and I'm tempted to install a rbo-tronic woolly mammoth in front of the pantry if it will keep her from dumping boxes of rice onto the carpet every freaking day. But she still managed to wolf down some macaroni-saurus before we got back into the car.

Today I've paid for our a weekend with some last minute scrambling, but that's just okay. They've all got a clean uniform or two and 2 out of the three new backpacks arrived, so we'll be set tomorrow.

The weekend also provided me a 48-hour reprieve from thinking about Amy going to Kindergarten, so that was a bonus, too.

(How on earth is Amy going to Kindergarten tomorrow?)

We should be, but we're not

On the eve of this last weekend before school starts, we should be doing a lot of things.

We should be cleaning something.

We should be washing uniforms.

We should be labeling school supplies and new backpacks.

We should be stocking the pantry with healthy snacks in lunchbox sizes.

We should be going to bed early to get used to the new schedule.

We should be doing a lot of things.

But this is also the last weekend that we don't have any have-to's. And I have a feeling that it will be a quite while before we can declare that again.

So we're bagging all of the shoulds and spending the poolside relaxing together just because we can.

Can I have some lingonberries with that rug?

Tonight I shed a little of my sub- and got urban when I visted IKEA for the first time.

It was so...so...unassembled.

Which is cool, and fun, and so very eat your chinese straight out of a box with chopsticks-esque. I bought a little couch thing for Stevie's room and some colored pencils, a cutting board and Swedish meatballs. I probably could have picked up a lot more, but it was so overwhelming and I felt so naively unprepared for the experience that is IKEA..

And I realized as I was going up and down the eleventy hundred aisles of mattresses 3centimeters (remember, it's a European store) from the floor, that I like box springs and prefer my egg foo young on a plate with matching flatware.

The beginning of the end

Well that was fun. Celebrated a friend's birthday last night by mopping up the dance floor with some little 20-somethings' bad hair extensions. Apparently, this particular group of shebeasts were as immature as their livers and credit scores and thought they could take over our parquet. Ha! Don't mess with us on a milestone birthday celebration in which babysitters are being paid and there is cake involved. We will eat you alive, beyotches.

*I needed to get that lame attempt at being a hipster out of the way, because this is the week I fall back into full-throttle Mommy mode as the last full week before school starts. There are supplies and uniforms to procure. There are lunchboxes to get. There are doctors and dentists and shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. We haven't worn shoes or socks since May.

And it is also the week that I turn into the raving Nighttime witch as I try and fail to get them all regulated on some sort of bedtime/wake up ritual which is just so hard to do in the middle of August when it's 96 degrees outside and all summer long I've allowed them to go to sleep when it's dark and wake up when it's light.

How are we doing so far? It's 11:40 and we're having a sleepover and everyone is still awake. I'd better go cackle them a lullaby.

We put our names on the straws...

Everyone should have friends that define "having a cocktail together" as this:



Especially when the cocktail is served at 12:30 on a Thursday afternoon.

Day 17

There wasn’t supposed to be a Day 17, but we’re still 600 miles from home so there may just be 18, 19, and 20.

But at least I have time to reflect.

If I had an anti-bucket list--those things in my life I’ve done but wouldn’t repeat on a dare--several items would be from this trip. For instance, I don’t think you could pay me to take a 31’ camper on the Cross Bronx Expressway again. Some of my sense of humor flew off from a massive pothole and was hit by oncoming traffic and then unceremoniously flipped off while other angry drivers urinated on it from the Throgs Neck Bridge.

I also will never believe that “clean, modern shower facilities” are defined universally. After one “shower” upon a 50 year old peeling linoleum basin with a faucet pulled on by a rotting tow rope that trickled cold run-off from the dumping station, I told my husband not only not to bother bathing there, but please don’t even go near the bathrooms because if he saw what I had just done he’d think less of me as a person.

And while I know you’re expecting the next item on the list to read “Never step foot into an R.V. again,” well, it’s not. Despite all of our mechanical foibles, I still would love to take this trip again someday. When things were working properly, we really had a great time.

Sure, I’d do some things differently--probably pack more clothes, extra road flares and brush up on the inner workings of fuel pumps--but it wasn’t a total loss. The food poisoning went away after 18 hours and the rental company reimbursed us for all the lost days and hotel rooms without too much protest.

But camping along the Long Island Sound and star-gazing with my kids was something not to be missed. The playing with fireflies and nightly campfire talks were precious. And even watching my kids remain calm and flexible during adversity was surprisingly meaningful. It turns out, they are pretty wonderful people who never complain and can make me laugh even in the most unfunny moments. And while I’m sorry that more of those funny moments didn’t occur at scenic campsites in the wilderness instead of various Fairfield Inns across the south, well, there are many worse things.

And so while it certainly won’t be in this particular make and model (one that I think should be put out of its misery and ours) I will bet that our family will opt for the Holiday Rambler over the Holiday Inn next time.

I leave you with some vacation photos:




"Hey kids! Welcome to your first night of camping! You're all up to date on your tentus shots, right?"




This was the shot I was sure I was going to have to turn over to the police as evidence when they asked where was the last time we saw Stevie...



Why is there no pre-printed page for Baby's First Junkyard Day in the babybook?

Send wine

The complete wrap-up post is coming--just as soon as I get over my considerable state of WTF-ness.

Day 314 or something

I’m not exactly sure what day this is, but I’m pretty sure it’s the one that I have stopped making sense and have lost all perspective. In the “I shiz you not” category, we have broken down once again.

This time, we are outside Charlotte, North Carolina and I’ve grown weary of this particular routine. This mechanic’s name is Hal, and he has had many past experiences with RV’s. In fact, he told my husband that he doesn’t go into the actual camper anymore because so many of them “are just rolling brothels.”

Really?

Actually, that makes a lot of sense because I feel like I’m getting screwed every time I get into this one.

Day 7-11

After spending several nights visiting family at a beautiful campsite on Long Island’s north shore, we find ourselves in Hershey, Pennsylvania. This was not on our original itinerary, but not much of this trip has so we’re even. But after telling the kids we were going to spend the day at a chocolate-themed amusement park and not staring at stale vending machine candy bars in a mechanic’s waiting room, the look of sheer joy that returned to their faces was well worth the detour. (Although I still think the greatest thrill rides of the trip were in various tow trucks across the southern United States.)



That is not to say that Hershey doesn’t come with its own set of quirky happenstances that are contributing to my exhaustive camping education.

For instance, I can probably trace back the origin of the Reese’s cup right from this very campground. The campsites are so painfully close together that I bet someone’s chocolate got into a neighbor’s peanut butter during just a stiff wind. (Look for a toasted marshmallow/grilled hot dog confection from Hershey’s very soon.)

I also can assure you first-hand that the cocoa beans in Hershey products are of the freshest variety. I know this because the freight train that carries them passes within 50 feet of our camper several times a night between the hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. It sounds like a freight train coming within 50 feet of our camper several times night between the hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m.

Day 6ish

Day 6:

We have meandered our way across Ohio and New York by way of Cooperstown--or as I like to refer to it, YouCan’tParkThatBigPooperstowninCooperstown. And now that our home is actually mobile, I have to say that traveling this way with four kids has its advantages.

A road trip of this magnitude in a mere sedan wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable nor as much fun. While the miles fly by outside, we can eat, play games, watch movies and even change diapers without several stops and ecoli exposure in gas station restrooms. Naps need not be vertical, and meals can come from a kitchen rather than a grease-stained paper bag. It’s kind of nice to make a peanut butter sandwich and a plate of fruit for lunch rather than trying to clear a McDonald’s drive thru.

In fact, dining on this trip has been one of the highlights. We have eaten like kings (monarchs with a penchant for marshmallows) and it’s been delicious. We’ve grilled outside most nights, and whenever possible we’ve stopped at local farm stands so everything is fresh and tasty. I found some interesting recipes on camprecipes.com which for the most part worked out well. The refrigerator and freezer are surprisingly generous, so we were able to plan and shop for a lot of meals in advance.

so with the exceptions of a particularly charred pot roast in the maiden voyage of a cast iron dutch oven and the Aldosta-vay Ouper-gray, meals on the road have been relatively happy.

Oh yeah, I remember now, this is supposed to be camping

On the fifth day of our camping vacation, we camp.

After five days on the road, we have finally made it to our first campground in central Ohio, and I am pretty overjoyed at this accomplishment. I am so ecstatic not to be spending another night in an unscheduled roadside motel that I will overlook the rather subpar accommodations.

In fact, I will refrain from pointing out that this particular park looks nothing like their scenic website--I will instead assume that they were just overly-generous or completely blind.

Because right at this very moment, it doesn’t matter. There is a campfire burning, and the kids are chasing fireflies. We have feasted on grilled chicken and hot dogs. The air is cool and faintly smoky--and not from the hood of the R.V. I am surrounded by family and not mechanics with nicknames that refer not to their mechanical prowess, but their acting abilities.

Pass me a marshmallow.

And it gets even better

For Days 3 and 4, please re-read Day 2, only replace “Corbin, Kentucky” with all Valdosta references, add a second tow truck, a harrowing all-night wait for said tow truck off the side of the road, and another couple of hundred bucks in lost campground deposits.

And please allow me to re-introduce a new recurring character on our show: the Valdosta Holiday Inn Grouper. He will now play the part of the bane of my existence--a role previously played by a cantankerous Ford fuel pump.

Day 2 of our "vacation"

I can’t describe Day 2 to you for the following reasons:

1.) You wouldn’t be able to understand a single word. I would have to write nonsensical phrases like, “This car has fleas,” “Watch the baby while she plays in the junkyard,” and who can forget the classic, “I hope the D.O.T. don’t [sic] have a roadblock set up or your son might have to spend the night in a rural Georgia jail.”

2.) It would be an illogical ordering of random words that would frustrate and confound you and leave you wondering just what in the hell happened on that desolate South Georgia interstate that caused this once semi-normal family to die a little inside.

3.) It would be littered with cursing. Really bad words you shouldn’t repeat without an air horn censor nearby.

4.) There were many, many laws broken--not only a myriad of state, Federal and local, but also physical. And while we escaped “dem smokies,” I don’t know the statute of limitations for any of those violations, or whether pleading “Guilty by reason of R.V.ing” is a legal defense recognized in a court of law. (Although no jury would convict us under the circumstances.)

5.) You would have to spit at least 6 or seven times. Why? I have no idea, but all day everyone expectorated liberally around me, and frankly, it was disgusting and I’d rather not go through that again.

No, it is best if we put Day 2 to bed in that same Valdosta Holiday Inn where we started after a nice steak dinner and a trip to Wal-Mart in a 1981 Buick LaSabre with no interior upholstery, a gnat infestation, no working headlights and that vaguely smells of a cocktail of motor oil, feet, and broken dreams.

Cross-posted on Whoa Momma

Vacation?

I apologize for the delay, but I do believe forgiveness will be forthcoming when you read of our adventures over the next several days...


The first night of our “camping” trip ends at a Holiday Inn in Valdosta, Georgia, not at the beautiful and scenic Stone Mountain campground under the watchful eyes of rebel soldiers etched in stone as according to our original plan.

Why this horrendous detour?

Well, it seems in all of my meticulous planning of clothing, equipment, meals, campgrounds and mosquito repellent for this two week, 3000 mile road trip for 6, I failed to factor in a broken fuel pump and 2 flat tires 250 miles in.

We rented this recreational vehicle--which so far has proven to be more miscreational than anything else--and so I left certain maintenance issues up to that particular firm which collected the fee. I did not expect to do much else than fill the tank up with gas, and empty other tanks of, well, gas, of which we have already done several times. So first day tune-ups were not on our travel agenda.

Our mechanic, “Hollywood,” lives here in Valdosta, but is originally from Portland, Oregon. Ironically, his illogical nickname is quite appropriate since I feel as though we are stuck in some 2000 and late version of a Michael J. Fox movie and the only way we are escaping this fresh hell is to perform medical feats on the residents of this southern town before they fix our motorhome and allow us to continue on our journey.

But our first medical miracle may be reserved for one of our own, as my son just ordered a blackened grouper sandwich from a Holiday Inn in Valdosta, Georgia.

Cross-posted at Whoa Momma.

Not exactly sticking to the itinerary

No, I haven't forgotten you, nor have we fallen from the planet--although we are orbiting around aliens at the moment here in South Georgia.

No, every detail of this is being recorded and will be chronicled beginning Monday here and over on Whoa Momma.

It promises to be just exactly how you'd expect this vacation to be, only with more screenplay opportunities.

Maybe BlogHer '10 can be in Clearwater?

Well, tomorrow every female in the blogoverse heads to Chicago for BlogHer, and I will be heading, well, not to Chicago for BlogHer.

So I'm thinking while everyone else is partying like blog stars, the three of us left on the Interweb should do fun things while they're all not looking. I don't exactly know what that is yet, but you can bet it's gonna use a whole lot bandwidth just because we can.

In other news, Cousin Eddie fixed the A/C problem in the R.V. so "camping" can commence soon.

So stay tuned--both of you.

Blog school 101

On the first day of blog school they teach you a lesson in blog physics: if you write about avoiding the ER one day, you have exactly 3.2 hours before you will return to it in some form or kid or another. It's punishment for not observing some sort of knocking on wood or passing on a chain email ritual.

And so yesterday, it was Stevie who made a visit to our familiar ER docs with a foot injury that occurred on the beach.

Yes, that is quite a familiar refrain around my house. Stevie limped in with Sean and the insurance card limping behind him, and then had three rocks extracted from his big toe and his considerable wound cleaned, treated and bandaged. It was pretty bad. They gave him some heavy antibiotics too since he cut it on a paddleboat in some gross resort water. Ew.

He's resting it and we're watching it while we continue trip preparations.

And as soon as I finish the laundry I'm sending you all an ancient Irish angel prayer and re-enrolling in blog school.

You can, in fact, pick your daughter's nose

You were no doubt thinking that things were a little too quiet around here, medically speaking.

Well, you probably weren't, but now that I brought it up it has occurred to you that no one has made a trip to the ER in a while.

We almost set the "25 days accident-free" calendar back yesterday when Jesso decided to spice things up a bit.

Taking a cue from her older sister who stuck a red hot up her nose a couple of years ago and sneezed cinnamon for a few days afterward, Jess stuck a plastic bead up there.

Running over a little teary, she said, "Ma, Ma...nose." I couldn't see anything at first, but with a shine of the flashlight saw the little white bead perched high up into her nasal cavity. (And if that didn't clue me in, the evidence was in a craft bag opened up on my desk where she was sitting.)

I tried to work it out, yes, that way, but her nostrils are too small and my fingers too big. I thought maybe I could grab it with a pair of tweezers, but she was thrashing around too much and I thought I might pluck her cerebellum. So I let out a huge heaving sigh, and packed everyone up to go to the ER.

Actually, I had to pick up a couple from down the road so that they could watch the other 2 while I went holding just one crying baby instead of four. I made the exchange and carried on the way.

At the traffic light, I was considering ER, pediatrician's office or StatMed--each of which have their own appeal--when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a little band of white perched close to the end of her nostril. I calmly pulled over to a parking lot (proud that I didn't just turn backwards while holding my foot on the brake like I normally do, aren't you?) and worked my mommy magic on that bead, so it came out in a rather disgustingly-coated nugget in my trembling hand.

And you know what that little cherub said?

"Tanks Ma for helping my nose."

No, thank you Jess, for saving me a $50 co-pay and another entry in the bad mommy file.

I want my money and my split ends back

Sean just walked outside and said, "What smells like old lady?"

Then he said, "Oh, your hair looks nice, did you just get back from the salon?"

At least that's what I thought he said before I ran inside and stopped payment on the salon check and ran the water in the bathtub to drown myself in a shampoo cocktail of Finesse and Fabreeze.

I use the terms, "Date" and "Night" loosely here

Man, do I hate nights like yesterday's.

I don't normally have a problem sleeping--I have trouble staying awake. But last night I was up until 4:45 tossing and turning and watching horrible movies on HBO. (Casino, Michael and Smokey and the Bandit, which the baffling combination of the those three titles alone are enough to give anyone nightmares) and so today I am suffering from one of those lack of sleep headaches that makes my entire head pull to the left--presumably in search of a pillow--but I'm no doctor.

But there's work to be done, so I fight through the haze to take A-Dog to speech and then write pathetic prose before the last errand/date night before the trip. But I'm dragging.

I hope my sleeplessness has nothing to do with the fact that tonight's date night will be the first in over a year that we'll get a table for two since the Intern has quasi-officially moved out.

Luckily, much of his crap is still here to keep me company, though.

Love you, D.

If you've seenchapters 18-23, please send

I've spent the better part of the last 24 hours re-mourning my lost chapters.

Yesterday afternoon the Apple store called well ahead of their repair deadline to tell me that the MacBook had been freed of its Gatorade death shroud and was now working at 100%. They had restored the restorable and I could pick up my new, old, dry computer. I was very excited because not only was I finally getting back, but back well in time to take on the trip.

Yay, right?

Almost. It seems everything was restored EXCEPT the actual new document I was working on when the spillage occurred. Which just happened to be all of the new chapters. The rest of novel had been restored--but I had all of that backed-up and stored in like thirty different places. The new stuff inspired by my Palm Island sun? Nope. That is gone. Forevah.

So I've started recreating that part of the book with lackluster passion. I guess it's good that the hard part of actually coming up with the story parts is done, but trying to piece it all back together from memory just plain sucks and makes me grouchy. But I will finish this this summer if it kills me.

Which judging from our fated progress so far, just might.

Suburban Diva in rhinestones is the new black

After years of requests from Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein and Tim Gunn, I've finally embarked upon my new empire: Suburban Diva fashion.

Modeling the first SD couture in a dazzling rhinestone-laden top in ebony, is the lovely A-Dog, Suburban Divette.



This unique garment is also available in fuschia.



For anyone interested in wearing me across their breast, please email me for available colors and sizes, and I'll be happy to ship you one ASAP. More will be available soon from the talented women at the All About Me Company which I highly recommend for all of your gift-giving needs. (Remember to mention "DIVA" at checkout and you get 10% off of your order....)

The pictures from my iPhone do not properly capture the sparkle power nor the Samantha Stevens-esque quality of these fun shirts--a perfect gift for any diva in your life.

And it just makes me smile.

Whoa Momma needs summer camp feedback

(Cross-posted from Whoa Momma!)

I did laundry every day last week when my older son was at the Boyd Hill Nature Preserve Pioneer Camp. If you are familiar with it, the kids who attend the camp are generally dirty every day and then get hosed down at the end of the day. So every day he was soaking wet after playing in the mud, getting in the line of fire of squish (it's rotten food than is basically squished by a sledgehammer) or going through the pudding gauntlet. It used to be the pudding pole but the gauntlet is fun too, only maybe dirtier.

And even though I was tired of the daily laundry routine by the end of the week, for the third year in a row my son was as happy as a clam. He couldn't wait to get there every day and when my husband picked him up, he couldn't wait to talk about the expolits, whether he worked in leather, made a shelter with a team of kids or learned a new joke or riddle. If I had some stock in Tide, I would probably send him every week each summer.

So, now we want to hear from you. A few weeks before school ended, Go Momma ran an extensive list of bay area summer camps. But that's only part of the information we want to give you. We want to be able to share what other parents and kids thought about the camps. We want you to tell us about your child's summer camp experience. Did she love it so much she can't wait to get back next year or next week? Or would she rather stay home alone than go one more day? Do your feel like you are getting your money's worth or will you look elsewhere next time? Does it offer extra care or are you out of luck when noon hits? We want to know everything, so Mommas and Poppas, please fill out this questionnaire on your child's camp experience and let us know what you think. Once we have gathered your tales from summer camp, we will share them with readers in the coming weeks.

Thanks in advance for your help. Here's to lots of laundry in your future.

-- Sherry Robinson

*Please leave your thoughts here.

Blinded by the blinds

Not all of my adventures in domesticity earn accolades. Sure, there's the occasional wine rep that wants me to moonlight as a caterer, (yes, flattery will work on me and I'll buy more wine) but there are many, many, many other domestic failures that keep me humbled.

A few months ago at a party, we locked Jingle in our room so she wouldn't molest the guests as they entered the house. She found this imprisonment rather offensive, and proceeded to eat the wood slat blinds that adorn the french door to our bedroom so she could see the festivities outside. Months later, not only was half of the door exposed, but we still had a dog that defecated plantation shutters.

Being the kind of girl that knows this will only happen again and again, instead of replacing the broken blinds with future broken blinds, I spent a ridiculous sum on custom Roman shades from a popular fabric chain. I don't want to drop any names here, but it rhymes with "Balico Forners."

Anyhoo, after spending that ridiculous sum, ordering when on sale and then selecting from every thread, size, fixture and grommet option ever conceived, I waited three months and finally received my shades.

Ahem.

The only thing resembling "Roman" or "shade" is that they look like someone ripped off their toga after a drunken frat party and tacked them to my bedroom door. They are sloppy, unfinished and completely impractical. And the worst part is they are custom, so not only did I pay handsomely for the not-handsome window treatments, it means I'm stuck with them until I can find a naked gladiator that wants to look like a sofa.

So luckily for the world, I'm done decorating anything but a cupcake for me for a while.

I'm grilling Acai berries to counteract my holiday weekend diet

Now that we have all of those pesky parties, parades and illegal fireworks out of the way, let's do some work, shall we?

Sounds good in theory, but I'm having a heck of a time writing anything other than campground reservation confirmation numbers and emails to friends and family warning them of our impending arrival.

I have been scoping out some fun recipe ideas on camprecipes.com, though. Looks way fun. I test-drove a recipe for camp biscuits last night night, and while certainly easy to make, they probably should be used to put behind the back tires of the R.V. when parked rather than ingested by humans. So I need a little help in this department. Got any tried and true camp favorites? Leave a comment here and help a sister out.

We're going on a little tour of our new home on the road tonight.

That's sure to inspire some words.

It seems like just yesterday I was doing his laundry. Oh wait, it was.

Just about one year ago, we welcomed a new arrival into our house.

A healthy baby 22 year-old Intern. We called him Danny.

Proving again that they really do grow up so fast, our little Danny is about to fly (again) on his own.

Officially, he had possession of his new apartment yesterday, but I haven't seen any actual possessions leave here to land at that new address, but we gave him a little farewell dinner last night anyway. He reminded us that he only lives 4 minutes away and he'll be here all of the time, so I'm not sure if he's really moving out or just bought a rather pricey place to watch something other than Spongebob.

But regardless, we're going to miss that boy.

Even the loud parts.

Get out the atlas, Lucy

We are in the midst of planning our next summer adventure.

Yes, wanderlust strikes often around here, and last night we agreed on the plan: a two-week R.V. trip around the midwest and northeast.

We're still in the dreamy initial planning stages--me picturing our little brood eating from farm stands down sleepy little back roads after singing campfire songs and catching fireflies; and Sean, willing to drive 31' of trailer down the interstates at $2.90 a gallon just so he can hit all of the fireworks stands and avoid every Cracker Barrel.

Sounds like a perfect vacation for everyone, doesn't it?

The good news and the bad, and bad and good again

The bad news is that my brand new laptop suffered major liquid damage on vacation when after a particularly championship-like WiFi signal pickup, got its own Gatorade shower on the sidelines.

The good news is that after immediately taking it to the ER upon our return, it can, in fact, be saved.

The bad news is that it can be saved for $1240.00.

The other bad news is that clumsiness is not covered under the year-long warranty which I was only 20 days in.

The good news is that I paid for it with American Express (upon Sean's urging) and it turns out that they do have a stupidity clause that will cover most of the repair work.

The other good news is that Apple can save that wet chapter of the novel for an additional $100.

The end resulting news is that after claims filing, two weeks and throwing up in relief that it could have been a lot more bad news than good, I will have my computer and chapter back after only a minimal out-of-pocket cost.

And up for interpretation for good or bad is the news that I didn't have to drown myself in that pool of Gatorade that dripped from my keyboard if the results of this fiasco had gone any differently.

I'm going with "priceless"

Ah, home.

Thanks to the rain yesterday, my skin stalled at reptilian and not full-blown Paleozoic. Yes, we are all sun and salt-drenched, wave-battered (some more than others) and exhausted--just like a good vacation should leave you.

Re acclimation to mainland life will be difficult, painful and slow. Sean's foot is indeed broken. And the ligament is also torn, just for good measure. Apparently, sand is his Achilles heel. (Get it? He broke the other foot in sand volleyball 2 months ago...) No more beaches for him until we get him fitted for prosthetic flip flops. Other losses of the week include the custom Father's Day tennis tournament trophy (stolen by a couple of drunken golf cart drivers who must have mistaken it for something valuable), my MacBook, (a bottle of blue Gatorade is my Achilles heel) and the last chapter and a half of my novel. I write that with the casual optimism of a woman going to the Apple store tomorrow with hopes of full recovery at minimal charge, but rest assured a piece of me died in that rented condo yesterday when blue liquid dripped from my keyboard.

Anyway, back to happy vacation memories. Here's some photos:




Jessie likes eating the beach.




A-Dog and Beer Beard the pirates at Shark's Tooth beach.



The boys jet-skiing.



Group photo and future family Christmas card.



When the sun goes down on the Gulf of Mexico, when the day cools down and the jasmine breezes blow. A Palm Island moon will rise, on a night in paradise, when the sun goes down on the Gulf of Mexico...

~Red Beard the pirate

Lessons learned this Tuesday

1.) Watermelons don't keep well in tropical climates. Refrigerate upon arrival.

2.) Do not use glass coffee tables as extra seating.

3.) Sean's feet need to be insured by Lloyd's of London or something. He broke the other one body-surfing yesterday.

4.) The island gets really, really quiet when the 21 other families leave.

5.) Next year, pack a lot less clothes and a lot more water.


And later this afternoon I'm going to learn how to fly a kite with A-Dog.

Day something or other

I've spent so much time in the Gulf that I have barnacles in my hair and I haven't turned on my hair dryer since last Monday. I've lost my pedicure somewhere in a sand dollar bed, and There's a sheen of salt that coats my body so you could cure a ham on my belly. And you know what? I'm good with this look.

Today's surf was a little rough so we weren't collecting many treasures except a mean case of sand burn when scraped up against the shore after a particularly bitchy wave. We'll try again tonight for the nightly trek out to Shark's Tooth beach to watch the sunset and collect, what else but shark's teeth. Last night we saw about six dolphin swim by as close as an arm's length out, and I'm kind of excited to see if they'll be back.

I just hope my beach beauty doesn't scare them away.

Day 2 in paradise

This lunch break is brought to you by the Gulf of Mexico: The happiest place on earth sans mechanical dolls.

Today's treasure was a manatee sighting within about 20 feet where we were swimming. This guy's belly must have been rubbing against the bottom because we were in pretty shallow water. I'm going to return to the same spot after lunch with my pockets stuffed full of romaine and see if he won't come back to play.

I'm attempting sand castle construction, but so far every structure I've built has been hit by Hurricane Jessie who likes to climb to the top of Mt. Mommy's sand castle and slide down.

In between all of the beach play, I've been writing a bit because I find this place inspires me. And apparently Matty too because after a year and half of writing this novel without a title, Matty came up with it floating in the surf.

Not a bad day.

Empanadas taste even better with a side of sand

Day one at the beach is going rather swimmingly.

We arrived yesterday to my favorite place on the planet with the roar of the surf and the worst customer service ever. Just how I remembered it. But if you're lucky, you only have to deal with any noticeable staff when you check in (which always seems like a huge surprise to the people working the check-in desk), and then you are left alone for the remainder of your stay.

We unpacked and headed to our beach to watch the sunset and collect our first of many shark's teeth. I love that my children are absolute beach-combing freaks just like their mother. I think I would consider it a maternal failure if they each couldn't find at least five excellent specimens within seconds of arriving on the beach. But the pickings are pretty sweet this year.

After watching a particularly fantastic lightning storm from our lanai we slept pretty soundly and woke up late to get back out on the beach and enjoy this amazing place. The sand here is course--like the sea hasn't finished pounding it into a fine sugar yet. Already we've seen several sea turtles--the reason why you can't even flash a smile after dark here. And we've settled into island time in less than 24 hours. I'm only breaking now for lunch and restocking for the afternoon shift.

The rest of the crew arrives later today, and so it's about to be a party. I'll send pictures.

The lengths I will go

Now that I have secured the bootleg empanadas, I think we're all set for vacation.

Yep, I bought contraband empanadas today. I met a man who spoke no English except "calamari" as he passed me the aluminum pans in secret. I paid cash--dealers in picadillo don't take plastic--and I drove off with four dozen pillows of fried heaven in the trunk of my car.

I don't care how it looks. Don't judge.

It is going to be an absolutely delicious vacation....

You just need to apply heat to activate my creativity I guess

I'm taking a short break in between laundry loads to watch the girls in the pool and write. Yep, write, not work. There is a difference and I finally found that missing piece in my never-ending novel to finally bring it altogether, after a several month hiatus from all things fiction. So I've been typing away since Saturday on that. Who'd have thought it had been rattling around my head the whole time? That means the laptop makes the suitcase for the trip later this week.

Serious laundry and packing preparations now. I've got the majority of the shopping done--which just means packing more food and beverages than clothes for this particular destination. I. Can't. Wait.

BTW, head on over to Suburbandiva.com to win some fabulous giveaways this week. I've got a couple of fun ones going on at the moment.

Hand, foot and mouth without the hand and foot

We've been sidelined a bit this weekend by one of those horrific preschool diseases that manifests itself in the form of raging high fevers and gaping open sores inside a five year-old's mouth. The doctor said it's one of her "least favorite toddler viruses."

Really???

No shiz.

But seriously, doc, you only have to peer into her poor mouth for 4 seconds and declare "It's virus," never even having to write a prescription nor listen to the sweet little cherub say she can't eat because she "has a fever in my mouth." But thanks for the helpful tip that it could last for a week and she probably can't eat but make sure she drinks to remain hydrated, but yet there is nothing modern medicine has come up with by 2009 to help ease her discomfort.

So this Saturday we'll be hunting down blue ice pops and chocolate yogurt. (That's pudding to you and me.)

I'm packed! Too bad we're not leaving for another month

We seriously need to finally leave for this vacation already so I quit shopping for it. I have amassed an arsenal of beach "necessities" that rivals Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Every possible activity is covered now, except for eating.

We probably won't have any tomatoes from our garden ready quite yet, but I wrote about our new garden here.

Maybe we can grill oregano and pumpkins, though.