I Was Not Good Enough at Math to Join a Cult

I have been telling everyone for years that my Grandma was a few ants short of a picnic. Everyone assumed I was simply being critical UNTIL she started opening her door wearing no pants and a shirt bearing 500 safety pins. THEN, my ideas stop being "zany." Whatever.

So, said Grandma has never thought highly of me because she hates my mom. Clearly, I am collateral damage in the nightmare known as their relationship. Fine, fine. But since she does not know me, she gets these whacked-out ideas about me.

Take those Hale Bopp Cult people, Heaven's Gate. For the uninitiated, they were a San Diego based group that thought the end of the world was imminent and decided to kill themselves when the Hale Bopp Comet made its appearance. I am not sure if they were going to ride the comet to the afterworld a la a SciFI taxi service or if the comet was a sign of Doomsday. The details were a bit hazy on that part of the story.

In "real life" (as much as they dallied in that), they were computer and math geeks. {Stay with me, it is important to the story}.

In addition, when they all killed themselves they had a roll of quarters under their pillow, were wearing sweatsuits and had unisex haircuts. They also gave themselves new names that had to end in -ody. For sure, the leader would not have appreciated me calling myself Parody; that kind of mutiny can get you kicked out of cults. Or so I am told.

So, when they committed mass suicide my grandma calls my mom and graciously pops out "Joy dead?" "No, she is just living in Italy." "Well, those crazies in California killed themselves. Figured she did too. What with her liking math and all."

I have now been placed in the "whack job" category because I am good at math? {She also suspected me of being the Unibomber at some point. I will share that story another day}.

Additionally,

1) I have never really jumped on the bandwagon much {except in the 80s when I unwisely wore pink jelly shoes with my brown plaid double-knit polyester school uniform. I looked GOOD, bae-bee}. But since I have left plastic shoes behind, I have spent a lot of time thinking for my own self. Thank you very much.
2) I would never make it in an afterworld that requires exact change. Why else would they have quarters under their pillows? Is Hale Bopp some kind of industrial-strength Tooth Fairy? My idea of heaven is that I have a butler who sorts out the details of my life (or death, as it were).
3) Bad haircut? Not while there is a Veda Salon within a short flight of me.
4) I don't own a sweatsuit. And, in fact, I deplore the mere name "sweat suit." Sounds like something jockeys wear while running in the sauna to thin down before a race.

Honey Almond Bread

This stuff is Oh-My-God Good!


2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup oats (I pulsed them for a few moments in the food processor so their texture would be varied)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon cinammon
1 1/2 cups chopped almonds (toss in food processor with oats to make your life easier)
1 1/2 cups shredded zuchinni
1/2 mashed banana (Luc ate the other half, hence the odd amount)
2 eggs, beaten
1 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup honey
1 cup oil 2 teaspoons vanilla (or almond extract)



Combine the dry ingredients with the almonds. Combine the rest of the ingredients. Add the wet to dry. Only stir them together long enough to incorporate them, otherwise the bread will be tough.



Spoon into loaf pans and bake at 350 degrees for an hour or so. Cool on rack, you know the drill.

Me and The Boss

I had a business trip to Stockholm, a city I love - a city I love even more when on an expense account. Gorgeous people, tropical-colored houses, salmon at every meal ... really what could be better?

I go to my hotel bar (don't judge me) to have a quick nightcap before snoozy time. Because I am me, I start chatting with the other people there. Turns out that they are E Street Band members and crew. Not being a pop culture diva (to say the least), I had no idea. We are chatting away, Bruce shows up -- we continue chatting. Really nice guy, actually. Totally down-to-earth (relatively speaking). Plus, they were buying the champagne so that makes them so much better in my eyes. For the record, ANYONE who buys me Cristal makes me happy.

They gave me tickets for the concert the following night as well as back stage passes. For the record, I did not go. Being "with the band" one night is fun, two nights and you are some pathetic groupie. My clients LOVED the tickets, though.

More Football Stuff

What is it about men having to have their hand (or at least their thumb) tucked into the front of their pants when watching a sporting event? Does it remind them of a cup and are they, therefore, reliving their own past athletic glories? Do they just love Mr Winkie so much that they like to be close to it whenever possible? This is on the list of questions I would like answered when I die. And, yes, I do keep a list of things I don't comprehend and would like explained. I figure eternity is a long time and I would like some answers. Why play a harp on a cloud when you can learn stuff?

But back to the point... When sweet bebe was less than 24 hours old, a Cowboy game was on. No, Hubs and I were not going to miss my labor to watch it (especially me since I was much more vested in the process than anyone else), but since the hard part was over -- well, we had to watch the game. So, we ordered pizza from room service and got situated. Since it was December and the Cowboys, this was an important and "crunch time" game. And how can a team with that much talent and money not have a playoff win since 1996? Seriously, people, my brother's youth soccer team (they were called, wait for it ... the Whopper Juniors -- I SHIT YOU NOT) did not go decades without a playoff appearance and they sucked so bad that the parents had to buy them trophies.

But I digress... shocking, no?

Ken has the baby in a pseudo-easy chair. Life is sweet. At half time, I look over and see that Hubby has fallen asleep (apparently labor was no pic-a-nic for him either). He, of course, has one armed wrapped around the baby and the other hand tucked into his pants. The HILARIOUS part of this was that my less-than-a-day-old-newborn-son has HIS LITTLE HAND TUCKED INTO HIS DIAPER. The two of them, fast asleep, "watching" the game, with their hands tucked into their nether-regions. It was my first mom moment and made me tear up. Seriously, life could not get any cuter.

And to combine the last couple of posts as to why I am a guy and how much I love football... this story is a perfect synopsis of that. A couple of years back, my birthday fell on Monday Night Football. This is the gist of my conversation with Hubby about it:

Hubs: "Your birthday is coming up. What do you want to do?" {For the record, men, suggest something rather than blindly asking what we would like to do. Make it seem like you put some effort into the process. And look at a calendar so you know what day her birthday is. This general, "well, the leaves are changing colors and I think she was born in the Fall" wild-ass guess gets really old, really fast}.

Me: "My birthday is Monday. It is Monday Night Football."

Hubs: {really trying} "Yeah, but it is your birthday. We should go out or something."

Me: "Umm, it is the Buffalo Dallas game. And it is MNF."

Hubs: "But it is your birthday. Let's at least go out for dinner."

Me: "You know that restaurants are open on Tuesdays, right?"

Hubs: "This is one of the reasons why I love you. Low maintenance, football-loving girls are the best."

And, for the record, the Cowboys won (it was that amazing game with all the icing of the kickers which I find to be tacky). And we had a perfectly lovely sushi dinner later that week.

How Can You Resist This Little Guy?

I have waffled about posting pictures of sweet bebe on here. On the con side is the "What if some freakish pedophile happens to come across my site and...." However, I have amazing juju so I doubt that will happen. However, if you are some freak-ass pedophile, let me issue the following warning:

Sweet bebe's Daddy will kill you slowly and painfully if you touch my baby... if you even look at him longingly... if you even think about him. Seriously, not only do we know people (Rocky and Gene, you are on call for this. Kim, get BP on the horn and off his couch) but Hubby "is people." There is no rock under which you can hide to escape the full wrath that is known as me and mine. May God have mercy on you because they will not.

Back to sunshine and rainbows:
In the meantime, all the normal people out there can simply ogle the perfection that is my child. I never knew I could love a critter so much. He is my perfect little souffle.

PS Delilah is a rescue dog; we are strictly a used dog family. She did not have a name only a letter "Q" associated with her since she was their 17th bulldog. The Divine Miss D was a breeder whose last litter was stillborn and Dickhead Owner said "If I can't breed her, I'm not gonna feed her." I drove 12 hours to Omaha pregnant and with Type A flu to save her. Sweet Dog had never even walked; she was cage-bound her entire life. Bottom of three cages with poo leaking on her head.

When I was in first grade Mrs Falk said that when we get to heaven our pets will be the ones judging us since on earth they can't talk and tell others what kind of person we are. Reason 102 why I loathe Michael Vick and the Eagles.

Why I Am, Basically, A Guy

Now I am not one of those confused about my sex or sexuality people. I sympathize but I don't empathize with them. I was born a girl and like it that way. I would make a horrid guy for a multitude of reasons including:

1) Mice freak me out. Dead mice in traps are ever creepier.
2) I have no interest in learning how to change a tire {please don't lecture me that it is a life skill}
3) I read directions and have lived to tell the tale
4) I am not a fan of buffalo wings
5) A loud noise in the middle of the night does NOT beckon me to investigate. It tells me to either stay under the covers or to call someone with testicles.
6) I can talk on the phone FOR HOURS
7) I don't find bodily functions amusing in the least
8) I like chard
9) I don't get the Three Stooges, Jim Carrey or that Cable Guy
10) I will ALWAYS opt for cute over comfortable (this from the girl who wore heels in the snow while 9 months pregnant)

That being said, I do have a lot of traditionally masculine traits. For example, I can drive a standard and kick ass in math. As an aside, if you have daughters, don't discourage them at math and the sciences. The college majors that demand the highest salaries are the ones that have a math focus {and don't you want your daughters to be financially independent?} Oddly, I did not hear that girls were not supposed to be good at math until I was in college! Who knew such stupidity and antiquated ideas existed?

As an aside, I was getting tires once (no worries, I have outsourced this undesirable task to Hubby long ago) and the guy at the tire place saw my Calculus book and said, I kid you not, "I would never date a girl who liked math or was smarter than me."

"Well, on behalf of smart girls everywhere let me breathe a big ole sigh of relief." {Clearly, he did not get sarcasm. Too many vulcanized rubber fumes evidently.}

Stupidhead continues, "Girls who are too smart just piss me off."

"I can only imagine how long that much take. And you are so, well, desirable to math geniuses everywhere what with your minimum wage, grit beneath your nails job and all."

Fortheloveofgawd, doofus, know your audience. But, God bless him and all the other arrogant dummies of the world, I got a huge discount on my tires since he could not sort out that "Buy 3, Get 1 Free" was NOT the same as 75% off. Us math geeks might be alone on a Saturday night but at least we understand that 25% off is not the same as 75% off. {And, for the record, I have never spent my Saturday nights alone}.

However, my most guy-like traits are that 1) I am not a crier and 2) I get over stuff. Now, I still have estrogen and all so I am prone to tearing up when I hear that someone is pregnant, just had a baby, etc. But full blown bawling? Rarely. The last time I sobbed when Sweet Bebe went into ICU for RSV, before that it was when our dog died, before that... can't really recall full-blown tears. Before you get the idea that I am some kind of stoic ice princess, I honestly do have emotions. They just lean more toward the happy type as opposed to the drama kind. I simply struggle with coming up with more than one tear at a time.

The major upside to this {aside from not having a red, streaked face all the time} is when I do cry, Hubby takes notice. One tear and he is on full alert doing fixing whatever ails me. I don't think this would be the case if I were one of those women who cry for hours a week. Seriously, I would simply end up dehydrated and puffy. I just don't have that level of commitment to sadness.

Secondly, when I am peeved at someone. I GET OVER IT. How women can hold grudges for decades is beyond me. I get mad at Hubby for missing the laundry basket (and why do all men long to be the Michael Jordon of the boxer-tossing world? Would it kill them to simply walk those extra couple of feet to the basket instead of shooting their BVDs across the room? Seriously, I don't get this.} I get annoyed, I make my statement and I MOVE ON. Hubs will never hear me say "and remember the time you ...."

This is not simply because I let bygones be bygones. The real reason is that any statement I make that starts off with "Do you remember the time..." will, for sure, be met with "Uhhh, no" and the RCA dog look. I have learned over the years that it is not that Ken refuses to remember stuff, he simply does not have the ability to do so. Try as he might, he can't. So rather than stew about it, I have adapted. Now I simply state my annoyance and move on.

Though it is convenient to randomly say "Don't forget what tomorrow is." Since he does not know, he immediately rushes out to buy me a gift. The fact that, in reality, tomorrow is simply tomorrow and not a day of significance, means nothing to me. Evolution serves the smartest and most conniving. C'est voila!

Gone Too Soon

This morning I learned that Lee Collins, a friend of mine from college, died in a plane crash. It is so strange to think of someone who was SO alive no longer being, well, alive. Couch potatoes make a transition to death easier in my mind since they were stagnant in life anyway. But Lee was not potato-esque at all. He flew helicopters in the Air Force, was always the first person with a quip or a kind word and could be summed up with the word "animated."

Lee is also the reason Hubby and I met. Lee and I had a horse-back riding class (hey, it was Texas) in college. He was one of the first people I met on campus in fact. He suggested that I join Angel Flight. Through AnF, I met Ken and, well, that has turned out quite well. For that, sweet Lee, I will always be indebted to you.

One of my favorite memories of Lee is him marching in a POW/MIA vigil in the middle of the night. A true patriot, he wanted to fly for as long as he could remember. He died in a plane crash, I am not sure if that is bittersweet or one of life's cruelties.

So an electronic toast to my beautiful, kind, sweet friend. In your memory, I will hold Ken and Luc that much tighter today. You left us way too early; may you fly even higher in the afterlife.

Why, Yes, I AM Ready for Some Football, Thanks for Asking!

I love football. More than most people do. Even most Texans. And I have no intention of apologizing for it. Some people watch Survivor, I adore John Madden and his banana fingers (yes, I am devastated that he retired. Devastated might be severe, more like saddened).

I have an interesting way to rank teams. Several people have asked me how I do it so here goes:

1) Dallas (Period dot. Always and forever. Yes, I know Jerry Jones is an ego-maniac and Tom Landry was mistreated. Yes, I know they often hire crazy egotists and criminals. However, I am loyal to a fault).
2) Any other Texas team (see, the brilliance of my plan is that it transcends simply the NFL) and New Orleans (I love the fact that they had a coach named "Bum").
3) Next I base it on other people's favorite team. The more I like you, the higher your team ranks. For example, my 8th grade crush loved the Bucaneers and, therefore, I will always have a place for them in my heart.
4) Then I base it on cities I like to visit. Ergo, Diego > Minnesota. If I am tied, I go for pleasantness of airport. Hence, Chicago falls since I always get stuck there.
5) Then I decide who I root for based on team colors. I like purple more than red hence Minnesota > Arizona.

second to last) Atlanta Falcons (MEAN TO DOGS, MEAN TO DOGS)

by far last) Philadelphia Eagles (HIRED mean to dogs! Seriously, you hired him? EGADS!)

The Problem With Being Funny

A really long way to explain that I am feeling blue today.

The problem with being funny is that people expect it and seem to feel that me entertaining them is their inalienable right. Life, liberty and a regular supply of belly laughs.

My dad (who was hilarious and told an amazing story) would often say "Good Time Charlie has got the blues." I did not understand it when I was a kiddo but I so understand it now. It is like I am never allowed to be melancholy or, gawd forbid, sad.

Seriously, people simply don't get it. It is like when tabloids take pictures of celebs as they "really look." Big news, Joe Bag of Doughnuts, no one looks like a magazine spread in real life. Airbrushing, Photoshopping, make-up artists, flattering light -- it sets up unrealistic expectations. The same thing is true for personalities. Without prepared statements, publicists and spin doctors people are not as clever, witty or brilliant as they seem -- well, except for me, I really am this clever : )

Not that I have an entourage (though I would love that!) but I get the same thing on a smaller scale. I have had on more than one occasion the following statements made to me:

"I have heard you are funny. Prove it." Well, since you asked so nicely...

"I know this is no notice but can you go to the podium and make the audience laugh? They seem bored." This was done with over 2500 people in the audience. Umm, yeah, let me go out there and make an ass out of myself in front of thousands. Where do I sign up?

"Make me laugh, funny girl." Like I am a clown or something.

"I think you are funny simply because you are dumb. No one with sense could have these things happen to them." I have heard this several times. I could mention that I have several graduate degrees in touchy-feely, easy-peasey subjects like math, statistics and economics. Or I could mention my Mensa membership. But there is no proving intellect to dimwits, especially socially awkward dimwits. And, furthermore, perhaps if you got off your sofa-denting, reality tv watching ass, more entertaining things would happen to you.

"I am going to tell you a story, can you punch it up?" 1) I don't know what you are asking me to do and 2) assuming I understood you, are you willing to pay me to do so? Otherwise, punch yourself.

I was telling someone about someone a friend of mine who killed himself. Someone else was eavesdropping and came over to request "Is this whole story a bummer or will it end on a funny high note?" WTF? You expect me to make suicide somehow humorous? Lemme jump right on that. It is wit not a wand.

Kim (who is the funniest person I know) summed it up so nicely once when she said "The monkey has dropped her cymbals."

More Random Baby Tidbits

"Your baby eats like every meal is his last."

I asked a friend "Have you noticed that Boden clothes run small?" Her response was "No, have you noticed your baby runs big?"

My neighbor calls kids that will only eat chicken nuggets, mac & cheese and fruit cups, "those applesauce kids." That makes me laugh every time. My 7 month old is the anti-applesauce baby. He eats curried rice, Shepard's Pie, kung pao beef, meatballs, chilled avocado and cucumber soup, etc. Quite the little gourmand. Please don't email me bitching about this, he is crazy-healthy, off the charts size-wise and growing so I see no point in jarred baby food. The day Gerber loves my baby more than I do is the day I adopt him out for his own good.

As a girl, I had NO IDEA that penises were so, well, pliable. Baby boy loves his wanker more than anything else, except possibly the bulldog. And who knew you could twist them around your fingers like that and stretch it so much? Do they lose flexibility as they get older or am I simply uncomfortable with treating them like some kind of kinky Stretch Armstrong?

And, yes, it makes me feel like a bad mom that my baby imitates the dog more than he does me. However, he will put his (Tiffany, thanks T&O) rattle in his mouth and give himself an underbite in order to carry it around when crawling. He has also taken to sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth when he is concentrating. Delilah the Dog (her official Christian name) does this all the time, no concentration required.

Hubby and I took our niece and nephew (at their insistence) to some famous pizza and game place. I don't know the name of it so I simply refer to it as the Dancing Rat Place. Horror of horrors. For the uninitiated, here is the run-down. Horrid, salty pizza (and that is the highlight of the day). Everything lights up, whirls and clangs. Seriously, it is enough to cause epileptic seizures in the unmedicated. Millions of screaming, completely undisciplined, hepped-up-on-sugar kids zooming around in a totally uncontrolled fashion. And TO TOP IT OFF, randomly this big ass, dancing rat appears out of no where to terrorize everyone. Honest to God, they guy is like a 50 year old, minimum-wage-earning pedophile dressed up in used, dirty carpeting. Avoid this place at all costs. Trust me on this one.

I'll See You When I See You!

My mom was in town a couple of weeks ago to see the baby. She is quite transparent about the reason "I am not coming in to see you knuckleheads but that baby needs me." I am convinced that she is plotting to take him. I would be much more worried about kidnapping, but she only drives 45 miles an hour and can only get to four places (the mall, Braums, the grocery store and Kohls) so I figure I am safe.

My mom is, quite possibly, the worst traveler ever. It is a combination of bad luck (her flights never leave on time, a horrid sense of direction) and that she is the only person alive without wheelie luggage.

So, back in the day, I am living in Europe so Mom and Jimmy, my brother, come to see me almost every Christmas. Honest to God, I give Jimmy huge credit for taking this trip with her because 1) as mentioned, she is the worst traveler on the planet {second only to the Donner Party} and 2) at this time, he is dating someone my mother loathed so, in her opinion, she has 12 interrupted hours to bitch at him about his girlfriend.

However, love conquers all and my brother does indeed love me. So, off they go. First, she insists that he carry her 40 pound carry on. Her floral carry on. That weighs 40 pounds. Being held together with duct tape. Without wheels. But it has Twizzlers in it so he succumbs to the siren song. To my mom's credit, she always travels with snacks and cough drops. And she shares.

Because my brother made the reservations, they are not seated together. This simply will not do. Even she can't harp at him about Evil Amy from 20 rows away. And so it begins. She taps the man next to him, asking if he will move so she can sit next to "her little boy." My brother is in graduate school at this time and about 6' 4" When the man does not move, she insists that he must move. Eventually he acquiesces/breaks much to the consternation of my brother.

Finally, they arrive in Amsterdam. They don't have enough time to go into town before their connection to Italy so, joy of joys, Jimmy gets to hang out for 5 hours with my mom. If only she would read ... but why read when bitching is so much more enjoyable?

Jimmy decides to head to the departure gate. Because they have 5 hours, their flight is not showing up on the gate sign yet. My mom decides that this means they are at the wrong gate. Never one to investigate, she prefers randomly wandering around airports looking at every sign and interrogating everyone she sees. She then continues to ask others in case "the first person is an idiot" or "just screwing with her." Why random people would be out to get her, I don't fully comprehend.

Back to her conversation with Jimmy at the gate:
"Are you coming with me?"
"Nope, I'm going to stay right here and read the paper."
"Fine, asshole, I will tell you sister you send your regards. Guess you don't mind missing her wedding."

For the next hour, she storms around the airport muttering to herself about her ungrateful, idiot kids.

Circling around, she sees Jimmy still sitting in the same spot. Not wanting to admit that she is wrong (and preferring to make it seem like she is graciously offering her assistance to him), she says "Last chance, you coming to Italy? If so, come with me to the right gate"
"Nope, I am going to stay at this gate and take my chances." And he goes back to the paper.
"FINE!!! I'LL SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU!" And, with that, she storms off again.

Another hour passes and she returns. Flopping down next to him she seethes. "Glad you finally found it, jerkface."

Oktoberfest

I had just started my new job with a software company when I get tasked to go to Munich. During Oktoberfest. Sure, I love a good party and it will be great to have something fun to do after work. {This was before I realized that there is no "after work" when you are a software consultant. Who knew?}

So, some guys take me to Oktoberfest. My idea is to see the sights, eat something, people watch. Their idea: get drunk and meet up with hookers. Hummmm...

We {shock of shocks} get separated. I have no idea why no one wanted me tagging along during their tete a tete but, for whatever reason, they did not.

I am done people watching so I decide to head back to the hotel. Only to realize that I don't know the name of the hotel because the people that I came with not only made my reservations but were going to take me there. I get on the phone with a travel agent asking for hotel reservations for the night.

The lady LAUGHS at me. Laughs in a really mocking tone. "You do know that it is Oktoberfest right now, don't you."

"Yes, I am well aware that it is Oktoberfest. Frighteningly aware of this tidbit, in fact."

"There are no hotel rooms within 300 kilometers of Munich."

"Are you sure? Can you try again?"

At this point, Eva Braun cackles and hangs up on me. Fabulous customer service, thanks, darling.

So, I spend the night in a park. And Autumn is freezing in Germany. I have new sympathy for Mary and Joseph during their travels. I realize that I was not in labor nor was I riding a donkey. However, they did not have several drunkards throwing up around their park bench. Nor did the Holy Family have to smell burned 'wurst all night. Overall, I think we are even in the realm of suffering.

The next day I trot into work wearing the same ensemble as the day before and someone notices it. He assumes that I have also spent the night with "a friend" and starts to tease me. I explain that I would have HAPPILY paid for a room complete with hooker had a room only been available, but instead I stayed all night in a public park. Like a hobo. A really poor hobo. Who does not know the system.

I did not have to buy drinks for months... no one can facilitate a guilt trip like me.

Mushroom Barley Soup

It is overcast today in Colorado and just a bit on the cool side so I am in the mood for this soup. It is one of our favorites and my 8 month old eats this like nobody's business. Sometimes I also toss in some cooked, cubed beef. Seriously, soup is my favorite food on the planet and this is one of the best.

7 cups chicken stock (quality is key; I make my own)
1 package dried mushrooms
3/4 cup barley
3 Tablespoons butter
1 large onion, chopped
3 stalks of celery, sliced
6 cloves of garlic, minced
2 carrots, chopped
3 teaspoons soy sauce
8 - 12 ounces fresh mushrooms, sliced
1 1/2 cups medium dry white wine
2 Tablespoons tomato paste
1 Tablespoon dried dill
3 bay leaves
3/4 teaspoon each dried oregano, basil and thyme

In a small pot, bring one cup of stock to a boil. Add in dried mushrooms and remove from heat. Let them soak for at least an hour.

Meanwhile, cook the barley according to package instructions using stock instead of water.

In a skillet, saute the onion in butter until it is softened. Then add in celery, garlic and carrot - saute for an additional three minutes. Add the soy sauce and cook for two more minutes, stirring frequently. Put this mixture into a stock pot (you might need to deglaze the skillet with a little stock). Into the stockpot, add the rest of the stock, the barley, fresh mushrooms, wine, tomato paste and herbs. Bring to a boil, reduce heat until it barely simmers, cover and let cook for an hour. Toward the end of the hour, remove the dried mushrooms from their stock bath, saving the stock. Rinse the mushrooms to remove any dirt or grit and chop. Add the mushrooms and strained stock to the stock pot. Remove the bay leaves and serve.

Even better the next day though you might want to thin it with a little more stock.

Things They Don't Tell You...

about being a Mom.

EveryONE (parent or not) is more than happy to tell you about the yucky side of parenting. "Sleepless nights ... poo ... crying" but very few people tell you all the great stuff. Being an optimist (and having spent very few sleepless nights with my non-crying baby; I have, however, dealt with more poo than preferred), let me share some of the totally great stuff.

** having a baby (especially your baby) fall asleep in your arms is about the most serene feeling in the world.

** listening to babies laugh is a feeling like no others. Making them laugh? It simply does not get any better (and I get a lot of laughs from a lot of people).

** no one will ever convince me that sweet bebe is not talking to the angels when he wakes up in the morning. He will lie in his crib babbling away and looking in three different, very specific places (Hubby and I like to think it is my dad, his mom and his grandpa).

** even a harried, frazzled, overworked adult can find sitting on the front porch watching the bees and hummingbirds to be a great way to spend an afternoon.

** blowing bubbles is a perfectly reasonable pastime in the summer.

** dancing to Elmo is cool.

** you will never feel happier than when your baby's face lights up simply because he sees you.

** if you are at a restaurant early waiting for someone to show up, you don't feel awkward and alone -- even if your companion is bald, asleep and drooling.

** you treasure quiet time like you never have before.

** you find yourself humming Elizabeth Mitchell songs.

** you whip out photos when someone casually asks "how's the baby?" You do this even though you know they were only asking to be polite and that they really don't care about the answer. You don't care that they don't care, you just want to see them again your own self.

** you obsess over your baby's weight, not your own.

** baby clothes are so fun to buy.

** when out you find yourself wondering "I wonder what bebe is doing?"

** you can't recall FOR THE LIFE OF YOU, what you and your honey talked about before you had a baby. The same is true for how you used to occupy your time.

** when you experience something incredible, you can't wait to take your child there. I must have said a hundred times while on safari, "I can't wait to take my baby on safari."

** you start to measure time in weeks or months, not years.

** a new tooth appearing is cause for celebration.

** you look at the new Fall Collection from Janie and Jack before Valentino.

** Robeez!

** seeing them learn something new is as magical as learning it yourself.

** a baby curled up on your lap "reading" is one of the best times of the day.

** toothless smiles are some of the most beautiful.

** two words: footie pajamas.

Bad Mommy!

Things that make you feel like the most horrid mother ever (and I have done all of these; 8 months into it and I am convinced that sweet bebe will end up a contestant on Survivor -- kicking the bottoms of all those people with decent, competent mothers):



** putting his diaper on with one of his testicles hanging outside of it (trooper that he is, he did not scream, he merely gasped whenever I bounced him on it. Yes, I know that makes it a million times worse. I honestly did not notice).



** feeding him oatmeal way too early and giving him the worst gas (if he would have at least cried, I could have been annoyed. Instead, he gutted it out and simply whimpered away -- talk about a 4 month old stud)


** barely catching him as he LAUNCHED himself, head first, out of the pram stroller (we converted it to the sit up kind right after this happened). Because I only just caught him I scraped his face along the concrete, giving him the second shiner of his life (he just turned 8 months old, this is not a good sign).



** because he never cried when he was a bitty baby (and still is not a cryer), I actually pinched the back of his arm once (not THAT hard) to see if he had that weird disease where you don't feel pain. People made me paranoid because they kept saying that their newborns cried for hours every day. He has not cried, cumulative, hours in his life.



** letting him take a nap on the English bulldog's back because they were both so peaceful and quiet. Besides, they were so flippin' cute together.



** taping him into paper towels because I forgot to bring a diaper bag (hey, it was my first trip out) -- I blogged the full story on July 20


** not realizing that his footie pajamas were way too short (I thought they were simply snuggley) thus causing him a potential lifetime of bow legs.

This being said (and admitted to), I would like to state publicly that I would give my life for my sweet child. I honestly would (and labor felt like I was going to). I can't figure out if everyone else does these same kinds of things but they are not willing to admit it or if I am simply the most dense mom ever. I am thankful every day for having the most low maintenance, happiest baby on the planet.

I just have not completely cracked the motherhood code.

Random Tidbits from BFF's Wedding

Kim and I skipped the last part of the reception decorating festivities and I hauled her nervous ass to the DQ for a Blizzard. Some people are good with glue guns -- we are not. The crafty people were happy to have us leave and we were thrilled to down some soft serve with toffee. You gotta know your strengths.

One of my favorite quoted ever is from the Blues Brothers, “It's 106 miles to Chicago. We got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses! Hit it!” Along those same lines, right before bff is walking down the aisle at her wedding I said "It's 500 miles to Vegas. I got a full tank of gas and the keys to my car hidden in my bra. Ken is on alert to run interference if we need to make a run for it. Just give me the sign."

Kim's husband, Gene, is a great guy. Totally calm, indulgent and very patient (not that we require patience, mind you, I just wanted to include that quality). He, however, did not pick the greatest best man. The best man's toast was, I KID YOU NOT, "I hope the marriage lasts longer than your hair." No worries, I belittled and berated him enough for all of us.

Kim's future mother-in-law, once again I KID YOU NOT, brought her dog to the wedding. "Precious loves parties and I could not leave her alone. My mother just died." I am not sure if Precious is supposed to be the reincarnated spirit of dead mom or if some stinky-breathed, poorly behave, flatulent dog simply reminds her of her dead mom, may she rest in peace.

However, peace was not to be had at the wedding because Precious squeaked the entire time. Not barked, SQUEAKED. Seriously, it sounded like a Squeegee. Always one to take matrimony and other scaraments seriously, I kept chanting "death to Squeegee" during the wedding. My defense is that only Kim could hear me and, besides, it took some of the pressure off from pledging the rest of her life to someone whose mother brings animals to formal affairs.

The Dehydrated Godmother

After bebe was born, my bff's visit overlapped a bit with my mom's visit. I had told my mom that I was going to ask Kim to be bebe's godmother. We were dropping Mom off at the airport and Kim went inside to go to the bathroom (she now properly hydrates to avoid altitude sickness, please see my blog entry from August 12, Adventures in Friendship).

My mom, ever the optimist, asked "You think she's coming back?"

Me: "Well, yeah. Her flight is not until Tuesday."

Mom: "I think she is Splitsville." {Somewhere, somehow my mom might have been cool in the 70s.}

Me: "Splitsville? Seriously? And besides, she left her handbag in the car; Kim might abandon me but she would never leave Kate (Spade) behind."

Mom: "I think she cracked under the pressure of you harassing her about being godmother. People don't want to be bothered, Joy."

Me: "Hummm, after 22 years of friendship Kim is fleeing the scene without even her handbag because I asked her to be in my baby's life forever? Doubtful, Mom. But if Witness Protection brings her back, I will let you know."

Mom: "You optimists are a bunch of asses."

At this, Kim comes toodling out of the airport. I swear, my mom was equally shocked and disheartened that, yet again, the universe did not teach me a lesson about thinking the best in people.

The Sex Sonogram

One of the best things about my midwife is that she has her own sonogram machine. Yes, I know it is better that she is competent, caring, knowledgeable, compassionate, blah, blah but she comes complete with her own spy-on-baby-whenever-you-want-machine. BoNANza! Besides the sonograms are merely a bonus, the other stuff is required.


So, because I am nosey, I opted to spy on sweet bebe just about every appointment. Just to see growth and look at his little antics and acrobatics. Hubs and I opted to find out the sex before bebe was born. Don't get all judgemental on me. The whole "this is one of life's true surprises" is a valid argument but 1) I was still surprised at Week 20 and 2) I was surprised (shocked even) at his birth that I survived the entire ordeal. To each her own and I wanted to know. So lighten up, people. {Side note: I also don't understand people who find out but then don't tell anyone. That is just a power play to me. I worked with a guy in Germany who refused to tell anyone the sex beforehand even though he knew. Fine, fine. Your choice and I am not vested in a relationship with you. HOWEVER, he then had the nerve to snipe incessantly"we got all green and yellow stuff for our twin boys. And nothing is in duplicate." He did not even tell people they were having twins. Because normally I buy identical outfits for singletons. Moms love that. Whatever, dude.}


But back to the story. I am GEARED UP to find out the sex. Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait. For those of you who know me, no explanation is necessary. For those of you who don't, no explanation is possible. Suffice it to say, I am a little on the hyper and OCD side. I, seriously, did not sleep for three days prior to finding out the sex. I truly get that geared up. However, sleep has never been a huge priority to me so it is not the sacrifice that it seems.


But I digress again (sorry, my ADD is acting up tonight)... we are doing the "sex sonogram" (I, clearly, made that title up myself) and Laura (the midwife) says "That is either cord shadow or the biggest penis I have ever seen." Not words you want to hear when you are a crazy, hormonal preggo. This translates to me as "you are about to give birth to a porn star. A gay porn star." This is not okay. I am looking for a paper bag to breathe into.


So, torture of tortures, I had to wait another three weeks to find out. I know, I know, the universe was trying to teach me a lesson about patience. Blah, blah, blah.


During the three weeks, we start assuming it is a girl. That monstrosity HAD to be cord shadow. I am leery since there are 19 boys in Hub's family and only 3 girls but, hey, even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes.


Three excruciatingly long weeks pass and we try again. Sweet bebe is, I kid you not, kicked back, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, SPORTING A TREMENDOUS WOODY {what 80s movie was that?}. All he needed was a baseball cap and the remote and he could be anyone I went to college with. Seriously, who knew fetuses could get erections?


Immediately, Hubby, his military buddies and the USAFA cadets we sponsor christened my sweet, innocent, unborn baby with the moniker "Wood." {And, yes, it has stuck.}


Hubby's military buddies swear "you have to be one cool baby to get your call sign in vitro."

Ghengis Khan and Me

I have a reader in Sweden! How cool is that? In honor of my Swede, here is a classic.

When I was consulting for Ericsson, I spent a lot of time in Malmo, Sweden. I stayed at a place called the Genghis Khan Hotel. The owner was (unnaturally, in my opinion) enthralled with Genghis Khan. To demonstrate this obsession: he had a larger than life size outfit that was either worn by GK his own self or was a replica (my guess). I could never really get the full story on exactly what it was or, even, WHY it was. This ensemble included a robe and a big-ass headdress. And it was on a mannequin thing (with a realistic, albeit spooky, face). The whole thing stood over 7 feet tall and was encased in Plexiglas under the hotel stairs. Seems like a pointless detail that I am randomly including until you get to later in the story (for 6 months, it was under the stairs lurking at people walking into the restaurant).

So one night I decide to stay in, order some room service and lay low. The hotel does not have room service but you can order food and come get it yourself in the restaurant (being Sweden I am sure that this is some kind of tax thing). Fine, fine. I order and decide to turn on the television. Now for those of you who don't know me, I don't watch tv. I never have really cared for it and, besides, I read. The following is a perfect example of why I don't believe in television.

The X Files is on. Having seen a total of 8 minutes of this program, I am not sure if it is always scary or what but the gist of what I saw was: some hillbilly's wife died and HB was killing off all the doctors via voodoo dolls. One guy got microwaved, someone else was hung. Whatever. The details are hazy after any traumatic event. All I know is it was scary and my hotel room was dark and I was less than amused. Now, mind you, this is Sweden so they turn off hallway lights at night to save energy. They do have these emergency light things that illuminate and, if you need the full monty light, the switches glow so you can find them. I am, once again, setting scene not boring you with random environmental facts from Scandinavia. Be patient.

Time comes for my dinner to be ready. When I open the door, Genghis F-ing Khan is standing in front of my hotel room door. In his seven feet, spooky faced, headpiece and cloak wearing glory. In the dark. No Plexiglas case. Back lit by emergency lighting. After seeing 10 minutes of Hillbilly Takes on the Hospital, I let out a screech to wake the dead. {I have never understood people who say "I was too scared to scream." I have NEVER been too scared to scream. It is like my specialty}.

Other doors fly open, they see G F-ing K lurking in front of my door and they start screaming and slamming doors. Thanks for the help, wimps! Where are my Spec Ops guys when you need them?

Owner guy comes running up, profusely apologizing and wrangling G F-ing K out of the way in case I decide to attack back (which would be totally out of character for me). Turns out, he thought G F-ing K was "getting bored" under the stairs so he thought he would move him to the guest hallway. While the minions were reassembling the Plexiglas case, G F-ing K was resting in front of my door.

Honestly, I think this is the closest I have ever been to stroking out.

The next day I get flowers with a card that read "Sorry I scared you. Love, Genghis."

Mexican Chocolate Ice Cream

Seriously, I have had sex that is not as good as this ice cream.

And, yes, these recipes are mine so I can publish away.

Finally, SHAMELESS PLUG, the new Junior League of Colorado Springs cookbook will be available in a week. If you want one (and several of my recipes are in it), I am happy to mail it to you (hell, I will even autograph it for you -- ha). The proceeds go toward our community programs. Thanks for supporting the JLCS and all the great work we do!

Back to the sugar rush...

8-10 ounces wicked good milk chocolate (imported? expensive? hard to find? perfect! You can also use Mexican chocolate). Buy extra, for sure, you will snack on it while cooking.
2 cups half and half
2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1.5 Tablespoons vanilla
.5 - 1 cup chopped almonds

In a double boiler, melt the chocolate and let it cool. Truth be told, I never do this over a double boiler even though I know I should. I just do it over low heat and watch it constantly. Some would say I even fret over it. You choose.

In a large pan, heat the half and half and the cream to boiling and remove from heat. In a bowl, beat the egg yolks (cook off the whites for your dog, it is great for their coat and you don't feel as wasteful as you do if you toss them down the sink) until they are frothy (I love the word "frothy"). Mix in the sugar and then the dairy.

Heat this over low heat for 10 minutes (probably less at sea level) until it thickens. The key is low heat since you are cooking egg and they will, essentially, scramble if you do it on high heat. Once it is custard-esque, remove it from heat and add in the chocolate, vanilla and cinnamon.

Chill this for at least three hours before you put it in your ice cream maker. After it has churned for a few minutes, add in the almonds. When I do it before that stage, they seem to get all clumped together.

Adventures in Friendship

Several years back my bff, Kim, comes in from Austin to Colorado Springs to visit me, see the sights, visit me, imbibe in my amazing margaritas (if I do say so myself), visit me, etc. We decide to do the touristy thing and head up Pikes Peak.

In the 20+ years I have known her, we have never had a cross word between us. I think we are both too laid back to be bothered with things like anger and girl drama. Please don't think, for even the briefest of moments, that we are Polly Annas; we TOTALLY gossip about other people, we just don't turn our (considerable) wrath on one another. It would be a Pyrrhic Victory at best.

So, we are headed up Pikes Peak and chatting. At some point, Kim stops chatting. Thankful for more air time, I continue chattering away. Still radio silence from Kim. And, LET ME ASSURE YOU, this is totally out of character. I mean, way, way out of character. Like she talks in her sleep because she still has stuff to say.

Now I am uncomfortable. She is still breathing. I can tell that much. So I do the whole "what did I say to offend her" thing. There are times I can be such a girl. Humm, we were gossiping about her dad and my mom (whom, we swear, were separated at birth). That's not it, we do that all the time. Before that, we were discussing dinner. That can't be it, she loves my arrabbiatta. Then we were talking about shoes and, if anyone has the right to be offended with that conversation it is me not her (she has the most perfect feet on the planet; Ferragamo has erotic dreams about her feet. Mine are duck feet -- as wide as they are long. Argghh!).

Me: "We are half way up, do you want to stop? Do some photos. Get some fudge."
BFF: "No."

few minutes later

Me: "Here is a turn off. You want to take some pictures?"
BFF: "No!"

few minutes later

Me: "You want to hike?"
BFF: "NO!"

few minutes later

Me: "Is there anything that you want?"
BFF: "I want to get the hell down."

She SCREAMS this at me. No humor in her voice. Nothing. And she is, sincerely, the funniest person I know. And that says a lot since I know some truly hilarious people. But she tops the list.

So, in horribly awkward silence we drive down. And for you Pikes Peak experts, we had not even gotten to the spooky, single lane, one-false-move-and-you-plunge-to-your-death part. We were on the (relatively) wide part of the road following elderly tourists from Wisconsin driving their Crown Victorias.

Once we get down, she totally perks up and acts like nothing is wrong. Seriously, Cybil, this is not okay. You have given me the silent treatment AND then screamed at me AND now you want to play nice since you think it is time for margaritas and pasta? (Yes, I know that is a run-on sentence but I like the way it flows so you will simply have to adapt).

As it turns out, she has NO recollection of the entire incident. Altitude sickness. This does not prevent me from mentioning it all the time. Really, if there is anything that my mother has taught me, it is that sickness is no excuse not to pounce on someone else's weakness. "Beating people when they are down is so much more efficient than taking on the strong."

My mother is basically the Soviet Union looking for her next Poland.

Random Tidbits

My grandma has Alzheimers and her son asked her if she knew his name. Her response was "If you don't even know your name, how should I?"


My mom said this about the Great Dane. "That one is dumb. Back of the classroom with a coloring book for him."


Have you ever noticed that all toys today light up, wiggle and scream the alphabet (and yet our global scores are declining)? I take the batteries out of half of them because they give me the vapors. People swear I am somehow setting bebe up for a life of illiteracy and Monster Truck Rallies. My response is that somehow I learned to read without some maniacal jackrabbit shouting the alphabet at me. Thank you very much.


The people who want to give you the most advice about life are the ones who have cocked up their own lives. Yes, oh person who is 70-years-old-and-unable-to-retire, is thrice married, living in low-income housing, smoking while complaining about emphysema, who kids are in the big house, please, please harp at me for buying organic spinach.

He's a Dog, Not a Musketeer!

So Hubby and I decide that the big dogs need obedience school. We don't intend to have them in those dance competitions like the YouTube video of the woman reenacting some scene from Grease (cool video, but seriously, lady, how much time do you have on your hands? You should get laid more often... by a man). All we want is God-Knows-What-Dog, Humphrey, to stop running when he gets outside and the Great Dane, Remy, to stop being, well, himself.

First we go to the regular class with all the other beasts. And, get this, WE GET KICKED OUT. Honestly, I have never even had a detention and now I have been expelled. Oh the horror. Then we are informed that we need tutoring and private lessons. Now I am truly pissed that this incident might go on my permanent record. I made an "A" in Calculus IV and yet I am needing a dog tutor? And, no, I am not making up my Calculus grade, I really am that big a nerd. Alas.

So, first Crazy Dog Lady (CDL) talks to us about our "hopes, dreams and aspirations" for the "children." I respond "you know they are dogs, right? We don't talk at night about where they will go to college and how they will support us in our old age. We just want them to get off Ozzy's Crazy Train."

CDL is clearly miffed that I have not dreamed bigger things for the beast. Seriously, they lick themselves, what more can I expect from them? String theory? Even algebra would be pushing it.

So, then she decides to bring in another dog to "socialize" them. Immediately, I know this is a horrid idea and will end in one big ass, furry tragedy. I demand that we sign a waiver in case this other dog gets injured. So, to do a "meet and greet" with my 300 pounds of hound, she brings in some 25 pound blond thing. Ohdeargawd. Remy goes crazy (and a shock runs through the crowd) and Hubby has to grab Victim Dog and vault over the 5 foot wall with it. Have I mentioned I married a very quick-thinking stud? He was cat-like.

CDL is not deterred and said "Well, I thought that would go better." I respond "Of course you did, don't all seven foot tall black males love petite blonds?" She yells at me saying I am projecting and that is why Remy has issues. Uhhh, no Sweet Pea, he has issues because his last family abused him. And I am not projecting, I am being funny. Try it sometime, bitch.

So then CDL decides that the issue with Remy is us and our attitudes so she decides that, instead of working with the dog, she will work with us. Honestly, I am now getting tutored by a CDL. This is the conversation (and, no, I am not making this up):

CDL: You should leave the radio on for him so he will get used to voices.
Hubby: As long as it is not NPR --- we don't want him to become a liberal.
CDL: Ken, he can't vote. You do understand that, right?

At this, I want to leave. Yes, CDL, we know he can't vote (he is not even AKC registered much less voter registered). However, if we had left when I wanted to, I would have missed one of the best conversations OF MY LIFE.

CDL: What kind of clothing does he have? We can marinate them in pheromones.
me: Uhhh, clothes? Marinade?
CDL: (said in a most condescending tone) Yes, clothes. You know, things to wear. What does he wear?
me: Well, he wears his dog suit. And a collar.
CDL: Oh dear. He does not have a wardrobe? Perhaps that is his issue.
me: Define wardrobe. Honestly, you know he is a dog, right? A schizo Great Dane that weighs a buck and half. And you want me to do costume changes?
CDL: What does he wear to formal occasions?
me: Well, to his bar mitzvah, he wore his dog suit and to his prom he wore, well, his dog suit and to his...
CDL: What about bandannas?
me: No.
CDL: What about sweatshirts?
me: No
CDL: T-shirts?
me: No
CDL: What about pantaloons?
me: Pantaloons? He is a dog not a musketeer!

At this point, Hubby and I are laughing so hard that we are sobbing. She, in all sincerity, explains that she always dresses her two dogs. Her favorite scenario, get this, is when she dresses the girl dog up as a Damsel in Distress (complete with tall, pointy hat and the trailing tulle) and her boy dog plays the role of Prince Charming (complete with pantaloons and a faux sword).

This is when you know that the inmates are running the asylum and the most you can hope for is to get out of the place without injury.

Bouncing Baby Boy (and I Do Mean BOUNCING)

So, cute baby story. Indulge me, he is still pretty new.

Thanks to the huge generosity of my brother and sister-in-law, we got a ton of baby loot for free. Thank you, thank you, thank you! When I wrote the initial thank you, I had no idea the kind of investment that had been passed along. Now, I think I owe them a much bigger shout-out or a kidney or something.

Included in the bonanza of baby stuff was one of those big-ass spring/saddle things that hangs from a doorway. You plunk the kiddo in it and they can bounce themselves up and down. I never actually know the name of any of the equipment so items are known as "the acute angle thing," "Truth" and "The Magic Monkey Machine." We call the swing "Truth" because IT SETS YOU FREE. Seriously, it is the best thing since pockets on a shirt (or "pop-top beer cans," thanks to BP for that one).

A couple of days ago, Sweet Baby was in the doorway bouncing thing and Humphrey (the 150 pound God Knows What dog we have) walked by. Bebe grabs on to Humphrey's tail. The dog is now pulling him and his huge ass spring across the room. I can't get there fast enough to stop the carnage.

Luc lets go and SLINGSHOTS himself out the door. I, honest to God, fear that he is going to free himself of the seat thing and fly off the deck, down three stories, onto cactus (screaming "I regret nothing!"). However, rather than Thelma and Louise-ing, he is "merely" bouncing all over the place. Side to side. In and out of the door.

I am about to have a full-blown stroke. Even the dog with a brain the size of a walnut is panicking.

Not bebe. He is laughing his ass off. So hard that he wets himself. Seriously, he could not stop laughing with the joy of it all for 10 minutes. He was even slapping his knee like some old guy.
Once I free-based some Valium and chugged some gin, I was fine too. I am not sure that walnut-brain Humphrey has recovered from his role in it.

The good news is that I don't have some wimpy-ass, whimpering boy. Really, is there anything worse? I would also like to state that my brilliant baby clearly got my math and science skills since he has mastered the concept of stored energy. Can mastering Quantum Mechanics be far behind?

The bad news is that we can tell he wants to replicate the event and is constantly on the look-out for his version of a fulcrum.

How can you expect American GIs to go back to the farm once they have seen the dancing girls of Paris? How can you expect a baby boy to go back to jumping off his feet once he has become a dog-enhanced projectile/slingshot?

I'll Just Be Back

So yesterday I told a story about my sense of direction and the lack thereof. I get this from my mother. She is the only person that I have met with a poorer internal compass than me. I am not making this conversation up (no exaggerations, either):

Mom: "Your nose always points North, Joy."
me: "Are you an idiot?"
Mom: "No." {Side bar I LOVE it when people answer rhetorical questions, especially rude ones}
me: "Then how is the earth not spinning out of control given that you and I are looking different ways?"
Mom: "Humm, must just be mine then. Sister Gonzaga said so in the second grade."
me: "Well, since you have it on such good authority... What happens when you turn around? YOU and YOU ALONE affect due North? How do you not take down airplanes when you vacuum?"
Mom: "You're just jealous. And an asshole."

Finally, years later she now accepts that her nose is not a compass. However, she still has the worst sense of direction ever.

At some point she was trying to get to a baby shower. She ended up, I kid you not, in the Cargo Loading Area for Delta Airlines at DFW Airport. God knows how she ended up there but she bombs right in and has the following conversation:

Perplexed Delta Guy: "Lady, you can't be in here."
Mom: "I don't want to be here. I want to be at a baby shower."
PDG: "This is a secure area. You can't be in here."
Mom: "Obviously, it is not too secure if I got here." {She does have a point...} "And, as I mentioned, I don't want to be here. I want to be at a baby shower." {This is where she holds up a gift bag as if to demonstrate her intent; terrorists should have such a good disguise}.
PDG: "You have to leave."
Mom: "I will need directions."
P and now angry DG: "Lady, you have to leave. NOW."
Mom: "If you don't tell me how to get out of here. I will just end up here again." Now, to my mother's credit she has a point. I end up lost in the same place so many times that I genuinely believe that I know where I am because I have been there so many times before. People with a sense of direction simply fail to understand this.
PDG: "Fine. Whatever. Just leave." And he gives her directions as to how to get out of the airport.
Mom: "Thank you. Do you happen to know where the shower is?"

At this point About-to-Stroke-Out-Delta-Guy shouts and expletive and she zooms off.

Fifteen minutes later she is back. IN THE DELTA CARGO HOLD. Her explanation "That guy's directions sucked."

Turn Left at Jesus

I have a horrid sense of direction. Please don't argue with me and say "Oh I am sure it is not that bad" because it is. My favorite argument is "You are good at math, you HAVE to have spatial skills." Oh really? Well, let me call the GRE Board and have them rescind my perfect analytical score since you claim that the two are so intricately linked. Truth be told, I have spatial skills on paper but, in reality, I think I get distracted by too much stuff to be able to get myself around.

I read a survey once that asked "If you could have a full time housekeeper, cook or driver what would you choose?" Obviously, the ONLY reasonable choice is a driver! Shockingly, it got less that 1% of the vote. Not deterred, I assume that it must be a mistake so I set out to do my own survey. So far, I have only two other people in my camp: Alyssa and my mother. Who knew that there were so many people out there who don't hate driving and have a sense of direction? I loathe driving so much I could be a New Yorker (well, if I were trendier and much angrier, I could be a NYer).

But back to the point, at one point in time I moved to Montana. Yep, the things you do for love. Hubby (before he was Hubby) was stationed in Great Falls (think of a neon-laden small town; they passed a law allowing everything to become a "casino" so now every establishment has video poker. Seriously flashing signs that exalt "Country Kitchen and Casino" is not an uncommon sight).

So, the love of my life is in Great Falls so I decide to go to graduate school in Bozeman. Fine, fine. Beautiful town, great economics program, cute apartment, all is well.

The commute is three and a half hours with, literally, three turns. A left at Jesus, a right at the concrete cows and a left at Wendy's. Why would I know street names or highway numbers when you have a landmark like a HUGE-ASS BILLBOARD THAT SAYS "JESUS SAVES." This is, honestly, the largest billboard I have ever seen and it is well-lit 24 hours a day.

So, you know what is coming. After 9 months of making this drive at least once a week, someone turns Jesus off. {Is that a sin?} So I bomb past my turn. About five hours later, I snap out of my Jimmy Buffet revelry and realize two things: 1) I should have been home almost two hours ago and 2) I have NO IDEA where I am. Seriously, not a clue. Of course, Sweetness has put a map in my car but when you don't know where you are maps fall solidly in the "interesting but not compelling" category.

Hummm, what to do, what to do? Of course, being Montana there is not a soul in sight - no gas stations, no "Eat at Joe's" no nothing. Eventually, I see one of those emergency boxes on the side of the road. Perfect! This is a transcript of the conversation:

me "Ummm, can you tell me where I am?"
completely disinterested, not helpful person: "What do you mean?"
me "I am lost which means I don't know where I am. Can you tell me where this box is located."
cdnhp "How do you not know where you are?"
me "Can you do differential equations?"
cdnhp "What's that?"
me "I rest my case. Now can you help me?"
cdnhp "Whatever. You are --- bound on ***." To this day, I still have no idea where I was.
me "Ummm, where precisely is that?" I want to add in "in relation to the Jesus sign but I figure that is too specific for the dimwit on the other end of the line.
cdnhp "What do you mean?"
me "Is that in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho or Canada?"
cdnhp "Are you drunk, stupid or just trying to piss me off?"
me "If those are my only three options, I will have to go with 'stupid' but that moniker kind of hurts."

Eventually, I learn that I am still in Montana so I am pretty happy that I am "only" lost in the 4th largest state. BoNANza, I'm a freakin' genius. This is where the wheels come off of my plan. Instead of getting out the map, locating my own self and going from there to where I want to go... I DRIVE BACK TO JESUS. The former plan did not even dawn on me. I have no sense of direction (I know, I could probably stop it at "no sense") so why risk it? Back three hours to the Jesus sign, left turn and I am back on track. Approximately nine hours later (for a 3 to 3.5 hour drive), I arrive home.

One can only imagine the answering machine messages from Sweetness. They start with "hey call me" and quickly escalate to "calling the highway patrol and alerting the missile crews to be on the look out for you."

What can I say, I am really good at other things... directions are simply not something at which I excel (but, please note, that I did not end that sentence with a preposition).

Delta Dog

Let me preface this posting with the following disclaimer. My husband is a stud. Seriously. Former Marine, sniper, calm in all situations, expert sharp shooter, snake eater kind of guy. This story does not do him justice but it is hilarious nonetheless.

So, Hubby and I adopted a Great Dane and a God Knows What from the Humane Society a few years back. Both of them weigh in at over 150 pounds. Yes, each. I know, I know. But we figure we are from Texas and we do everything big.

The Dane, Remy, needs to get neutered. My advice to you: do not neuter a huge-ass, crazy-train, skittish dog. He is less than amused with the whole scene as you can imagine. The vet then puts on the "don't bite your stitches out" collar. For a 150 pound dog. He looks like he is wearing a satellite dish around his head. A military, spying on the Soviets, satellite dish. From the 80s. Before the technology was good. This thing is ginormous. Poor guy can not fit through doorways and is knocking everything over. The crashing does not help his already-shot-to-hell-nerves.

Needless to say (but I will say it), he loathes the collar. He can't sleep in it because, well, it is huge and with a small rainstorm, he would indeed drown. It is so large that his breathing ECHOES in it. Seriously. To express his dislike he drags it along the tiles surrounding the fireplace in our bedroom. We can't toss his ass outside since it is January in Colorado and he has like 1% body fat and short hair. We can't let him roam the house since he is destruction in fur with this medieval device on. So for two nights, I can't sleep because of the wretched sound. Hubby can sleep through anything (including a rocket attack in Afghanistan).

So night three I have the brilliant idea: let him sleep in our bed and he will stop the horrifying tile scraping and we can all get some rest. "Joy, you are a genius." I move Big 'Un into our bed. Well, the second dog will have none of this. They are, clearly, a package deal. Fine, fine. Now Hubby, me and 300 pounds of beast are all in our bed. It is a tight fit but everyone is quiet so I am feeling quite victorious and, once again, complimenting myself on my genius.

I get up to get some water (dog hair in your throat will do that). When I come back, the pack has rearranged itself and there is no room at the inn for me. Once again, brilliance strikes. I decide to sleep on the dog bed my own self. It is cushy, in front of the fireplace and, hell, if it keeps everyone quiet, what's the harm?

I am half asleep when Hubby gets up to go to the bathroom. As is his custom every night at 4am, he leans over pets whatever is on the dog bed and says "hey, big dog."

This time, a human voice answers saying "You know it's me, right?"

Half-asleep Studmuffin Husband leaps in the air shouting "Holy shit, a talking dog!!!"

I think I actually wet my pants laughing.

B-I-N-G-O

Now I think I have some talents: I can make a souffle at altitude, I make an amazing lavender martini, I find myself to be funny and I am ding dang good at math. So when I make the following statement it is not intended to be one of those teenage girl "Don't push me in the pool, don't push me in the pool" moments while I stand next to the pool, hoping to get shoved in. "Ohmygawd, he pushed me in the pool, can you believe it? Do you think he likes me?" SIDEBAR: This is Reason #258 why I am very thankful I had a son. Teenage girl stuff drives me insane. I did not even like myself when I was a teenage girl...


But back to the point: I have a singing voice that can curdle milk. Seriously, it is awful and I know it. Even my Dad who thought I hung the moon once said "it's okay that you can't sing, you are pretty." This was how I got the news that I can't carry a tune. Therapy bills later... I am now actually fine with this fact because I only sing in the car and only then when I am alone and the windows are tightly closed. I, occasionally, sing to sweet bebe because I think that is what good moms do. However, he only tolerates it because I am his mom and he thinks that I am the yummiest thing ever, in spite of my singing.


So I am with potential Japanese clients in Germany and, after the ridiculously expensive dinner ($9000 for 8) complete with champagne (that I paid for), after dinner cocktails (which I paid for) and a strip club (story to follow at some other point, perhaps. Still traumatized by this incident), they want to go to a karaoke bar. Oh egads. I would rather go to another strip club and that was one of the low points of my life.


Fortheloveofgawd, it is 3 in the morning and I am taking a bunch of Japanese men and one uptight German guy to a karaoke bar. I better get a huge bonus complete with stock options for this one.


Now in business school, I learned that it is supposedly tacky and poor form to refuse to sing when a Japanese person offers you the mike. I start panicking. How am I going to get out of this if offered? I can't sing in public. I can't sing in front of clients. I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this. Good lawd a-mighty, can I fake laryngitis? meningitis? hepatitis? any -itis will do.


I IMMEDIATELY start praying. It goes something like this "Hi God, it's me, Joy. I know it has been a while. Sorry about that. I know, I know but I have been busy. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it is tacky to only call when I need a favor but this is a biggie. Please don't let them give me the mike. Please, please. Thanks! Oh yeah, and please fix Sudan. Love, Joy."


Most of the Japanese guys have taken the stage with a FULLY PREPARED ROUTINE. I mean, they have choreographed moves, gestures and pauses. Seriously. And why are they insisting on singing classic American songs by Jackson, Sinatra and Elvis with Japanese accents in a German bar? They are awful and I am getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible just in case (always a Girl Scout). And I am still trying to cut a deal with God, "Okay, I will give 10% of my bonus off this deal to a charity of your choice. And I will stop swearing. And be nice to my little brother. And clean my room."


Next, the bell tolls for me. Shit! I am now spending that 10% of my bonus on a Dior handbag. Screw starving children, it is all about me, bae-bee. I explain to everyone that I have a horrid voice but this is not a deterrent.


En route to the stage, I am yo-yo-ing between terror/humiliation ("the ONLY way this could be worse is if only there were birds on stage") and total bravado ("hell, my voice sucks but at least I am fluent in English. Maybe I will sound better to foreign ears").


Then I have a brilliant idea, perhaps my best idea ever. "Oh, Joy, you are a clever, clever girl. You ARE indeed Wile E Coyote, Super Genius." I will have everyone else sing on my behalf and I will make half the song silent. Hell, it works for the Bare Naked Ladies in "If I Had a Million Dollars," it can work for me.


So, I chose the song B-I-N-G-O. Here is where hatching a brilliant plan and being drunk start their collision course for tragedy. I get the song wrong and it starts off with "Old MacDonald had a farm" and instead of saying "E I E I O" I start blaring "B I N G O." Even to my tone deaf, booze-altered ears, I know something is wrong. Then I see that they have a screen to help you out -- who knew?


But now I am panicking because 1) I don't know the words to this song (did I miss a lot of kindergarten? I swear to God, I first saw the Chicken Dance when I was 25) 2) the next five minutes will involve more singing and less clapping and 3) I don't have my glasses on so I can't even read the words on the screen. And, oh yeah, and I am in a crowded bar on a stage with potential clients thinking I am some drunk, juvenile-obsessed buffoon.


Once again, brilliance strikes! I decide to lounge lizard it up. What I lack in talent (a significant deficit in case you had not sorted that out yet), I more than make up for in chutzpa and bravado. So I start zooming around the crowd and having them fill in the animal sounds. You would be amazed at how different cultures represent the same animal.


I am now Tom Jones sans the chest hair and diamante. The crowd is loving it and people are clamoring (seriously CLAMORING) to "moo" and "baa" into my microphone. I am merely zooming around the room randomly saying "you people are beautiful" and "don't forget to tip your waitress" and having everyone else do the actually singing.


Self talk: "Joy, you are a genius. You have actually pulled this off. What a coup!"


The song ends and I get a standing ovation. Yeah me! And then they start cheering, I kid you not, "one more time, one more time."


Self talk: "Flippin' moron. You could not just sing an Engelbert Humperdinck song and teach these people a lesson. Noooo, you have to be funny. Way to go, fool."