They Are Practically Amish!

So, my mom has this warped idea that none of her grandchildren have any toys. I actually got a phone call a couple of years ago from her stating "Your nieces have no toys. None whatsoever. It is like they are Amish or something." Yes, leave it to my mother to reduce an entire way of life and belief system to, well, a lack of stuff.  Regardless, I get to my brother's house and it looks like a toy store threw up. Beauty and reality are, apparently, in the eyes of the beholder.

So to remedy the situation, my mother the Drama Queen decides to make toys for the girls. Before you think "Isn't she clever and creative, and how she must love those children" let me stop you in your tracks. She did this only to attempt to guilt my brother and sister-in-law into buying the girls even more stuff.



Let me describe her "ghetto toys" as Jimmy {the much beleaguered brother} and I call them. An orange juice can full of dried beans and a toilet paper cardboard tube thing full of rice. Both duct-taped together. Seriously, how much more ghetto can you get than rice and beans duct-taped into your recycling?



Naturally, the cardboard tube has a life expectancy of 10 minutes before there is rice everywhere. Everyone except my mother the genius could see this one coming. She seemed shocked.



Fast forward two years and Jimmy gets a call from my mother. "Your nephew has no toys, none whatsoever. Those two hippie minimalists. Do the girls still have the orange juice can of beans for me to give him?"



Yesterday, my mom leaves me a v-mail stating that my sister-in-law is moving the girls to different car seats and that I should ask her if I can have the old ones. {God forbid that she simply ask about this while she is standing there. Nope, let's add in an extra step}. So I send off an email to Jimmy asking him if he will save them for us. This is his hilarious response:



"No problem, we have a bunch of other toys and stuff too. Solidarity among the minimalists."



My brother is to funny what my mother is to annoying.

Vertigo-Inducing Activities

I will readily admit that I am not a television kind of girl. In fact, when Hubby was deployed, I did not turn on the television for a full year. It is yet another item on my list of "not my things."



Truth be told, there were extenuating circumstances to my lack of tv viewing (since I do like to watch the Cowboys) while he was gone. The first time I go downstairs {yes, we only have one television and it is NOT in our living room}, there is a momma bear and her two cubs sitting on the back porch steps eating rib bones. Now to give them credit, Hub's ribs are wicked good so I can't blame them. However, I was new to Colorado and felt like this was a little too much nature too close to home. So, back upstairs for a couple of months.

Two months later, it is a perfect Colorado autumn day: I am making soup, the windows are open throughout the house. Life is good. Perhaps a little Sunday football would go well with this scenario. I go downstairs and, lo and flippin' behold, there is a fox with his head stuck in my window inhaling soup smells. I am less than amused as you might imagine. Back upstairs, never to venture to the lower level until Hubby returns from the desert.

That being said, I decide to buy Hubby a new tv for his birthday a couple of years ago. Actually, I did not decide to do this, the AFA cadets we sponsor thought we needed a new one. Subtle guys that they are ... they actually said "Why do you live in a house like this and have such a ghetto tv?" Honestly, we had never noticed. And, besides, our old one was the proverbial 20 year old car with 10,000 miles on it, driven once a week to church by Granny. Yes, we bought the boob tube in 1994 but it was on only for Cowboy games and some college basketball.


So, I decide that they are right and we need a new television in time for March Madness (Hub's fave time of the year). Off I go to some electronics store where I immediately get dizzy and nauseous from all the television screens. Seriously, I think I caught vertigo or something. I stagger out of the store before you can say "So, you looking for a new tv?"


But, hey, all is not lost. I will do this on-line. The www was invented for shopping, no? So, I go to the vertigo-inducing store's website.

All I know is that I want a television and that someone somewhere at sometime told me that you should not have some kind of tv at altitude because something goes wrong with some part. But, hey, that should be PLENTY of information, right? Have Visa will shop.

Let me give you a piece of advice. Never search the word "television." About 10 gazillion choices come up. Ohfortheloveofgawd. I thought I would simply have to choose between four sizes, pop in my credit card number and, c'est voila, I would be done with my side of this endeavor. No such luck. There are way too many choices for my attention span and lack of interest.

In the corner, I see this glimmering piece of manna "Need help? Have questions? Ask our expert!"

BoNANza! Of course, this initial glee is followed by the internal barrage of questions: They have television experts? Who knew? What kind of degree do you have to have to be a television expert? Are these real experts or just couch potatoes?

So, I IM the "expert." Here is my exchange with the SAE {Smart-Ass Expert}



me: I would like to buy a television
SAE: Great! I can help. What kind?


me: Color
SAE: Ha, ha!


me: Oh, uh, do you need more information than that?


{embarrassingly long pause where I know I am being mocked by said expert and his geeky potato friends}


SAE: They don't make black and white televisions anymore.


SAE: Anywhere.


SAE: Not even Korea.

SAE: North Korea.

I just close the window and hang my head in shame. Then comes the mandatory negative self-talk ... How can I know so little about the most ubiquitous appliance in America? Gawd, what kind of loser am I? Is this common knowledge?


Then I snap out of it and decide that: 1) the IM guy probably watches tv non-stop and, therefore, is pale and pimply and 2) I may not know anything about televisions but I know a thing or two about outsourcing and problem-solving.


So, I give the cadets a budget and ask them to pick one out for me. All was right with the world. The cadets were thrilled because they got an upgraded tv for their weekends at our house. Hubs was happy because he got to watch March Madness in high definition. Most importantly, I was happy because I did not have to deal with vertigo or snarky potato people.

I Am Smart Like the Rain Man

I was President of the Junior League for two years. While president, you are expected to go to all JL events, even those you loathe. You are also expected to be positive about them ... even those you loathe.



One of our long-standing events was a garage sale. For those of you who do not know me, this is not my forte. I don't shop at nor do I hold garage sales. I see no reason to pluck through people's cast-offs hoping to find something delectable. I know some people love "garage sale-ing" {and when did that become a verb?} but I am not one of them. It is simply not my style.


However, as president, off I toodle to the evil garage sale. I volunteer to be a cashier since 1) I LOVE money, 2) no one else ever wants to do this task and 3) numbers don't make me cry.


Since everything is priced in clean increments ($1.50, $2, .25), I found it easier to add things up in my head rather than use a calculator. I assure you this was not rocket science (though I can do that too, I am a total math geek).


This woman is, apparently, standing behind me for quite some time verifying my figures with her calculator. And, lo and behold, I am correct. I have no idea that she is doing this since I am not owl-like and can't see behind me.

At some point, this woman SCREECHES "Mavis, this girl is really good with numbers. I think she is autistic. Like. The. Rain. Man."


I turn to her and calmly state "First, that is Savant Syndrome, not autism. Second, I am neither a savant nor am I deaf; so, third, please stop yelling."


Totally oblivious to my intonation, she replies "Well, I have been checking and you are always right. Even faster than me and my calculator."


"Oh goodie, I shall call my parents and tell them all the money on private education has not been wasted. I am indeed quite speedy at simple math. They will be so proud."


That lady is Exhibit A as to why I don't "garage sale."

Homemade Pasta Sauce

From our farm share, we got the mother lode of tomatoes this week, over 65 pounds of them. Hence, why I came up with the following recipe for pasta sauce.


15 cloves of garlic, sliced in half
olive oil
handful of fresh basil
4 pinches of oregano
2 teaspoons crushed red pepper
4 pounds of fresh tomatoes
1 medium yellow onion, chopped


In a large pot put about 1/8 inch of olive oil and sauté the garlic on low heat until it is golden (don't let it brown, it gets bitter like your mother-in-law). Here is where you get a choice in the process, you can blanch the tomatoes and then skin them or you can toss them in with the skin. I am not afraid of tomato skins so I eliminate this step.

Cut the tomatoes in half or quarters and place them in the pot with the garlic. Add in the herbs and red pepper. Cook on low. With an immersion blender, start to puree the sauce a bit. I like to leave it a bit chunky but that is your choice (I give so many options, how refreshing!).
Once you get it to your preferred texture, add in the onion.
Let it simmer for 2 - 3 hours until it is the right viscosity and the tomato flavor is as strong as you like it (the time will depend upon how much water your tomatoes had in them). Salt and pepper to taste.
It is now ready to be devoured or you can freeze or can it depending upon storage issues at your house..
Alternatively, you can grill/roast all of some of the tomatoes first and then proceed as above.

Vanilla Overnight Waffles

These are so, so good (and great texture) and having to not make batter in the morning is perfect for non-morning people like me.



1/2 teaspoon yeast
2 cups flour
2 Tablespoons sugar
large pinch of salt
2 cups milk
1 stick of butter, melted (cool slightly)
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs

The night before, mix all the dry ingredients IN A LARGE BOWL. The batter will rise so you need a large bowl or there will be a mess. I learned this one the hard way. Trust me on this.



Into the dry ingredients add the milk followed by the butter and vanilla. Cover with plastic wrap and leave on the counter. Yes, milk on the counter overnight. I promise that you will not die.


The next morning, seperate the eggs. Beat the yolks and add them to the batter. Beat the egg whites and then fold them in to the batter.


Plunk in a waffle iron and enjoy.


I have added chocolate chips, almond meal and blueberries to these. Each one is a really good....

Perfectly Good Ice Cream Ruined

This is a quickie to balance out yesterday's epic blog.



A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about my neighbor (Wall of Death) who had to remove the woodpecker head and the elk haunch from my front lawn while Hubby was in Afghanistan.


This is the sequel to that story. He called me later that month and asked if he could put some stuff in my freezer since he had just shot a buffalo in South Dakota. Fine, fine. No worries. I open the garage door and in it goes. I {stupidly} assume that he had left wrapped meat in the freezer.

A week later, I go to get my Ben and Jerry's out ... {insert scary music here}... I open the freezer and much to my surprise --- there is a buffalo head in my freezer. Yes, a head. No paper covering it just a little frost in his beard.


You can only imagine how happy this made me.


I call him {slightly hysterical} screeching "There is a HEAD in my freezer! A head, Russ, a head!"

He {ever calm} replies, "Yeah, I put that in there."


I screech back, "I did not assume that the South Dakota mob was sending me a message! When are you planning on taking the wooly mammoth out of there?!?"


"It is a buffalo, not a mammoth." {Clearly, my panic and sarcasm do not phase him}


I ended up buying new ice cream and not opening the freezer again until Hubby got home from 'stan. I still swear I have PTSD from the entire event.

Arrested in Germany - Thrice!

When I was a software diva, I traveled to Germany. A lot. Germany has a lot of things going for it: efficiency, schnitzel, beer (if you are into that, which, sadly, I am not), Berlin, a gorgeous landscape, Mercedes, Oktoberfest... However, their police force is a bit too, well, German.

{There is a hideously old joke that says "In heaven, the police are British, the cooks are French, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian, and it is all organized and run by the Swiss. Whereas in Hell, the cooks are British, the mechanics are French, the lovers Swiss, it is all organized and run by the Italians and the police are German}.

When a joke sticks around for that long, there is generally some truth behind it. The German police and I don't get along. And, trust me; I am a law-abiding kind of girl. I don't even litter.


For one of my clients, I would fly into Düsseldorf and drive the last two hours to Paderborn. Since I was consulting for Siemens, I got their discount on car rentals so I could rent a gorgeous BMW, Audi or Mercedes for $10 a day. Suh-weet. Driving cross country is SO MUCH better in a luxury car on the Autobahn. Trust me on this one; I hate driving.

So, off I toodle to Paderborn. The police pull me over. Hummm, no speed limit so what can they possibly want? In a bad-movie voice the guy demands "Your papers please." Seriously. I thought it was a joke. And what kind of papers do they want? I am an American, we don't really have a lot of documentation. I ask him what is wrong and he simply repeats "Your papers please." I ask him what kind of papers he is looking for and he sincerely responds "Documents." Duh, like it was an error in translation.


Fine, whatever, I give him my driver's license and call it a day. Clearly, that is not what he was after. He wanted much more and now all I had managed to do was irritate him. Which was fine since I was not a happy bunny my own self.


He goes back and calls whatnot in to "Headquarters" {I am NOT making this up}. Twenty minutes later, he reappears to tell me my offense: my headlamps were on. AND it was not sufficiently dark in his opinion to warrant this. He is trying to give me a ticket for wasting gas. I, for a brief moment, think he is joking. Then I realize "Hell, he is German police, they are not known for being humorists." I explain that 1) I had just left the airport parking lot where it was sufficiently dark and simply did not turn them off 2) it is snowing and that, to my American mind, justifies the precautionary light and 3) lights run off the alternator not the motor, hence I am, technically, not wasting fuel.


He is now the unhappy bunny and storms back to his car to do whatever. He comes back twenty minutes later, tosses my "papers" at me and goes back to his car. I assume all is forgiven, call my client and tell them I will be an hour late and off I go.


Back on the road, THE SAME COP PULLS ME OVER AGAIN FIVE MILES LATER. Fortheloveofgawd, now what? Once again, RoboCop simply demands my papers. Yes, the same papers he just checked 5 minutes ago. Totally a you-gotta-be-shittin'-me-moment. When I say "Uh, you know it is me, right? My lamps are off. And I have seen you following me so, seriously, what could I have possibly done in such a short period of time?"

"Your papers please."

At least time two it was easy since I had never bothered to put them away from my first offense. Back he goes to contact HQ again. Meanwhile, my client calls to ask me something and I tell him "I am with the police, can I call you back?" Sweet Gunther (coolest name ever!) says "Didn't this just happen to you a few minutes ago?" "Yep, it is clearly my lucky day. There were Jews in WWII who were not as beleaguered as me right now."


Robo returns saying that my papers appear to be in order (shock-a-rooni!) and that my offense this time is that I have snow on the roof of my car. This is where Germans always nod and say "of course, that is an offense, what if it blows off and gets on someone else's windscreen." This is where Americans swear I am lying.

He decides to let me off with a warning since I simply stared at him incredulously for so long that he must have thought I had slipped into a catatonic trance. I did not even bother to mention that the only reason snow had accumulated on the roof of my car was that I had spent the last hour parked on the side of the road defending my knowledge of mechanical engineering.


Important bit of minutia, I stop at a gas station for a Coke.

Not three minutes later, Robo PULLS ME OVER AGAIN. Honestly, crack whores do not get this kind of harassment in the US. For those of you who are counting, this is three stops in less than 10 miles. What am I driving, a portable meth lab?


And, naturally, he demands my papers and offers no explanation. Oh honest to God, dude, are you paid extra for being an ass?

At this point, I lose it. I normally am very polite and Catholic school taught me the importance of deference to authority figures but this is complete-am-I-on-one-of-those-not-funny-hidden-camera-shows kind of insanity.

I demand to know why I am being pulled over. I get out of the car; show him that my headlamps are off and that there is no snow on the roof of the car. How else can I possibly have sinned in the last couple of minutes? He then says "There was an incident at the petrol station."

Oh god, oh god, oh god. I stole my Coke. I can't imagine that I would have done that but maybe I was distracted and on the phone with Gunther who was having a software meltdown (and, trust me on this one, our software could cause meltdowns unlike no other). Lovely. I am so going to a German prison for this since this guy hates me and my mere existence. Shit, shit, shit. {Yes, I do realize that I over-react on occasion but it is my drama so butt out, oh judgmental ones}.

Then I realize: I am on an expense account; I pay for nothing. Surely, I stuffed the receipt (if I have one and did not, indeed, pinch this delightful carbonated beverage as feared) in my purse. I frantically dig it out {this process is made much easier by the fact that half of the contents of my purse are scattered on the front seat since Robo needed to see everything except my lip gloss to prove that I was, well, me}. AH HA, take that Robo! I do have a receipt and, hence, I did NOT steal and, ergo, I am not going to the German big house.

He insists that I go back to the gas station with him. Ohfortheloveofgawd, why not? I am already so incredibly late for work, what's another interrogation going to do?


We go back (after sarcastically and dramatically scraping off the snow) sans head lamps to said gas station. Lo and behold, there is an entire cop caravan there. I start panicking that, somehow, somewhere, this is not going to end well for me and that I will be forced to end it all a la Thelma and Louise. However, there is nary a cliff in sight and I am driving a top-of-the-line Mercedes so I assume I will be saved by multiple, German-engineered airbags. Damn Germans have even foiled my attempted, albeit imaginary, suicide.

Turns out that I am not at fault; instead, I am, somehow, a victim. While I was there, two African men came up, chatted in a language I did not understand and petted my hair (and, yes, I do mean "pet." "Stroke" seems way too sexual and personal for this). I was not offended so I ignored it and went on my merry way. {Side note, I lived in Greece and traveled in Turkey a lot... OF COURSE I was not offended by someone petting my hair. I am blond and this often gets me discounts on jewelry. Call me cheap, call me Ishmael, call me when my ring is sized}.


Someone else saw this and was offended so they called the police on my behalf. Well, thank heavens that Robo was right there to pull me over again and return me to the scene of the "crime" {and if there was ever a case of blatant racism, this was it}. Then they learn that I don't speak German so they have to call an "official translator" even thought they all speak perfect English. Fine, whatever. An hour later, he appears and asks me what evils transpired (for the record, his English is not as good as Robo's or the store clerk's but, whatever).

I say "I was getting a Coke that I later paid for (just in case this is some elaborate ploy to railroad me into a confession). Those two guys came up, said something I did not understand (could be Swahili, could be Swedish, I dunno), touched my hair and I left."


All hell breaks loose. The clerk did not see them touch me so he did not report that part of it. Now, I have been sexually assaulted. The Germans all go secure and even I can see that things are not looking good for the African guys. Rorry Rorge. But, no worries, I will fix this. I am a consultant; I fix all kinds of stuff. Trust me, I am practically a professional.


The Germans insist that they now have to call in a female, official translator to talk to me about my perceived assault. I can bear no more of this. Hubby was assigned to NATO and no one loves ID cards like NATO. I demand a representative from NATO and the US Embassy. I whip out all of my ID cards to NATO, the US Embassy, my work permit, my proxy cards, my US military ID card and, hell, even my base library card.


I start demanding representation from the nearest base as well as the consulate. Now it is time for them to panic. Profuse apologies to me since they do not want the full force of my wrath. Nor do they want to deal with the American forces whom are known to enjoy paperwork their own selves. I insist that not only am I to leave but the Africans are to be released also. Yep, I am all about defending the unjustly accused (though I could not even make it through all of Erin Brockovich).

I finally get to work six hours late. For the record, I turned on my headlamps and did not brush the snow off my windshield just to flaunt my newfound power.

They Should Come With a Warning Label

When I was pregnant, everyone told me stuff about sleepless nights, teething, etc but no one prepared me for the loneliness of the job. I know, I know, your baby is company and all but, seriously, I feel so alone part of the time. Is it possible to play peek-a-boo 900 times and still act surprised that baby is there? How many times can I stack that concentric ring thing before I lose what is left of my mind?


There are times I wonder “For this I went to graduate school? A moderately well-trained orangutan could stack these things and make sure the baby does not crawl out the door. Plus, the primate would be MUCH more entertaining than me to a baby boy since they, well, throw poo and can hang from the ceiling fan.”

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not crying in my champagne (crying in beer seems way too trashy for me)... I have a lot of friends and acquaintances. However, my very dearest friends are long distance (shout out to Kim, Tom and Ody) and they do not have children (yet!). What I am missing is a local girlfriend 1) who has a baby/toddler so they will understand what I am going through and 2) who is not crazy.


I love being a mom. Well, I love being my bebe's mom (I need to quantify that because I am not so certain I would like being a mom to some babies. I always tell bebe "Momma does not do sticky or cold" but to other babies I would have to add on "Momma does not do whiney, wimpy or allergic." I think their parents are the causes of their w,w and a but, regardless, I can't cope with that. The Universe, in all its wisdom, gave me low-maintenance, great eater, happy sleeper baby for a reason. And, for that, I am amazingly and eternally grateful.


I just would like the camaraderie of someone (other that Hubby) that I can discuss the minutiae with. My besties who have older kids 1) have forgotten some of the trials and 2) don't seem shell-shocked at the whole premise of being a mom. {Honestly, there are some days that I wake up and still am surprised that I have a baby. Seriously, did I meet the requirements? Am I even remotely qualified for this? Isn't parenting for adults? Is the Take-Back-Man going to come collect him?} Plus, these women look fabulous and I feel like the wrath of God some days. {Sadly, I went out the other night and had sweet potatoes down my back. I have no idea how it happened but it was repugnant nonetheless. Furthermore, it looked like poo which is a whole new level of humiliation}.


My other deal-breaker is "no crazies." I am tired of the "My child speaks four languages!" "My baby does differential equations!" "What do you mean, your baby can't use chopsticks yet?" I just want to scream at these delusional moms "You mean to tell me that your genius child over there can speak four languages and do advanced math but is currently eating dog food off the floor?" And the chopstick-wielding baby is the same one who knocked his head on the cocktail table three times trying to stand up? I think my baby is Wile E. Coyote Supergenius too but, honestly, he is frighteningly fascinated by plastic hangers so let's be honest here.


And please don't get me started on the kids who are allergic, hyper-sensitive, lactose-intolerant, gluten-fearing and baptized in Purell. There are entire countries in Africa where the major source of protein is peanuts and you are terrified of going to a baseball game in case someone within 30 rows is eating a Crackerjack. Seriously? I see a bubble in your kid's future, Crazy Train.

What I long to shout is "Really, moms, calm down and enjoy your babies while they are still cuddly. Stop trying to turn them into something that they are not. Odds are (and I am a statistician so I know this), they are all going to survive to adulthood and be, shockingly, average. Get Over Yourselves."

Hummm, and I seem shocked that I am struggling finding a buddy?


However, if there is a new mom in Colorado who likes to lunch and is not crazy... call me!

Masking Tape Messages

I decided that bebe needed some interaction with other little people so I signed up for a MOPS group. For the uninitiated, it stands for Mothers of Pre-Schoolers. No, not people who are actually in pre-school but Moms of Little People From Birth to Whenever Their Moms Get Tired of This Activity (however, MOLPFBTWTMGTOTA is, apparently, not as catchy as MOPS).



So far, it has been fine (granted, I have only been twice but still... if one of the women in my small group looking like Ellen Barkin was not enough to drive me straight to the plastic surgeon, I imagine that I will stick with it). Besides, I was a little nervous about the Jesus factor (please don't try and convert me, I already have all the door-to-door religions knocking every week) but it really is fine.


I am hoping to meet a couple of mothers with babies who live locally and who 1) know what I am going through and 2) know more about mothering than I do (not that this is hard to accomplish since I know next to nothing). I am an expert baby shopper but I know diddley about pre-school programs and flashcards. Really, flashcards? Am I supposed to be doing that with him? Crap, why didn't someone tell me?


So when you drop your baby off at the nursery, they pepper you with questions none of which do I have a pleasing answer to.


"When does he eat?"

"When he is hungry."


"Will he nap?"

"If he is tired."


I mean, really, he is a baby not a German train. For only brief periods of time in your life does one not have a calendar, anxiety about calories/cholesterol and an over-scheduled life, so why not let him enjoy that and sleep when he flippin' wants to? Clearly, I am in the minority on this one. The other moms have set schedules, long lists of allergies and prohibited foods and strict directions on diapering requirements. Welcome to the age of high-anxiety parenting.

The first time I dropped him off we went through the aforementioned questions and then they asked "Any other requests you have for us while he is here?" I felt so pressured to say something, anything after hearing all these constraints and demands that the other moms had. And sadly, this is what I come up with "Uhh, don't drop him on his head?" Yep, I am sure that one went in my permanent record.


So, when I go to pick him up, there is High Anxiety Momma (I think I will start abbreviating this to HAM and see if it catches on) in front of me. You know the type, diaper bag the size of a golf bag, a totally tricked out, weighted down stroller, a car seat and a snuggley thing.... seriously, the parking lot is a three minute walk and you need this much stuff? Do you not have working limbs?


They handover her baby who is adorable but also past chubby (I know, I know once he starts walking he will slim down. Trust me, this is not said in judgment this kid is so, so cute). The baby looks like he is wearing a fat suit. Five chins, looks like he has rubber bands on his legs and arms, the full monty. Totally want to squeeze him, he is that cute (and I have high standards for adorable).


This is a baby who has not missed a meal. However, his HAM has decided to leave messages on him for the nursery people. She has MASKING TAPED his front and back with the following message "NO SNACKS."


To see a pudgy baby with "No Snacks" taped to both the front and back of his shirt... well, I about wet my pants laughing. That is classic.

The Boys Are Dead, Long Live the Boys!

My fabulous brother, Jimmy, was a late bloomer. He grew almost a foot in college {the amount of food consumed during that time was alarming. Seriously, it was enough to make one long for a daughter with anorexia} and he finally got a beard and underarm hair (he was SO excited about this. Seriously, this was apparently quite the right of passage for him. He called his underarm hair "the boys." Odd but totally true} Now stay with me. I know that this sounds like way too much information (which it totally is) but it is important for the story later on. Trust me on this one.


So, I am a senior in college and Jimmy is a freshman at a different college. I am up for some awards and I invite my mom and brother to the dinner. Because my family loves me, they agree to spend their Tuesday night eating bad chicken and watching me walk briefly across a stage. Jimmy stops en route at my mom's house to take a shower (his car was a p.o.s. and did not have air conditioning. In Texas. In May.) So, he takes a shower and gets ready at Mom's and off they go to meet me.


By the time they get to the dinner, Jimmy is sweating. Not perspiring, certainly not glowing but "oh-dear-gawd-are-you-stroking-out-sweating." It is especially bad under his arms. He has actual sweat marks/circles under them. As in I-am-a-50-year-old-obese-man-mowing-my-lawn-while-smoking-a-cigar sweat stains. Now, he is warm-natured and it is May in Texas but this is insanity.


And, like the champ that he is, he is trying so hard to be nonchalant about it. Finally, he leans over to me during dinner and says "I swear my pits are on fire." Jimmy, like all members of my family, has a ridiculously high tolerance for pain so to hear him complain ever is scary. Much less complain during an event that is all about me. So, I know he is suffering. {Well, the look of angst and pain gave it away also. I am terribly, terribly clever when it comes to detecting this kind of thing}.


I ask him if he has changed deodorant, soap, etc. Nope. Then he says that he got ready at Mom's house. Immediately, I fear the worst. "Did you use Mom's deodorant?" "Yeah, I know it is gross but why?"


"Oh God, was it a pink roll on?"

Now he is starting to panic. "Yeah, why?"


"That was not deodorant, it was Nair."

"What the fuck is Nair and am I going to die?"

"It is a hair remover that you leave on for 5 minutes."

"SHIT!" and off he runs to the bathroom. At this point, he has had it on for close to three hours. That has got to hurt like a mother. We are talking about, essentially, a chemical burn.


He comes back from the bathroom, wet and completely dejected. "The boys are gone. All I have in their place are blisters. But the boys are completely gone."


After note: they did eventually come back and now he is a hairy monster according to his daughters so all is well. He did learn the lesson not to blindly use other people's toiletries.

My Mother the Mechanical Genius

You know how when you are in high school, you just want to be invisible? The last thing in the world you want is for your parents (ESPECIALLY your parents) to turn you into some kind of side show. Well, no luck for anonymity in my world with my mother aka The Side Show.



My parents got divorced while I was in high school and my mom stopped driving a DeLorean and started driving a Plymouth Reliant. Seriously. The Reliant was not what one would call reliable... a total misnomer. At some point in time, it died in front of the school while she was picking me up. Never one to just call a tow truck (preferably after most people have left), Mom has got to pop the hood and start meddling around.

For the record, she has NO mechanical ability. She, literally, can't even put together those cardboard under-the-bed boxes.


But there is Mechanic Myra out there looking for some large on/off switch under the hood. At this point, our principal who was so kind, comes strolling out. Here is her diagnosis "Well, Ed, the car won't start. I checked the air in the tires so it is not that." And she is not being funny or ironic. Even with an hour of Driver's Ed, I can tell you that is not air pressure.

Of course, I am horrified. I just want to die. Or her to die. Regardless, someone needs to die so at least I will get sympathy from this unfortunate episode as opposed to disdain.


Finally, Big Tow comes {and, yes, that IS the coolest name ever for a tow truck company. If you haven't gotten the entendre, say it out loud. No worries, I will wait for you.... cute, no?}. Off we toodle to the mechanic. At this point Professor Smart aka Mom tells the mechanic:


"Well, it is not the air pressure. And, the car is a stick so don't bother checking the engine. It does not have one."


Bill Stiles (BEST and most honest mechanic in Dallas) says "Thanks for clarifying that for me, Mary. I will call you when we figure out what is wrong."


My mom, TO THIS DAY, is completely convinced that standard transmission cars do not have engines. Kind of like how she is convinced that her nose always points north (yes, there is a blog entry about that too).

It's the Pre-Game

Now don't get me wrong, I would walk on hot coals for my sweet baby boy. I also think of myself as a relatively low maintenance kind of girl. Not financially, mind you, but emotionally. And I am an expert suitcase packer. Seriously, all state in high school -- got the varsity letter and everything.


That being said, there is NO SUCH THING as a quick get-away with a baby in tow. Hubby and I call the entire process "the pre-game" {yes, most things in our life have a football analogy. We are from Texas after all}. Pre-game consists of finding the car seat (how we can misplace the monstrosity, I don't know. We are baffled by this phenomenon ourselves). Then, there is the ritual packing of the diaper bag, making of bottles and deciding how many diapers we need to tote. Followed by the locating and dismantling of the stroller. There was a time when a trip to the market meant a twenty and lipstick {I did mention that I am from Texas, right?} Now, everything is a process. What has happened to me?


The Car Seat (insert spooky music here). The car seat is the bane of my existence. It is cumbersome, weighs a million pounds and is ugly plastic. Yes, Ralph Nadar, I know that it is not about me but, why oh why, can't Dior make a car seat? I see these other women glide down the lane with it hitched in the crook of their elbow while they drink Starbucks coffee and chat on the phone. I am not that mom. I bounce the seat up and down so much that a drunk could not sleep through the experience.


The Diaper Bag: In this unfashionable sac, I only carry diapers and food. I have NO IDEA what all these other women are carrying in them. My husband deployed to Afghanistan with a smaller rucksack than some women take to the mall. However, even I find it necessary to carry diapers (see one of my first posts to find out what happens when you don't take diapers to the pediatrician), food and lip balm (I do live in Colorado). Some people carry toys, changes of clothing, a first-aid kit, bee sting balm, inhalers, satellite phones and a Pack & Play. Honestly, people, if your child is having this big a crisis, GO HOME!


The Stroller. Now, for the uninititated, I am a very mathematical and logical person. I am not a Vulcan, I have feelings and all but I prefer numbers to words (why I have taken on the moniker of blogger, I don't know. When you don't feel you are a strong writer, the best place to toss yourself is into the public realm on a little-known, little-used medium like the www so EVERYONE can criticize you).


But back to the stroller. I bought a Bugaboo because it is cute and trendy (and a girlfriend of mine was selling hers. $1500 for a new one is insanity. Seriously, my first car cost $1500. It was a pos but at least it had a combustion engine and was not powered merely by my feet a la Fred Flintstone like the stroller is). However, the higher end strollers require a degree in mechanical engineering to sort out. And don't get me started with putting it together in the first place. I recall meeting some girlfriends for drinks (yes, I took my baby to Happy Hour. Don't judge me, it was an upscale bar -- no shooters or body shots; he even ate some edamame and lemon tempura). I spent 15 minutes in the parking lot trying to un-collapse the thing. I ended up in tears and carrying him. For the record, I can now sort out the stroller with one hand while holding a sleeping 26 pounder and a Sbux, no water, extra hot chai with honey {does that scream yuppie or what?}


I swear this is totally true: when I was in graduate school a friend had a baby. Fine, fine. She and her hubby came over for dinner one night. They were an hour late. Annoying but fine. Into our house they hauled four bags, a portable crib, a car seat and a height chair. Oh honestly, is this necessary? She then preceded to baby proof our house with electrical plug thingies and moving the shade cords up. This was simply dinner … NOT a time-share arrangement, mind you.


Did I mention their baby was 6 WEEKS OLD? Your child can't even roll over but you fear her making a noose, grabbing cutlery and simultaneously electrocuting herself while she leaps from her high chair to her death by hanging? She can't even focus her eyes but she has a suicide plan?


That was the day I vowed I would never be "that mom."

My Olympic Trials (and Tribulations)

In the AF I would be known as a grape.  I am not an athlete; I am totally fine not being athletic since I don't enjoy perspiring and, well, podiatrists frown on people running in heels. Not to mention, you can't carry a handbag while running.  And don't even imply that I could simply use a fanny pack.  Completely unacceptable for anyone.  Much less a handbag snob.  And a handbag snob with hips to boot.  Egads.

So when I had to do four semesters of PE as an undergrad I was less than amused.  First, I did horseback riding.  I adored that since I love horses and it seemed like more work for the horse than me.  Next I signed up for archery.  How hard can that be?  I mean, I saw Robin Hood so I am WAAAYY ahead of the competition, right?

Well, the compound bow requires a lot of strength to pull.  And when that tension is released, it causes a HUGE muscle bruise on the forearms of the unsuspecting and/or uninformed.  I was forced to wear long sleeves the rest of the semester to quell the heroin addict rumors.  Seriously, the bruises were that bad. 

Then, there was "the incident."  I still feel really bad about this.  I am normally a total pacifist so imagine my horror when I shoot the lawn mowing guy.  Well, technically, I did not shoot him but my arrow zipped along the top of the grass and got sucked into the riding lawn mower.  Sparks a-flying.  Horrid sounds.  Panic stricken old guy in the driver's seat. 

Let me tell you, there are not enough apologies possible to strike the guilt from your conscience when the lawn guy tells you he is three weeks away from retirement/he thought he was a goner/never seen nothing like that/did anyone else sees those sparks?  All while popping nitroglycerine pills like they were M&Ms.  You don't even have to be Catholic to know that you are going to hell for tormenting old, toothless, really nice guys who wave to everyone.  I swear I brought him brownies for a month afterward (then I realized that he had retired and the rest of the staff was simply banking on me being too blond to realize this).

So, the "professor" (seriously, no one sans a PhD and wearing polyester shorts needs a title like that) and I cut a deal.  I would tutor the basketball team in math and he would give me an "A" in the class.  {The moron actually started off negotiations with a "B."  Seriously?  You think I am ruining my GPA over Archery?  I think not, dude.}

So, naturally, I appear the next semester in the class.  The coach was less than amused to see my happy little face in there again but, under duress, he cut the same deal.  Clearly, he had not been raised with my mother whose philosophy was "when you got someone in a position of weakness, exploit it."

So, imagine my surprise, when I got a letter from the Olympic Archery team inviting me to try-outs.  Apparently, they queried female college students who got A's in archery.  And, c'est voila, there I am!

I did not go to the invitational since I am pretty sure no one is looking for a math tutor for Olympians.

That Damn Daemon!

As I mentioned yesterday, my mom is not exactly the techno-wizard.  She decided to get email when I was living in Europe so that she would not have to spend money on phone calls to keep me updated on the minutiae of her life. 

There are three major issues with this:
1) she does not understand technology (proof to follow shortly),
2) she is the queen of the forwarded email (loathe that) and
3) she types like she has been kidnapped

This is an actual email I have received from her:

likeis gorgeous, looks a great eal like me
gave you the wrong infor. my flight arrivrs in colorado at 10 i will email in a little while if itis a problem let me knoe i can wait anr read a book or learn to typr

The issues are many fold as you can see.  It is totally stream of consciousness, no details (like airport, airline, flight number or, hell, even the day) are provided and she refuses to look at the keyboard (she took a typing class in 9th grade and swears it is like riding a bike).  She has also not mastered the backspace. 

However, the main issue is her abhorrence of all things techie.  My mom did not get that the e in email stood for electronic.  I am not sure how she thought this would work but here is how she "addressed" emails to me (and I am clearing out the typos).

To: "Joy"
Surprisingly, she got a bounce email.

To: "Joy, my daughter."

To: "Joy, my daughter, she has blond hair"

To: "Joy, my blond daughter who lives in Belgium but I think she is in Paris right now.  Please find her."

To: "Joy, the blond American in Europe who works at i2 and is married to Ken at NATO.  He is also blond.  In Paris, she lives across the street from a bakery.  In Brussels, they have tall bushes in their front yard."

{This would, quite possibly, be the worst email address ever.  And, for the record, this woman has a graduate degree.  Alas.}

Needless to say, she kept getting Bounce messages from "Daemon."  She was convinced that Daemon was a person and that he simply needed more information so that the email would be printed off and delivered to me.

So, then she started the following correspondence with Daemon.

"Dear Daemon, Thank you for your quick responses.  In my opinion, I have given you more than enough information to deliver mail to my daughter.  As you must understand, there can't be that many blond American Joy Love's who live in Belgium and are married to people at NATO.  This is my first time to email so I appreciate your assistance.  Thank you in advance for your cooperation."

Surprisingly, that evil Daemon refuses to help her.  The incident escalates {as you can imagine from my previous tales of my mother}.  Her final email to Daemon read something like "Dear Daemon, I would like the email to your supervisor.  I find your consistent refusal to help me email my daughter to be very frustrating.  You have more than enough information to locate her and yet no help is forthcoming.  Your quick responses indicate that you are not even reading all of the information I have provided before you tell me that it is not deliverable.  I think you are mistaking speed for efficiency."

Finally, she calls me and I explain that Daemon is "not a person whose parents misspelled his name."  It is an automated message, no one is reading her stuff, she needs to include the exact address or it won't get here, etc.  Her response was "Well, I guess I will email Daemon to apologize for calling him an asshole."

You simply can't make this kind of stuff up...

I Am Sorry to Tell You But...

My mom is that woman who will do anything to save a dollar. Argue with someone on the phone for three hours to get a $7 charge removed from her credit card? Hell yeah! "Confidentially" {which means speaking out the side of her mouth since this renders her invisible in her mind} ask someone for the "cash price?" She is there! Drop to her knees to fish a quarter out of a sewer grate? BRING ON THE STICK AND THE BUBBLEGUM!

She was one of the last people on the planet to have AOL. Mom saw somewhere that they had reduced their rates for AARP members from whatever to whatever minus $2 per month. And she was pissed that she was not in on the deal! So, on the horn she goes to get this remedied. Pronto.

Her call gets outsourced to India. {This is a very bad business practice to put AARP members on the phone with India. Everyone just ends up angry and frustrated.}

My mom is, to put it politely, technology challenged. She does not understand tech stuff and is not the least bit interested in learning how it works. Hence, my brother and I end up setting all this stuff up for her. Rather than being grateful, appreciative or, at the very least, acknowledging that we do this for her... she harps that we take too long, are ripping her off, are setting her up for cyber-stalkers and identity theft, etc.

Like the poor call center folks in India, my brother and I also end up annoyed. Which is what leads me to her latest antics.

She calls to get her bill reduced $2/month and they expect her to be able to answer questions about herself since she has no idea as to what her password or account number is. {My mother NEVER calls someone with complete information or the whole story. Just another fun little quirk she has.}

She can't answer the question as to where she was born. At her insistence this keeps getting escalated up the levels of management. About an hour later this conversation takes place:

Raheem: Madam, you have to tell me where you were born.
Mom: Buffalo?

R: No, madam, I am sorry that is not correct.
Mom: Well, that is where I was born! I don't know what your computer says. Let's try New York.

R: No, madam.
Mom: Cheektowaga? {For those of you who don't know her, my mother is the least patient person on the planet. At this point, her blood pressure is about to cause her to stroke out.}

R: No, madam, think lower.
Mom: My idiot son set this up for me. Try Dallas.

R: No, madam.
Mom: All that money on private education and he does not know anything. Try Texas.

R: No, madam, even hotter.
Mom: Listen up, Raheem. My moron son set this up because I don't like computers. I don't know where the hell he thinks I was born but I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS OFF A MONTH. WHERE THE HELL DID HE SAY I WAS BORN?

Since Raheem has now been subjected to one of her (mini) tirades, he crumples. Two hundred rupees an hour is not worth her abuse. His response was classic:

"I am very sorry to tell you, madam, but your son listed your place of birth as 'the very bowels of hell.' "

Three Red Pills

So my mom taught second grade forever. To her credit, she is an amazing teacher. Crazy-ass mother but, man-oh-man, can she teach people to read.

When she would have a really bad day in the classroom she inevitably called me to make sure that her final wish be honored. Nothing like "pull the plug if I become a burden" (because we would have pulled that years ago) or "please give money in my name to..." (Momma does not believe in charity, "God helps those that help themselves" is her motto).

Nope, this conversation involves the old folks' home and illiterates. Ever the optimist, my mother is convinced that she will have several strokes and end up "drooling in a wheelchair" for 30 years. Her biggest fear is that "some moron" she taught will end up as the "pill passer-outer" at the home and she will die from an overdose because the aforementioned moron can't read.

Ergo, she makes me swear that, should she end up drooly and (even more) mentally incapacitated, I will do the following:

I am to make a large sign for her to wear around her neck. She wants it to read "Hello, my name is Mary and I need THREE RED PILLS." On said sign, I am to draw the pills and color them in appropriately. That way in case dumbass can't read, they will hopefully be able to follow the pictures and not kill the old bird.

I have decided that I will, additionally, laminate this sign so that the drool does not make it run. I know, I know, my kindness knows no bounds.

Mom Gear for Babies

Not that I am the Mom Queen (like Prom Queen but no tiara or elbow wave), but people ask me a lot about the baby stuff I chose so here is my list of chosen products and why (please note, bebe is only 8 months old so I have limited stuff experience):

1) bottles by Born Free. They are BPA free and don't leak. Luc also never got gas from them (they have some kind of weird insert thing to reduce air consumption). Seriously, all these leak-proof claims are lies, damn lies and statistics. We tried Dr Brown (also great for less air consumption) and they leaked everywhere.

2) cloth diapers. I know, I know people get all weird about this choice (and I don't know why some of the disposable people are so crazed about this decision. I don't try to convert others, this is simply my choice. So lighten up, Francis).
We are fans of Bum Genius 3.0. They are a pocket style (no weird rubber pants which seem gross and unhealthy). The 3.0 have snaps so they are good from bitty to potty training.
Here is my rationale:
1) Baby boy has never had diaper rash. Not once. Seriously.
2) Better for the environment.
3) The initial $ investment is higher than disposables but they end up lots cheaper in the long run. Plus, no running out in the middle of the night to get more.
4) This is the biggie. Disposable diapers have these gels things in them (like Perlite for soil). You can't eat food grown in Perlite but it is totally fine to grow a baby in it? And we seem curious as to why testicular cancer has increased so much? Plus, the gel is what makes diapers so smelly (at least to me. That chemical smell is really off-putting).

3) Good quality clothes. I know, I know babies grow so fast. They won't wear them that often. Blah, blah, blah. My thoughts are as follows: the better quality stuff deters stains unlike the cheap stuff. The good stuff wears better so you can pass it along to your other children or to your friends (pick me, pick me!). My favorite lines are Hanna Andersson (they have two sets of snaps in their onesies as well as fabulous cuffs and sleeves so babies can really wear them longer than other lines. BONUS). Gymboree (two words: turtle hat). Boden (I LOVE the hedgehog sweater that just came out). Janie and Jack (expensive but adorable. Wait for the sales if you can hold off that long). Pottery Barn Kids (I swear, bebe wore a pair of their sweater knit pants from February to July. And he grew abnormally fast). For smocked stuff (yes, I am Southern), I love BestDressedChild.com and LittleSouthernDarlings.com.

4) Sophie the Giraffe. Yes, $20 for a rubber giraffe thing is ridiculous but when your baby is teething and this makes him happy, you would give your husband's middle testicle for it. (I cleaned up and then stole that expression from an Airborn friend).

5) A Moses basket. Yes, they are impractical and babies can only use them for a short period of time but, seriously, seeing your baby snoozing in one is one of the most endearing things ever.

As an add-on to yesterday's karma blog, "Dry your clothes in the sun whenever possible. The environment and your clothes will thank you."

How to Increase Your Karma Points!

I am truly the universe's fair-haired girl. I know it sounds ridiculous but, honestly, the universe tends to shine on me (practically) all the time. This pertains to small things as well as large. I have amazing parking karma, can get things to grow even in decomposing granite "soil" at altitude with crazy Colorado weather and meet the most amazing people right when I need to meet them.

For example, when on safari, a lion scratched his back on my Landie (after posing for 10 minutes) right after I told my guide that I would like a close encounter with a lion. Later that afternoon (right after I made a silent request to the universe for an elephant), we rounded a corner and found ourselves 10 feet from an elephant. And I got some amazing photos, no telephoto lens required (or even "zooming in").

Seriously, serendipity is my favorite word for a reason. Hence, when things don't go my way I am shocked and disheartened. I have been, honestly, known to gently remind the universe (yes, out loud), "Don't you remember who I am? I am your fair-haired girl. Please reset my setting; I don't like how the other 95% lives. Thank you."

Here is my list as to how you, too, can increase your good karma/blessings/mojo/juju:

1) Adopt a shelter pet. No one is really that excited about your designer dog. Unconditional love comes in all forms and shapes.
2) Recycle.
3) Compost.
4) Support local businesses and farmers/apiaries/cheesemakers/ranchers/you get the idea.
5) Love the honeybee, butterflies and hummingbirds by not using pesticides and fertilizers. (See Initiative #3)
6) Stop vulturing for "good" parking spaces. Walking the extra 20 feet will not kill you.
7) Road rage. Seriously, people, move beyond it. I always assume that the person who cut me off is simply oblivious. My mom, for example, does not use her mirrors for anything other than lipstick application. She does not need to get flipped off for this.
8) Call your mom and your grandma, even if they are crazy. They love you more than you will ever know.
9) If a kid asks you to buy something, it is karmic law that you HAVE to. Even the weird wrapping paper.
10) Donate money and time to a charity you love. It is a rule of the universe that whatever you give, you will receive.
11) Plant a garden (even if it is only one tomato plant and some basil).
12) Share your garden's bounty (seriously, it is so charming to get a handful of snapdragons or zinnias from someone's garden versus a cultivated orchid. Not that I don't love orchids ... but to love someone enough to grace them with something you grew? Wowie zowie).
13) Take a child to the zoo.
14) Bring a sick neighbor some soup.
15) Take someone's grocery cart back to the store for them.
16) Stop at lemonade and farm stands, especially in small towns.
17) In the summer, occasionally leave some cold bottles of water out for your trash/recycling collectors.
18) Send your best friend flowers/cookies or something just because you are thinking of them.
19) Don't interrupt someone's story/joke just because you have heard it before. Humiliating others does NOT increase your good juju. Laugh at the appropriate places.
20) When in doubt, show some grace.

Have any other surefire karma-building tips? Please post them in comments!

Also, I have gotten two emails already with this list and I just posted it an hour ago. If you decide to share it via email please post the website on the bottom of the email. Thanks, beautiful ones!

Asian Chicken WIngs

In honor of football season and tailgaters everywhere.

So much more sophisticated than buffalo wings.

2 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tablespoons soy sauce
2 Tablespoons hoisin sauce
3 Tablespoons honey
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 teaspoons sesame oil
3 pounds chicken wings, separated with end tips discarded (I save the end pieces and make them into stock)
2 - 3 Tablespoons sesame seeds, toasted
2 green onions, thinly sliced

Put oven rack in upper third of oven and preheat oven to 450°F. Line a jellyroll pan/cookie sheet with foil and spray with cooking spray/olive oil to prevent sticking. I also adore Silpats.

In a small food processor, combine all ingredients except for the chicken, sesame seeds and scallions.

Arrange wings in 1 layer in baking pan and bake, turning over once, about 20 minutes total.
Then, broil on each side for about 5 - 7 minutes until crisp and golden brown (watch this, your oven might run really hot). Transfer wings to a large serving bowl and coat evenly with sauce.

Toss with sesame seeds and sliced scallions.

Serve hot.

Things That Scare Me

Not that I am particularly wimpy but the following are things that scare me. And, of course, I have omitted the obvious like something happening to my family {that one is universal, these are odd}:


1) canned biscuits -- I hate the explosion thing. Granted, it is small and contained but I don't like the sound or the popping part. My mom is the only other person I know of who has this issue. She and I have been known to partially unwrap the can and then tie it up in a dishtowel. We then toss said package in one room while we stand in another room, behind a door, covering our ears and humming. Sadly, I am not making this up.


2) birds -- I am terrified and irrationally petrified of birds. They have those nasty claws and beady little eyes. The feathers. Irregular flight patterns. Flapping wings. Egads, egads, egads. And I am not the only one on the planet with this fear since it has a name: ornithophobia.


Here are some of my favorite phobias (none of which I have):


Anglophobia -- fear of England or English culture {how can you fear fish and chips?}
Arachibutyrophobia -- fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth {unpleasant but, really, does this count as terrifying?}
Bolshephobia -- fear of Bolsheviks
Consecotaleophobia -- fear of chopsticks
Dextrophobia -- fear of objects at the right side of the body {this one must suck since half your world is out to get you}
Genuphobia -- fear of knees
Octophobia -- fear of the figure 8 {does this imply they are also afraid of infinity?}
Oenophobia -- fear of wines {c'est tragique}
Oneirogmophobia -- fear of wet dreams {insert your own joke here}
Phronemophobia -- fear of thinking {I know so many people in which this is, clearly, undiagnosed}
Porphyrophobia -- fear of the color purple
Sesquipedalophobia -- fear of long words {cruelly, the sufferers are unable to tell people what their fear is, since its name itself has 8 syllables}


I was at a conference in Vegas. Because it is Vegas, this scenario does not seem bizarre but ... there was a little person dressed as a leprechaun shouting into a Mr Microphone offering people tickets to see an all-nude roller derby. I kid you not. One of the women came into the conference hysterical. Turns out, she is afraid of leprechauns. People were kind of mocking her and I felt like I had to step in {always one for the underdog, that is me}.


I lightened the situation by saying "That is like the best phobia ever. I am afraid of birds and you see those weaselly bastards everywhere. Being afraid of leprechauns is so much better since you never see them outside of cereal box covers and, well, Vegas. It is like being afraid of unicorns. I am totally jealous."

Garlicky Artichoke Dip

3 cloves of peeled garlic
2 cans of artichokes, drained (or 1 can of artichokes and 1 can hearts of palm)
1 cup pecorino cheese, grated
1/2 cup mayonaise
1/2 cup sour cream
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
Tabasco sauce
paprika

In a food processor, chop the garlic and then add in the artichokes/hearts of palm. Pulse a couple of times. Combine this with the cheese, mayo, sour cream, lemon and a couple of dashes of Tabasco. Put in an ovenproof bowl and sprinkle a bit of paprika on top (you could also use some minced herbs for prettiness). Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Serve with veggies, crackers or bread.

Woodpecker Heads and Haunches

My next door neighbor is a big-time hunter. He has so many heads on his walls that I call him Wall-of-Death. Hunting is not my thing for many reasons:

1) Loud noises
2) Getting up at the crack of dawn
3) Stalking and dragging is not my idea of fun
4) Momma doesn't do cold or sticky
5) Best case scenario, I am eating venison for a year and, well, yucko

However, having WoD neighbor is ridiculously handy because he does, occasionally, bring me trout that he has caught. It is also nice to have a nearby person who is not afraid of mice, snakes and the like. When Hubs was deployed these "boy jobs" got delegated to WoD.

So, one morning, Hubs is in Afghanistan and I am taking the dog out. Without my glasses on, I swear I see an apple in my front yard. Not wanting to encourage the deer, big horn sheep and rabbits to eat in my landscaped front garden, I figure I will toss it out back. Not to bore you with details but they are important later to the story. So, in getting to the aforementioned apple, I step over a huge stick which I figure I will move later. Fruit first, forest second.

I get to the apple and I realize IT IS A HEAD. A bird head but a head nonetheless. Fortheloveofgawd. And, for the uninitiated, let me explain a little something about myself: I am terrified of birds. Absolutely petrified. I know it is a stupid fear but it is my phobia so butt out. At least I own my stupidity. Hubby is off fighting the Taliban and I am left sans glasses with a head in my front yard. This seems like a job for WoD because there is no possible way I will be able to deal with the noggin on my own. Rushing back to the safety of my house I leap over the aforementioned stick and, looking down, realize that it is not a stick but a haunch. Complete with tendons, hoof and fur. My life has now become some kind of Wildlife Kingdom spin-off starring Freddie Kruger.

I call WoD and hysterically sob my story. Okay, I don't actually get the story out but I blurt out random words and assume he will put together the verbs and niceties. My end of it sounded something like "Joy... woodpecker head... help... apple... haunch... help... tendon... help... fur... moving out... help." {As an aside people LOVE for you to call them panicking at 6.30 in the morning. It guarantees you the Neighbor of the Year Award}.

He actually asks "And what do you need?"

"YOU TO GET YOUR NOT-AFRAID-OF-DEAD-ANIMAL-PARTS ASS OVER HERE AND FIX THIS."

He comes zooming on over and, picks up the haunch WITH HIS HANDS. Oh egads, egads, egads. Don't you have special equipment for that or something? In sympathy, my hands start itching. Then he walks {with haunch in hand} to the bird head. He then says, in all seriousness, "That is not a woodpecker head, it is a wild turkey head."

"Oh, well, in that case, by all means leave it there."

Dude, clearly, you have missed the key word in my request which is "head" not "woodpecker." I want the head out of my yard, I am nebulous as the the species of bird.

And, according to some people, I am the one without the common sense.

I'll Have the Ribs

I had the easiest pregnancy in the history of preggos. Well, not as easy as those trashy women who, apparently, have no idea that they are pregnant and give birth while at the Wal-Mart. I mean, honestly, what is up with those women? How can you be so NOT in tune with your body? But, second to them, I had the world's easiest (at least I knew I was knocked up).

And for the record bebe was 9 pounds 6 ounces so I was not one of those women who has those 5 pound wienie babies. I had my own Baby Huey, a very cute and totally laid back Baby Huey, but a BH nonetheless.

As easy as my pregnancy was, there were some things that the babe felt very strongly about. Hubs had his head on my belly, telling some long-ass boring story about Richard Holbrooke. I was bored. Luc, apparently, was too since he kicked Ken in the head. Really hard. I said "Take it as a sign that you are boring even to a fetus." Ken swore it was a coincidence. We talked about other stuff, no kicks. Back to Holbrooke and Ken gets kicked in the temple. That, my friends, is brilliance in the making.

Bebe was also very specific about what he wanted me to eat. And please don't start on the whole "they can't taste" blah, blah, blah. An example of this phenom is that I am not a fan of buffalo wings and would NEVER eat 1) the skinny end 2) after it has been microwaved 3) two days after its debut. I get home from a Junior League meeting and Ken is partaking of a bowl of these. I know, I know, yucko, but boys have different standards. Luc proceeds to kick me non-stop until I eat one. Once I had one, he calmed back down but, until that point, there was no stopping the tantrum.

When I was eight months pregnant I went to Kansas City for a Junior League conference. A bunch of us went to Jack Blacks {or Joe Shacks, something like that} for dinner. They are famous for their burnt ends. Someone said they were getting the ribs and bebe starting his revolt. I was chatting with the waiter (shocking, I know, I rarely talk to strangers) and said "I'll have the burnt ends." Luc kicked so hard that the big-ass menu launched from my hands {the menu was propped on my belly, which we nicknamed Buddha}. Bebe was clearly pissed.

The poor 18 year old waiter, seeing a menu inexplicably leap from my hands, trembled "What, exactly, was that?"

"Umm, change that. Baby and I will have the ribs."

No, I Am Not the Unabomber

So another quick Grandma story since people seemed to like the one from yesterday. The woman turned me in to the FBI as the Unabomber. For the reward. Not because she "wanted to do the right thing." Seriously. And people wonder why I am bitter and crazy. I come from a long line of crazies and you just can't fight DNA. I guaran-damn-tee you the human genome project will find a genetic marker for crazy and my entire family will have it in spades. Right next to the marker that gives you a penchant for chocolate and ill-fitting, but very cute shoes.

But back to the point. Crazy Ted writes his manifesto (and why the papers agreed to publish this, I dunno. I would love to have a simple newspaper column and I am at least funny and not the least bit angry. Plus, how much column space did a flippin' manifesto take up?). The FBI sets up a hot line for tips as to who Crazy Train is and, ole Dial-A-Terrorist Loretta gets on the horn.



Her entire rationale as to why I must be the Unabomber is that I am a math person and I lived in Montana during grad school (oh, the things you do for love). Now the little details like I was prenatal when Ted started his bombings and I am not, well, insane (at least in an angry way) never crossed the broad's mind. Also, I don't have the attention span to write a manifesto. Furthermore, I don't think anything I write is worthy of the title "Manifesto" (and, as an Friedman economist, that word has some pretty negative undertones).

A friend of mine who was a total Nervous Nelly and prone to panic attacks (those have GOT to suck) said "Aren't you concerned about this? What if someone comes to question you?"

My entire defense was, I kid you not, going to be based upon two pieces of key evidence: I don't own a hoodie and I would never wear Ray Ban sunglasses.