The Universe Has No Sense of Humor

This is my horoscope today -

Leo - Oct. 4, 2010
Are you technically single but very deeply involved with someone, Leo? If so, don't be surprised if today you extend or receive a proposal of marriage. Recent events have brought you very close together and greatly intensified the bond between you. Your partner may want to legalize that bond. Do you? If there is even the smallest doubt, give yourself some time to think. Acting on impulse isn't a good idea right now.

Seriously? How fucked up is that? What kind of horoscope tells you that you're going to get a marriage proposal? I think this is like that episode of The Simpsons where the monkeys are writing all the fortune cookie sayings. Because this shit only makes sense if it were written by a monkey. A retarded monkey.

What-the-fuck-ever. I'm going back to real life now. Enjoy your Monday.

Never Listen to a Giraffe. Gee whiz.

I don’t wanna grow up. And it has nothing to do with Toys ‘R’ Us. (side ramble: Oh. My. God. I just realized who is responsible for the dumbing-down of America. They started it with their ‘R’ instead of ‘are’. Sure, they thought they were all clever and shit with their laziness. Geoffrey Giraffe, I am on to you!) I don’t care if they have a million toys. I couldn’t even fit a million toys in my house. Unless I got like a million checkers and covered my roof with them. Or retiled my bathroom in Scrabble tiles. I guess I could buy a million Lincoln Logs and make my own log home. Or build a mansion out of a million Barbie houses. But then I’d have to sit on tiny furniture and drink out of tiny glasses and sleep on a tiny bed and that’s just retarded.

I don’t want to grow up because being a Grown Up sucks. It’s hard. Oh, wait. Let me say that with a little whine because that's how I really feel about it. It’s haaaaaaaaaaaarrrrd (insert pout here). Growing up means paying bills and cleaning the house and going to work so that I can have money to pay bills and a house to live in. It means making dinner when I’m tired and taking care of a kid and trying to be responsible and making hard decisions and always being tired and not having enough time to play. See? Fucking Toys ‘R’ Us. Even if I did have a million damn toys, I’d never be able to play with them.

When I was a kid, I thought being a Grown Up meant I could do whatever I wanted. And I can, to a point. I can drive a car. I can drink cocktails (which is really the only redeeming part of being an adult and I never, ever want to give it up). I can get a puppy and I can eat Easy Cheese and ice cream for dinner or refuse to eat brussel sprouts (because they’re totally icky!) and I can stay up all night and I can dye my hair any shade of Strawberry Shortcake pink that I want. I can even get in my car and drive across the country never sleeping and trying ice cream in every state and dyeing my hair a new color every day and filling my car with puppies and feeding them ice cream and Easy Cheese and teaching them to bite strangers who judge me.

The downside? I can’t do all of these things whenever I want. First of all, they all take money. Nobody just gives you an ice cream cone out of the kindness of their heart (which is probably what is wrong with the world). Money requires a job. For some stupid reason, jobs frown on you when you call in because you’d rather drive around drinking cocktails and petting puppies instead of coming in to work.

I could live off of Easy Cheese and ice cream but my body isn’t 10 anymore and punishes me for that fact by turning every bite I eat into fat. Hello? Ice cream has calcium! It’s good for us! Stupid body. Being fat is definitely not something I wanted to be when I grew up.

More than this, being a Parent means you have to be a Grown Up. Even if you only pretend to be. It’s like being Spider Man, but with all the responsibility and none of the power. Hear that, Toys ‘R’ Us? I will never buy a fucking Spider Man toy because it’s all a big, fat, comic-hero-sized lie. I’m supposed to set some kind of example for my offspring. I don’t even want to think about what kind of example Spider Man is supposed to be setting in his red leotard and his climbing all over walls and shooting nasty webs out of his body. Really, Spider Man? Spider webs are so totally creepy. Dude. Seriously.

So, riddle me this, Toys ‘R’ Us. How do I afford your million toys? When do I have time to play with them? Which one of your million toys is going to earn me a million dollars? Which Barbie is going to take time out of her busy doctor/rockstar/princess schedule to help my kid with her homework and drive her to ballet? Which Teletubby is going to cook dinner for me? Oh, I’ll answer this one. None of them! Because they’re too freaky to be allowed in my house, plus they’re stuffed and my dogs would eat all of the stuffing out of them but then they’d be possessed by the Teletubby’s evil soul and that would be even worse because I love my dogs and I’d just have to live in fear of them until some” unfortunate accident” removed their presence from my life.

Yep. Being a Grown Up sucks. Bills suck. Responsibility sucks. Most jobs suck. But ice cream rocks and alcohol is delicious. Guess what I’m doing tonight? Yup. Because I can. Neener neener.

How Not to Start Your Day

1. Try on all of your jeans hoping one pair will fit and not squeeze you out of the top of them. What? Did they all shrink over the summer? This is why I like summer clothes better. Aside from the bikini, they’re actually more forgiving. Jeans are evil.

2. Eat a slice of banana bread. With chocolate chips. Hell, why not? You’re already feeling like a giant fat-ass.

3. Eat said slice of banana bread while driving. Think that you’re sufficiently stopped in the line of cars waiting to go through the roundabout, but find out you’re not when you bump the car in front of you.

4. Make sure it’s a Porsche that you hit.

Yes, this was my morning. Yes, I hit a car. Bumped it, really. Bumped it enough to see it move, but it was just a tap. Even Mr. Porsche Driver wasn’t sure that I hit him. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice, then saw him start to pull over. Oh, shit, he did notice! No, he kept driving, he didn’t notice. Shit, he’s pulling over again! In the roundabout. No, I’m not stopping in the roundabout. Let’s find a parking lot for our little rendezvous.

I pull over in a parking lot where we won’t have an audience. He has a small girl-child in the front seat. Great. I hit a kid. Wait a minute, small children aren’t supposed to ride in the front seat! Isn’t he breaking some kind of child safety law? I know, Porsches don’t have backseats, but still. Surely that makes him more of a criminal than me with my little tap to his bumper.

He gets out. “It had to be the Porsche!” Yes, I noticed that you’re driving a Porsche. Yes, it is far superior to my Honda Civic, circa 2000, circa turn-of-the-century. Thanks for stating the obvious. He asks if I hit him. Um, is this a trick question?? He says he thought he popped the clutch. A quick moral dilemma argument goes on in my head but I tell the truth. After all, I want my Karma to come back to me in the form of lottery winnings, not cancer in my face.

He examines his bumper. Not a scratch, not a ding, nothing. He examines my front bumper. With the huge scratch from the bike that hit me earlier this year. And all of the dead bugs. And the chipped paint. How white trash do I feel in this moment? Damn, I knew I should have washed my car this weekend.

I apologize. He smiles, says, “See ya. Thanks for stopping.” No exchange of information, no further humiliation.

Although, if he had been cute and didn’t have a small child in his front seat (thereby endangering her life), I would have given him my number. You know, just in case.

On Her Way

My daughter starts high school today. My bugabooga. My lovebug. My munchiekins. My baby girl, who laughed so easily, walked so late, and spent more naps with me in the rocking chair than in her crib. My little girl, whose first word after “Mama” was “shoe.” Who, at the age of six had had more boyfriends than I have had, still, at age 40. Yeah, see where I’m going with this? It’s scary. She’s grown up too fast.

The last couple of weeks I have spent most days wanting to strangle her. She gets her anxiety from her father, worrying about whether the milk has gone bad or if chicken nuggets will poison her. I was really tempted by the end of last week to start crushing up my Lexapro into her meals without her knowing. “What if I don’t have any friends in my classes?” “What if I can’t find my class?” “My binders and folders have to match and be cute.” “I don’t want to get bullied.” And the new one yesterday – “I don’t want to get shot.” Endless worry on her part, frayed nerves on mine.

Last week we got her schedule and, of course, had to immediately get it changed since they’d somehow missed assigning her to biology. This only set her off about how stupid the school was and how she didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that her counselor mispronounced her name as “Divine”, which embarrassed her as much as it delighted me and I have vowed to call her that from now on. She hates me for it. By that night, she did a complete one-eighty and was ready to start school. Last night she went from dreading this morning to being completely prepared and calm. She even remarked how quickly her moods are changing. Yeah, I’ve got my own neuroses to deal with, I can’t keep up with hers too.

This morning she set her alarm for 5:30. And got up. On her own. Before me. By the time I got out of the shower, her bed was already made. She was smiling, not sulking, her usual morning demeanor. Color me impressed with a shade of surprised. Until I learned that she ate a hot dog bun for breakfast. Yep. At 14, my child is incapable of making a halfway decent breakfast for herself. She still needs me after all. Me and my chocolate chip pancakes.

I hugged her at least three times before she left to catch the bus. Hugged her until she rolled her eyes, squirmed just a bit and said, “Mom, I’m going to be late.” I watched her walk away, closed the door and cried.

I hope she forgives me for the “I love you” note that I snuck into her lunch.

Boobs, Booze and Dancing Shoes

These are the ingredients to a successful birthday party. Specifically a 40th birthday party. Especially the booze part. Except cute shoes are also necessary. And the boobs? Well, they’re just always with me. Also, I was told they were fondled at some point during the soiree.

Recently, I turned 40. I didn’t know what to expect, I thought I would wake up feeling wise and no longer worried about things like the roll that is my stomach or how my butt looks in my jeans. The night before, I felt like I was supposed to perform some kind of ritual to prepare myself for my impending adulthood, before becoming a Woman of a Certain Age. I was excited about it; it felt like the start of a new adventure, a new chapter, turning over a new leaf and every other cliché that exists. Instead, after hearing from my daughter about what a complete failure I am as a parent and balancing my checkbook only to find that I still have no money, I was just depressed. 40, single and broke. So much for being a Grown Up.

The next day, on my actual birthday, I breakfasted at Chow with my bestie, AKA The Wife. Eggs Benny and a Bloody Mary – what better way to start the day? This yumminess was followed by pedicures, fro yo, a trip to the farmer’s market, a visit with a peacock, shrimp, chocolate cake and martinis with cute little umbrellas. It was the perfect way to spend the day, with the Big Party to follow on the weekend.

As for the actual party, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate my 40th. My wonderful friends provided their home for the festivities, a co-worker friend offered to DJ (all 80’s music, of course!) and The Wife got the most perfect cake ever in the entire world – leopard print with a pink ribbon. Chocolate. With a raspberry filling.

The night before I made all of the food, so on party day I just had to show up in my cute outfit, complete with matching pedicure, and greet my guests with cocktail in hand. The “bar” was quickly filled with rum, vodka, champagne, margaritas and wine. The food table held four types of lasagna, two kinds of homemade garlic bread, a Carla salad and various other snacky goodies. The rest of the night is a happy blur of feasting, dancing, drinking, laughing and finding out what people think they know about me (no, my favorite book isn’t the Bible, I didn’t major in business, booze or boys, my favorite drink is not milk and The Sound of Music was an excellent guess and I really should have given a point for that one).

There are tons of details but relaying them here just isn’t the same experience so I will just leave it at this – I have the best friends in the world and there aren’t words for what this night meant to me. I felt joy and love and absolute soul-satisfaction.

Thank you to everyone who was a part of that night, who showed up to be a part of my life.

Birdbrain

I bought a bird feeder because I like watching little chirpy things with feathers bounce around tweeting at each other. And tweeting in the real sense, not in the social media sense. Then again, who knows what modern technology they have hidden in their nests? I’m picturing a trap door that leads into a secret room in a tree branch, complete with secret spy cameras to watch us all in preparation of their world takeover. Which begs the question of why I’m even feeding the little feathery fuckers in the first place, but maybe they’ll remember and spare my life when they begin their world domination instead of pecking my eyeballs out with the rest of mankind. Hitchcock already predicted this, remember? They’ve just been waiting for their technology to catch up. Anyway, I digress. I seriously digress.

My yard is suspiciously devoid of trees or branches or really any hangy things to dangle a cute little bird feeder from. There is one little plant hanger in front of my kitchen window and I thought it would be delightful to watch the little birdies flit around while I wash dishes, so there it went. Until I realized that, with the windows always open, they always hear me and fly away before I can enjoy them. All I get to see is a stupid bird feeder swinging back and forth. Dumb.

Also? Those little buggers are messy! They drop half of their food all over my front porch, with a rather large proportion of it falling on my patio chair. Sitting on birdseed isn’t really as comfortable as the naughty birds probably want you to think. However, I was okay with wiping off the chair and sweeping the patio, until – I discovered that they don’t only drop food during their mealtime perches. Yes, ladies and germs, they feel perfectly at ease pooping on said chair and patio. Gross.

Of course after deciding that the feeder had to come down, I finally spotted a little birdie creature eating. Of course. It’s like he knew what I was thinking. “Don’t take it down, look how cute I am. I’m small and feathery and my chest is this pretty blush color, which is kind of like pink, but blends in with my brown feathers better. And listen – I’m chirping so cutely to invite my friends to display their cuteness too. Cheep, cheep, cute cheep!” Yes, he was a dastardly little bastard, but I was not swayed by his uber cuteness. Poop, people. I already have two dogs pooping in the back yard, I don’t need more poop in the front. The feeder came down, the chair was wiped off and the porch was swept. The bird feeder? I just set it at the back of the patio until I decide what to do with it.

Later, as I was relaxing with a Manhattan and waiting for the impending thunderstorm, I heard some cheeping. Not cute cheeping, angry cheeping. Followed by fffffffttt, the flutter of angry wings. Not really fluttering, more like mad beating. It’s a good thing I’ve just been feeding little finch things and not something like an eagle or a turkey buzzard. Little Mr. Bird Turd hopped around where I had swept the seeds, looked at me, flew up to the roof, then ffffftttt’ed some more. Actually, he fffffftttt’ed a lot. It sounded kind of like a “fuck you” in feather-flight speak. He did find the feeder on the corner of the patio so I’m hoping he’s satisfied with that for a while.

Although now that I think of it, I’ve just put him right at cat-snack level. Damn, I’m going to have to move it before I’m added to the pecked-out-eyes list during the Bird Apocalypse.

Fffffffuck.

Second Best. Maybe.

I knew it. I knew I would jinx it this year, me and my big mouth. Or fat fingers, or however this little blog of mine gets expressed. No, this year’s 4th of July was not better than last year’s, but it was still good and now it seems like I have this weird tradition to tell you everything I did, ate and drank. Prepare to be wowed by my exciting life. Or not. Whateva!

Friday –
What I did -
Worked. See how the weekend is already starting out lame? And it was cold, because summer is a very fickle lover this year. I’m not sure what’s up his butt. Anyway, after work J and I went to Art Walk which began an evening of the most delightful, unexpected surprises. We fell in love with some paintings and, after meeting the artist and learning she does commissions, I MUST. HAVE. ONE. Seriously. They are creepy and haunting and whimsical and touching and overall just unforgettable. My underlying, obsessive thought all weekend was how I must commission this talent to paint a picture of me and my dogs. I might need to sell my liver to be able to pay for one. Or a dog’s liver since they haven’t yet ruined theirs with daily alcohol consumption.

So, on to the next surprise. We were hungry, I was hung over from the previous night’s bourbon extravaganza. We wandered around for a while and found ourselves in front of the menu for Lola’s. I’d never been there before, but there was mac and cheese on the menu. Plus the owner has a bulldog (which the restaurant is named after.) How can you go wrong with mac and cheese and a bulldog named Lola? You can’t. The icing on the cake was the Bloody Marys. Oh, and the oh-so-adorable pictures of Lola and her babies on the wall. We met Amy, the owner, and oohed and aahed over all of the sweet puppy faces. Oh yeah – we had to make fun of the guy singing. It wasn’t his voice that was so entertaining, but the fact that he sang the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air all emo-style. If I hadn’t been so dehydrated, I probably would have peed my pants.

What I ate –
Lola’s house mac and cheese, crusty goat salad, crème brulee. (I know there was some kind of lunch at some earlier point in the day, but it must have been really uninteresting since I don’t remember it.)

What I drank –
Water, water and more water. Diet Coke, a Cabo Bloody Mary and a whiskey robber.

Saturday –
What I did –
Another day of not-so-great weather. J and I made the best of it by staying in our pajamas, watching movies and eating all day. And snuggling with dogs who could not believe their luck at being snuggled all day and being fed morsels of cheese. Ruby showed her gratitude by eating poop and being banished to her crate overnight.

What I ate –
Easy cheese and Pringles, cheese and bread, peanut butter M&Ms and pizza.

What I drank –
Two glasses of wine, two Cosmos.

Sunday–
What I did –
Woke up early and not hung over! Woo hoo! Met J, M, and M’s friend for coffee and an ocean roll at Lone Pine. Mmmm…. ocean roll……. What? Oh yeah, sorry about that, got a little distracted. After our heavenly breakfast, we went to the pet parade where my hand cramped from taking so many pictures of so many cute dogs. Bostons, Frenchies, Bulldogs, Boxers (all of my smushy-faced favorites!), pit bulls, Dalmatians, German Shepards, Chihuahua, Corgis, Labs, Poodles, oh my!! Dogs in costumes, dogs in “makeup”, flying dogs and barking dogs and even dogs that looked like chickens and horses. Such clever disguises those were! Next came wandering around Drake Park, molesting every Boston Terrier and Frenchie I could find and even a sweet little SharPei whose owner I loved because he rescued her just before she was about to be put down. J found a home for her foster dog, Daphne, who went to live in her new home in Washington. I think her new daddy was already in love with her. I bought pepper plants – jalapenos, pepperoncinis, banana peppers, hotties, some chocolate things, and a couple more I’d never heard of. Relaxed at Les Schwab listening to the free concert where the band sang about G-spots, sugar walls and included Jesus and teddy bears in a “gospel” song. Awesome. Went to J and J’s house to eat, drink and be terrified climbing onto the roof to watch the fireworks. That is one little activity that will not be repeated next year.

What I ate –
Ocean roll, cheese pizza, chicken, ribs, steak, pineapple, watermelon, cucumber salad, cherry pie and vanilla ice cream.

What I drank –
Double-shot mocha, water, whiskey and coke with lime.

Monday –
Still not warm enough to float. Fed chipmunks, bought soil for my peppers, planted my peppers, pulled the weeds that my kid missed while doing her chore. BBQ’d, sat by the fire pit, took pictures of the flames, watched bats dance in the sky. Ruined my exceptionally, surprisingly sober weekend by inventing the world’s Best Manhattan Ever. Suffice it to say that maraschino cherries are for the birds and fresh cherries are where it’s at, baby!

What I ate –
Breakfast potatoes, fried eggs, leftover pizza, steak, salad, cherries.

What I drank -
Orange juice, water, whiskey and coke, Best Manhattan(s) Ever.

My Gadabout Adventure

I work with a couple of people who own a side business in addition to their regular day jobs. They are a couple as in there are two of them but they’re also married. My workplace is a little unusual that way. The husband was expected to be out of town on company business, so I was asked to fill in as hostess on a few trips for said side business during his absence. His company business has been postponed, but they asked me along yesterday to get some on-the-job hostess training while they took out a small group. I was really glad I was invited.

Robin and Danita have been operating Gadabout Serene Adventures for at least a couple of years now. I’ve known about it but didn’t realize how really cool it is. Although their trips and tours are catered to seniors, anyone is welcome. (Anyone who wants to pay, of course.) What’s included? Everything. Danita normally acts as hostess and serves breakfast, drinks and snacks. Meals are included as well as overnight lodging on trips lasting more than a day. Transportation is provided to each destination, the only extra money needed is for souvenirs. Wine, in my case.

I was invited to go along on the wine tasting trip. What? Wine tasting instead of working? Oh no, I couldn’t possib – oh, alright, twist my arm! Damn my lush reputation! The trip included lunch at our first stop at King Estate Winery near Eugene, followed by visits at Sweet Cheeks Winery and Silvan Ridge Winery. Yeah, more about the Sweet Cheeks name later.

We left Bend at 7 a.m. and picked up a few more customers in Sisters. It ended up being a small group of just seven, which was okay with me for my first time. Robin and Danita have several regular customers and three of them came along, plus one new couple and Danita’s parents. On the way to Eugene, I helped serve breakfast rolls and drinks. There’s a really good reason that I don’t wait tables. Ask one person what they want to drink, and promptly forget while asking the second person. Seniors are generally forgiving, or at least he pretended not to mind. We played Bingo (because that’s what old people do) and they won small prizes. Easy breezy.

We arrived at King Estates Winery ahead of schedule but they were more than accommodating with our lunch reservation. King Estates provides both lunch and dinner and had narrowed down their menu for our tour group, printing special menus just for us. I saved a couple of them because I always save stuff like that. I also like to take pictures of my food and drinks, which I think everyone else found amusing, if not odd. Don’t judge me, old people.

Lunch started with drinks, but not wine, because that was for later. The new couple ordered Chardonnay sodas, which I had never heard of, but then I had to order my own after seeing their cute little fizzy bottles. Yes, I took a picture. Our menu choices were an albacore salad, roast chicken with spinach and mushrooms or a hanger steak with fingerling potatoes. The descriptions on the menu were better than mine, but whatever. Use your imagination, they all sounded scrumptious. Being the carnivorous meat-eater that I am, I ordered the hanger steak. It was cooked perfectly and the potatoes were yummy and there was a little pat of garlic butter that I used my third piece of bread for so I could use it all up. I sopped up everything on my plate with every piece of bread I could find. Oh, but I took a picture first. It was all nomalicous.

Our dessert choices were either a bread pudding (again with a really tasty description I can’t recall) or a flourless chocolate cake with pistachio ice cream. It was a toss-up because I love chocolate cake, but I’m not crazy about pistachio ice cream. On the other hand, the bread pudding had some kind of rum or amaretto or some other boozy yumminess in it, but bread pudding can be soggy and weird sometimes. I chose the chocolate cake and you know what? I was wrong. I love pistachio ice cream! Especially when paired with a gigantic slice of super-rich, super nommy cake! Oh, heavenly day!! Yes, I remembered to take a picture before diving into my sin-on-a-plate. My very sweet neighbor offered her bread pudding up for a picture AND a bite. Bonus!! And I was wrong again (I hate when that happens) because it was incredibly warm, sweet, soft, flavorful and not at all soggy.

Lunch was followed by a tour of the winery where we learned how they make their most popular varieties, Pinot Gris and Pinot Noir. We saw the crush pad where the grapes are first brought in, the giant steel barrels they are fermented in and the wooden kegs the wine is aged in. I am always amazed at how scientific the wine-making process really is. There was all this talk about yeast and microbes and some kind of tartar clay and how they keep from getting foggy wine or ice crystals and some wines are allowed to heat up while others need to be kept cold. It’s a lot more than just picking some grapes and squeezing them into a glass. Of course that would just be called grape juice but you get the idea.

After the tour, we bellied up to the bar for some wine tasting. Our tour guide doubled as our bartender/sommelier and served us tastings of their Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir and a dessert wine. I wasn’t as impressed with the wines as I was with the lunch. They weren’t bad, just a little dry for my taste and Pinot Gris isn’t really my favorite anyway. I did buy a bottle of Riesling though, because the description on the bottle says it has flavors of ginger and citrus. I like ginger. I like citrus. They better not be lying.

Next, it was on to Sweet Cheeks Winery, whose Riesling Danita was raving over since we left Bend. Now, about the name. If you know me at all, you can guess what kind of image the name Sweet Cheeks conjures for me. Well, when the winery owners saw the hills that the vineyard is planted on, they saw the same thing. How can you resist a wine with a name like that?

The aforementioned Riesling that was raved over is very good, but I ended up getting a bottle of the Rosy Cheeks (which brings to mind another image but my mind is a dirty place to live). They also had some delicious-sounding cheeses and the most wonderfully whimsical paintings on their walls. I took pictures of all of those too. I would have bought one if I’d had an extra two or three hundred dollars on me.

Our last winery stop was Sylvan Ridge, across the street from Sweet Cheeks. Obviously they were less imaginative in the naming of their wines, but not less skilled in the making of their wines. Of course the $40 Elizabeth’s Red was my favorite, but I settled on the less expensive Muscat. It’s perfectly yummy enough.

On the way home, Danita told me that they usually play a movie, but I think most everyone was content to doze off after their day of wine tasting. I couldn’t help sneaking in my own little cat nap after helping to serve non-alcoholic, re-hydrating beverages and snacks to the guests.

All in all it was a great day and a great way to play “hooky” from work. Robin and Danita are so wonderfully easy-going with their guests yet utterly professional. They have planned for so many of the little details I think it makes it easy for everyone to relax and have a really excellent adventure. Much better than Bill and Ted could have done.

As for me, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Robin is out of town in October so I can go on the Hearst Castle trip. I’ve always wanted to go there, but I’ll console myself with some Rosy Cheeks if it doesn’t pan out.

Ode to Bugabooga

My daughter's birthday is today and she graduated from middle school last night. A double whammy with unexpected emotions. Well, I expected to be sentimental and sappy on her birthday, because I always am, but not over graduation.

I didn't even want to go. It was presented as a short ceremony with a party for the graduates afterward. I only went because I had to. I mean, what kind of mom doesn't go to her only child's graduation? Only the kind of mom that I myself would judge harshly. So I went. Begrudgingly.

It wasn't so fun and made me crabby. I parked a mile away and thanked myself for having the sense to not wear heels on my trek to the school. It was crowded and hot in the gym and completely unorganized. I found a spot against the wall to lean on since there were no chairs left. D had gone to a friend's to get ready so I didn't get a chance to see her beforehand and then searched in vain to catch a glimpse of her in the sea of 8th graders. I saw her friends, but not her. I started to wonder if she was even there.

The principal came out and gave what is probably his standard speech. "This is the best group of 8th graders we've ever had, blah, blah blah." Then they showed a video of all the kids that prompted screams and cheers from the entire 8th grade class. My ears were ringing halfway through. It was a long video. Did I mention how hot it was in there?

When Principal What's-His-Name came back up to the microphone, it was to tell the kids some tired old adages that were probably meant to be inspirational, but just sounded cliche. "Make your own choices. Be the change you want to see in the world. Blah, blah, blah." Is this thing over yet? Then he gave his blessing or official promotion or whatever "on behalf of the Board of Education" and I got all teary. Wtf?

The kids were then dismissed and I finally located D at the end of the line on her way out the door. I hurried after her and was greeted with a quick "Hi Mom" followed by the I'm-really-too-busy-to-talk-to-you-because-my-friends-are-more-important-in-my-life-than-you look. I had to practically beg her to allow me to take a quick picture of her. "But Mom! My friends!" "Please? It's your graduation! I have to have a picture of you in your cute dress!" (that I paid for, by the way.) She finally acquiesced before scampering off again to rejoin her friends for the dance.

I hiked back to my car, sat in my seat and broke down in tears. Sobbed. Because she "rejected" me. Because she's growing up. Because I'm proud of her. Because I love her. Because I was alone and had nobody to share my emotions with.

I had to go buy her a birthday card and some doughnuts for her birthday breakfast. (I had planned on making her something special, but yeah. Right. Like I'm preparing specialty meals before six in the morning. Sure...) Reading the cards made me cry. Choosing the right kind of doughnuts made me cry. I was walking around Walmart crying. People were giving me weird looks. We're talking the weird Walmart-type people. Like they have any right to judge. I was an emotional wreck. It's a good thing I know how to make a good Manhattan because I needed it.

This morning when she woke up, the dogs and I dazzled her with a medley of birthday songs. I knew she was disappointed with just a card (even though it was the most heartfelt card I've ever bought for ANYone) until I told her that I couldn't wrap ballet tickets and a pedicure. "We're getting pedis??!?!?!? Where's the ballet? What are they performing?" She was suddenly awake and interested in her day. And in me. Briefly.

Then she hit me with it. I knew she couldn't just Accept. She also has to Take. Us moms know that any sentence that begins with "Since it's my birthday" doesn't mean they want to express their undying love and gratitude to you for all of the sacrifices you make and do or don't use to guilt trip them with. "How about you drive me to school and we get Starbucks on the way?" Oh, what the hell. A coffee sounded good to me too. I got my revenge. As she was getting out of the car in front of the school I yelled, "Happy birthday Bugabooga!! I LOVE YOU!!!" That's about the meanest thing you can do to your kid. Bwah ha ha.....

I know I complain a lot about her and parenting and how hard it is. It is hard. And I have legitimate complaints. And it's the nature of the beast of motherhood. But she's actually a cool kid. She's fun and smarter than I give her credit for. At some things. Not at using the vacuum when she forgets to plug it in and then claims it doesn't work.

She's sassy the way a girl should be. This morning she said she was going to wear her short shorts, the ones that aren't allowed in school. She said, "What are they going to do, bust me on the last day?" I was so proud. She has an excellent sense of humor. She's genuinely caring even though she makes it so easy to forget when 90% of what comes out of her mouth is about her.

On the way to get our coffee, the morning radio show was discussing websites that coach you on how to talk to your teenagers, how to express your feelings in their language. Seriously? Parents need this? I know D was thinking the same thing. I turned to her and said, "You're awesome! You rock!" She rolled her eyes and said, "Mom, don't. Just don't." She gets that eye roll from me. All the women in my family do it.

And the truth is, if I had a boy I'd probably turn him gay. It's not appropriate to take a boy to get pedicures. D's first word after "mom" was "shoe." Some people would frown at a boy doing that. I like that we can watch chick-flicks and do facials and she paints my nails. We do fashion shows when we get new clothes. We go shopping and say "Oh, that's cuuuute!" over and over all day.

Yes, I complain. I get exhausted and overwhelmed and I don't know how to do it All. There are days that I daydream about getting in my car and driving and driving, far away from it All. But I can't imagine my life without her. I can barely remember what it was like before her. And I'm terrified of what lies ahead. The things that seemed so far away when she was in diapers are frighteningly close now. Her first real kiss, her first real boyfriend, her first real heartbreak. High school graduation, going away to college, her first apartment. First job. We still have a lot of firsts left. Big ones too.

There are more frustrations to come. More tears. But also more "that's what she said" jokes. More facials, more talk about boys. More ballets and more birthdays.

More of Bugabooga. I couldn't ask for more than that.

When Booze Is Not Enough

Yes folks, it’s true. There are some pains that alcohol doesn’t take away. Not even my beloved Manhattans. Not even when they’re made with Maker’s AND include a cherry WITH a stem. There are certain hells that cannot be escaped. Teenage girls’ birthday parties fall into this category.

D’s birthday is today and I’m able to feel sentimental about it now, especially after going to her graduation last night. But that’s another story for another time. Probably tonight. Or later today, depending on how unproductive I want to be work-wise.

Anyway, this whole ordeal really started Friday night when I had to bake the cake. After spending three hours shopping for shoes to match her graduation dress, a bathing suit (excuse me, STRING bikini) for the graduation pool party and party food. I was up until 9:30 baking the famous Rainbow Cake, an encore request from last year’s party.

Saturday started with swimming at Juniper. D first begged me to stay at the pool the whole time, then dismissed me once I had paid her admission. “You can go, Mom.” “But don’t you want to know where I’ll be if you need anything?” “You can go NOW, Mom.” I didn’t see her again until she wanted something to eat. I guess her hunger rendered me useful enough to talk to. For half a minute.

Part 1 wasn’t so bad though. It was a gorgeous day and I got to lay out and soak up some rays and some very-much needed vitamin D. It was delicious and I relished every minute of it after winter and all of the rain. It wasn’t, however, enough relaxation to prepare me for Part 2.

The party then moved to the house, where 12, count them – TWELVE, teenage girls were spending the night. I’m pretty sure I only approved eight, but what’s four more? A LOT, it turns out. Twelve estrogen-filled, hormone-induced young people is too much at one time. They were too much for themselves.

They spent the first hour gossiping. I believe that teenage girls have gossiping down to a science. “So-and-so is such a slut.” “He was going out with two girls and liked a third one at the same time.” On and on it went. I learned that my daughter has perverse things said to her. “I asked him what he was doing and he said ‘you’”. (It was at this point that I poured my first drink. It was either that or bite my tongue until it bled.) I also learned that girls like to say no and that they enjoy telling boys “no.” “It’s so easy. They ask you out and you just tell them no. Ha ha ha.” No is my favorite word from teenagers. When it’s not directed at me.

I had about 45 minutes of peace after dinner was devoured (literally), which I named the Eye of the Teenage Storm. J came over, I made my second drink and the girls went to the park. The peace was short-lived.

Ruby Tuesday, my pretty piggy princess puppy, sauntered in with a wrapper hanging from her mouth and an “oh boy, that was delicious” gleam in her eye. I tracked down the source of her new-found happiness and discovered she had eaten half of a giant chocolate bar. My dog basically ate poison. Instant panic. J called her vet friend while I cleaned up the pieces of chocolate that had been licked into the carpet.

In the middle of Dog Drama, the girls arrived home. D was in tears because on the way back to the house, half of the girls had disappeared to go play doorbell ditch and she was convinced that they had all been kidnapped and turned into sex slaves (yes, I have succeeded in instilling this fear into my child). All would-be sex slaves were found and accounted for and given a screaming-tantrum lecture by D. I told her I’d have to deal with the recap of her ordeal another time as I had to first make sure the dog would live. Her reply? “Well then can we have cake now?” Oh yes, of course. I want to get out chocolate cake RIGHT NOW, THIS INSTANT AFTER MY DOG JUST POISONED HERSELF WITH CHOCOLATE!!! In one of my finer moments of motherhood, I let fly the F word. In front of 11 kids that aren’t mine.

In the end the cake was served, complete with candles and a song, I tricked Ruby into drinking hydrogen peroxide, which induced a ginormous amount of vomiting and retired to my room with my laptop and another Manhattan. All was good. Or at least nobody died. Or called the police on me. Or I didn’t run out of alcohol and call the police on myself if only to spend a quiet night in jail.

Needless to say, nobody got much sleep.

If some of you can benefit from this wonderful, never-to-be-repeated experience, here’s my advice.

1. Have either a slumber party or a pool party, but not both. Bringing 12 sunburned, hungry teenagers to your house is just asking for trouble.

2. 12 teenage girls is too many. About 7 too many. They can’t control their own hormones, let alone everyone else’s. The drama just multiplies exponentially. Also – girls can be mean and will form groups against each other. Even when they’re friends.

3. Keep chocolate away from dogs. At all times. Always. If you’re not smart enough to follow this simple rule, at least be smart enough to keep some hydrogen peroxide on hand.

4. Teenage girls eat a lot. A LOT. I suppose I should be happy that none of them have unhealthy body issues but I kinda wish they did. They were asking for seconds before they even started on their first plate. They called thirds on cinnamon rolls before they took the first bite of the first one. They’re like locusts, swooping in and leaving nothing in their wake. They will literally fight each other for a piece of bread. Be prepared to feed an army. It’s not cheap.

5. Trick a friend who doesn't have kids into coming over to keep you company. Your friends with kids will know better.

6. Finally and most importantly – make sure you have alcohol on hand and plenty of it. I cannot stress this enough. If you don’t heed this advice, all I can say is you’re digging your own grave and it’s been nice knowing you. Teenage girls are vicious and will eat you alive if you are not sufficiently numbed to their evil influences.

Prayers for Kyron

I’m not quite sure what has touched me about Kyron Horman, missing since Friday, June 4th. Granted, it’s my worst nightmare, but dozens of children go missing each day. Maybe it’s because he went missing in Oregon and it touches too close to home. Maybe it’s because his disappearance seems to have struck the same chord with the media and those searching for him. Maybe it’s because he just looks so innocent and so tiny, with his big glasses and gap-toothed smile, his friendly and utterly open expression. Whatever it is, I can’t ignore it. I check the news reports constantly, hoping for the happy news that he’s found. Safe. And soon. Very soon.

I think the first impulse was to blame the school. What were their security measures? Did they allow just anyone to walk in and snatch up this little child? How could they make it so easy? My opinion may be unpopular, but I don’t think it’s fair to blame the school, or the teachers or school systems in general. They’re already overburdened. True, we entrust them with our children every day and there is a certain level of expectation that we’re leaving them in a safe place. But it doesn’t start with the schools.

The overwhelming burden is on each of us as a member of society. In a country where voting is our right, we have to ensure that the laws on child predators are stricter and enforced each and every time. These “people” should not be walking among us freely. I don’t believe there is rehabilitation for a person who could harm and violate a child. It’s not a simple character flaw, it’s not a minor offense. Abusing a child changes who they are, it changes the people around them, it bruises their very soul, forever and always.

It’s also up to us. It's a fine line. Government agencies are criticized for overreacting, or not doing enough. Not doing enough in time, before it’s too late. Again, the systems are overburdened and, although there are legitimate complaints, we share responsibility as well. Don’t mistake me, the extremes are too easy to fall into. I don’t want anyone knocking on my door asking if my daughter has done her homework or frowning when I have a glass of wine. I don’t want to overstep my bounds with my neighbor and how they discipline (or sometimes worse, don’t) their own children. But I think if you have a gut feeling that something just isn’t right, you see a child and an adult who don’t look right together, a little girl looks too lost, a little boy seems too quiet for his age, tell someone. Pay attention to the man seemingly without a family in a family-centered environment. Listen to a child who asks for help. Watch for the toddler who seems to wander off a bit too far. I know if it were my child, I’d be praying that you would.

Just as I’ll be praying for the safe return of little Kyron Horman and then end of this nightmare for his parents.

Junipers Can Bite Me

I hate junipers. They’re ugly. Their green isn’t even a pretty green; I would never wear it or paint my house with it. I don’t drink gin. Junipers are the least useful, most wasted spaces of life on this planet. Worst of all, they give me allergies. They are the only thing I’m allergic to and I lived the first 30 years of my life completely allergy-free. Until I lived in Bend for seven years and developed this god-forsaken juniper allergy.

I made it through winter with only a slightly sore throat. I steered clear of the pig flu, stomach flu and any other cold-related virus. Invincibility was mine. Until spring sprung with fucking juniper pollen. I woke up the first day with burning, blurry eyes, like I’d had an all-night cry or drinking binge. I’d had neither. The next day I sat at my desk sniffling for the last two hours of the afternoon. Last night I was literally attacked by pollen while washing my face. It’s pretty pathetic to have go to bed at 9:30 at night because it hurts too bad to keep my eyes open.

Yep, I can’t truly enjoy the 60+ degree sunny days in March because I want to tear my eyeballs out of my head. The worst is when it snows AND I have out of control allergy symptoms. That’s a really special kind of hell.

I think all junipers should be eradicated. Seriously. I would run for office to become President of the United States of America just so I could burn the fuckers down and remove them permanently from the earth. I would make it illegal to grow them. Grow all the marijuana you want, but plant a single juniper seed and be put to death. Slowly and painfully.

Junipers can suck it. Hard.

It's Final Exam Time

Last night was high school orientation for the parents of new, ingoing students. High school. The words alone make me break out into a cold sweat. High school. I absolutely shudder at the thought. I’ve always known this day was coming. I just didn’t know it was Now. And I’m much better with some ideas in theory than I am once they’re put into practice. I know D is going to high school next year, but I didn’t really “know” it until orientation made it real. Real scary.

I found myself tearing up in the auditorium during the orientation. It didn’t help that the principal and vice principal were using words like “involvement” and “insight” and reminding us parents that even though our kids might seem like they’re growing up and don’t need us as much, now is the time that they need us more than ever. We were warned to not back off.

They went on to brag about their academic success, the number of social clubs available, how well their sports teams are faring this year. They told us how classes are chosen and how students are prepared for college and, ultimately, life.

And I was holding back tears because I realized, this is It. This is the real test and I don’t think I’m ready. I feel like my life is about to go into fast forward; I’ll blink and the next four years will be over and D will be gone. I don’t know that I have the energy or the strength to get her through it. I doubt whether my parenting skills can see us both safely to the other side.

She is so excited. She’s scared too, but it’s the good kind because it’s filled with hope and wonder and a sense of adventure. She’s about to embark on a whole new journey full of friends, football games, dates and dances. She’ll face new challenges academically as well as socially and start preparing herself for real life. A real, grownup life that doesn’t include me. Not so much.

I don’t know how to prepare her for her own life. The disappointments and heartbreak I know she’ll face. The frustrations and the stress of learning how to make her way in the world. I’m most afraid because it’s all on me. I never expected or wanted to be single with a high school student. I thought I’d have a partner, a backup, someone to hold my hand and figure it out with me. I don’t even have my own life together most days, and now I have to figure this part out on my own. I hope my mistakes aren’t the kind that can’t be erased.

I wish I could share her enthusiasm and embrace this part of our lives. I wish I could know that her life will be beautiful and full of all of the happiness and love and adventure I want for her. I’m afraid the best I can do right now is take it one step at a time and learn as we go and hope that we make it in one piece. I hope my best is good enough, but I know she deserves far better than just good enough.

Resolutions, Month Two

February is almost over, which means the second month of my resolutions is also coming to a close and I’m going to give myself a big pat on the back for this month.

For the first time ever, I made bread. Me. Fresh, hot, right-out-of-the-oven bread. You probably don’t realize how this changes my life. If I were stuck on a deserted island, I would want to live off of bread. Bread and cheese. And wine. Or at least whiskey. But the bread is a must. And the cheese. Bread and cheese complete me.

I was a little worried in the beginning. I saw a couple of recipes online that looked easy enough, but I obviously didn’t read through them carefully. Mostly I ignored the part about needing a stand mixer. Like the pink Kitchenaid artisan model that I am coveting (that I registered for). I foolishly thought that a hand mixer on a low speed would be good enough. No. Not even close. I ended up covered in flour and threw the whole thing away in frustration. Seven cups of flour in the trash.

Then I discovered recipes that can be started in the bread machine, which has a handy little Dough setting. For an hour and a half the bread machine works while I sip wine, make another meal, do laundry, whatever. It’s pretty genius, actually.

The first recipe I tried was for ciabatta bread. I added roasted garlic to the ingredients I put in the bread machine and couldn’t have been more thrilled. I had fresh, hot bread with the perfect crust. Seriously perfect. My 13 year old fought me for the last piece. Until I threatened to cut her. Not really. But I kinda did mean it.

Last night I tried a focaccia. The dough came out of the bread machine as light as air and floaty as a cloud. (Spell check doesn’t seem to like floaty, but it’s a word. I know because I’m using it.) It baked down a bit and wasn’t as light as I expected, but I sliced some up today with the girls at work and it was wonderful. It went perfectly with some mortadella salami and Havarti. Lunch goodness.

Success #1. Check.

I hadn’t planned on attempting the barbecue until summer. However, I was craving a steak on Valentine’s Day and, not having a man around that evening, decided to try it myself. I was not disappointed. I was rewarded with a perfectly seasoned, perfectly juicy, tender piece of meat heaven. It was done exactly the way I like it. And I’m picky.

What was even better – combining the two! I had thin slices of leftover steak on my bread for lunch the next day. Along with some smoked gouda, tomatoes, pepperoncinis and mayonnaise. It was like having my own little deli, only better.

Success #2. Check check.

Marching on to March………

Ham and Hams

I love books. I love reading. I love book club. I love my book club peeps and I’ll share with you why they’re so great.

Tuesday was supposed to be book club night but JC was feeling under the weather, MG was looking at a possible sudden-out-of-town business trip and CP was dragging after getting home very late the night before from driving back after being out of town herself for the weekend. The suggestion was made to postpone to the following week and all parties seemed to be in agreement that this would be the best solution. All parties except for the unnamed ham that was to be our dinner that evening while discussing the merits (or lack thereof, in one reader’s opinion) of Madame Bovary. Said ham became the topic of conversation in several emails and my primary source of entertainment for the day.

What follows are the edited transcripts of the emails pertaining to Sir Ham.

JC 11:32 a.m.
Well, the gigantic ham M is working on votes for tonight, but to be honest, I don't think it read the book.

M and I will just eat a remarkable amount of ham this week. There are worse fates.

MC 1:25 p.m.
p.s. The gentle sound you hear in the background is my ham weeping.

p.p.s. It's a tender squeaking sound, barely audible, but heart-wrenching. Poor ham - if only we can convince it that the love of myself and Joel is enough for it.

p.p.s.s. I need to quit sending e-mails when I have just gotten off work.

KA 2:38 p.m.
p.s.
Maybe if you consume the ham voraciously it will be properly assured of your love. Place it on a pedestal? Forgo side dishes?

MG 2:58 p.m.
p.s., We once had a turkey that seemed depressed and refused to turn golden brown, but he kept his reasons to himself. Your ham sounds much more communicative, which I think is a good sign. Maybe K is right -- a little special treatment may be just what he needs.

CP 4:25 p.m.
Soak it in whiskey. And it probably doesn't want to drink alone, so you'll have to shoulder that burden, too.

Why Dogs Don't Make Good Valentines

1. Chocolate is toxic to them.
2. They’re sloppy kissers (with dog breath to boot).
3. They can’t snuggle without leaving a blanket of their hair on you.
4. They can’t handle their champagne (or beer, depending on which college party you’re attending).
5. They’re not allowed in restaurants, bars or movie theaters.
6. Constant farting. Bad manners in general.
7. They lack opposable thumbs with which to cook you dinner. Or the ability to read a recipe. Or the height needed to reach the stove.
8. They would rather eat flowers than give them to you.
9. Instead of whispering sweet nothings in your ear, they blast your eardrums with obnoxious barking.
10. When you tell them it’s time for night-night pee-pees, they refuse to go outside and then promptly pee on your bed. And then lay on your pillow.


Why dogs are good Valentines –

1. They love you unconditionally.
2. They would never make a list of your faults.

My Registry. Where You Can Buy Me Stuff.

You know, I really didn't think anyone would take my registry idea seriously. As brilliant as the idea is, I could feel the eye rolls across the internets. People just have no faith in marriage anymore. Then I was talking to a friend who said she would totally purchase a gift for me and to let her know where I am registered. Seconded by another friend a few days later. Which just tells you how good and brilliant my friends are.

I whipped out my wish list and jumped onto www.bedbathandbeyond.com. Convenient for out-of-towners and in-towners. Do not judge my choices. I realize that a pink Kitchenaid stand mixer may be a little over the top, but it is my most coveted appliance and I will give it an appropriate name. Something like Priscilla. Or maybe Antoinette. Or even Julia. I'll let you know after you buy her for me.

My registry at bedbathandbeyond is under my name; my event is listed as Birthday. You know, in case anyone was seriously offended by same-self marriage. Plus it was a convenient way of letting everyone know when my birthday is. August 11th. Be sure to mark it on your calendars, people. August 11th. I want everyone there. I want the Biggest Party Ever. Only not a surprise party because I want to make sure I look cute and wear the right shoes. August 11th.

In the meantime, happy shopping everyone!

My Report Card

Being a mom is hard. Being the single mom of a teenage girl is unbelievably hard. I question myself on a daily basis whether I’m doing enough, doing it right, or if I’m failing her completely and wait for the evidence of my failure to show up in the form of a swollen pregnant belly, a mid-week hangover or bruises from the wrong kind of boy. Yes, these are extremes, but sometimes I feel that out of control, that my grasp on her is so loose, she’ll fall away at any second. As a parent, I don’t get report cards or performance reviews. I get eye rolls and door slams and arguments when I say no to almost anything.

However, I feel like I have been given a progress report over the last week in some ways and, by some miracle, it seems I’m doing okay. I think I’m getting a B. Maybe even a B+?

Since D started middle school it has been a constant battle with her grades. She’s far more interested in socializing with friends and going googly over boys than in spending a minute thinking about the reason she’s actually in school. So it surprised me when, out of the blue, last week she studied for a test. Really studied. She asked me to quiz her and everything. The next day she reported a score of 49 out of 50, which has been unheard of in the last three years. Plus on A on the essay portion. She was actually glowing for the rest of the week and repeating how proud she was of herself and how good it felt to work at something and be rewarded so positively.

Next we come to the bane of her existence, her choir teacher. This is not the teacher she had the previous two years and she expounds daily on how much she despises this new one for various reasons – they don’t sing enough anymore, she makes “rude” comments to the kids and, the most unforgivable offense of all to a teenage girl, she has a “big butt.”

Two days ago D called me in tears, saying Ms. Hated had given her a lunch detention for talking in class when she wasn’t talking. According to D, detentions were being handed out frequently and freely and not based on actual behavior. I was surprised, because of all her faults, D isn’t disrespectful to adults (well, besides me) and has never been a disruption in class. On the other hand, I’m aware how girls talk and giggle and whisper and that teenage girls especially are prone to dramatizing and over-exaggeration. So I questioned her, whether she really deserved it and was there a grain of truth in what Ms. Hated was accusing her of. She steadfastly denied it. Being at work and distracted, I suggested she just deal with it, it’s only one little detention after all, not that big of a deal, and wouldn’t really mean anything in the long run.

Except it did mean something. To her, it meant a lot. Through her tears she explained that she’s never gotten a detention, never in the three years of her middle school career, and this single, seemingly unimportant event would mar a record I didn’t even know she was keeping track of. And when I realized her moral compass is pointing exactly in the right direction, that she sees herself as a Good Girl and wants to be seen in the same light by others, I went to war for her.

Okay, not really war. I simply wrote a polite but firm email to her teacher, who wrote back with an apology and assurance that the detention was removed. Justice and vindication in just a few electronic sentences.

That same afternoon we had an appointment with the orthodontist. At her last appointment, D was given rubber bands to wear on her braces and the encouragement that it was her responsibility to wear them at all times, that wearing them could reduce the time she has to wear braces. She has faithfully worn them around the clock, removing them only to eat and replacing them immediately afterward. At the end of her appointment, the orthodontist’s assistant praised her highly for her vigilance, saying it made such a huge difference. I swear the woman was gushing like no other kid has ever accomplished such an impossible feat.

In the car later D said, “It’s cool that when you do the right things it’s like you get rewarded. Or praised.” I told her praise can be a reward also, to which she said, “Really? I guess that’s cool.”

What I didn’t tell her is that sometimes praise of others can be a reward for oneself.
Yeah, it is pretty cool.

Groundhogs and Statues and Smoke Monsters. Oh my!

There is a surprisingly lot going on for a Tuesday in February. Probably none of it is truly significant to anyone but me but this is my blog and I get to do what I want here. So there.

1. It’s Remy’s birthday. Of course this is number one, my boy was my first Boston baby. He’s five today and, since I doubt I’ll have time to make him a cake, I set out some steak to thaw this morning. Oh, yes. Nothing is too good for my little terrors! I mean terriers. Terroriers?

2. Groundhog Day. Can someone please explain why a rodent was put in charge of my happiness? The length of my seasonal affective disorder? I suffer from serious vitamin D deficiency, people!. I think it’s time for the marmot to “retire”. Interpret that as you will.

3. Oscar nominees were announced! I love love love the Oscars. I love everything about them. The dresses, the speeches, the glamour, the dresses. It’s like my Superbowl. With the expansion of the Best Film category I have seen 7 out of the 10 nominees. That is much better than my usual 2 out of 5 so I feel like I have actual, educated opinions this year. Yay me.There are several that I really liked so there is less chance at being disappointed by the winner. I stopped having Oscar parties several years ago because I found that too many people talked over the show and I missed what was being said. Rudeness. Tivo kinda changes that; I can rewind/rewatch anything I miss. Maybe I’ll have a party this year. Maybe I’ll just invite a bottle of champagne over. I’m keeping my options open at this point, but the countdown has started.

4. D needs some vaccine updates. Is it bad that I take my dogs in to the vet for their shots more often than I take my daughter to the doctor? She’s not going to be pleased with me tonight.

5. Lost starts tonight! The. Final. Season. I love Lost and have been loyal since the beginning, but I feel like it’s time to end our relationship. It’s just too much work. There has always been unanswered questions, multiple stories (that might be related?), time travel and the addition of new characters that I sometimes just don’t care about. Add to that months-long breaks that make it hard to keep track of what’s going on or continue caring. I plan on making the most of the time we have left; Hurley and the gang best not disappoint.

Win Some, Lose Some

The first month of my Resolutions is drawing to a close and it’s time to report on my progress. I was actually much more productive than I had planned to be in the beginning but then started to lose steam towards the end, which probably has more to do with my “failure” than my actual motivation.

First, the good news, AKA my Most Surprising Success in the Kitchen So Far. AKA Jalapeno Jelly! What gave me the idea to make this? You’ll be sorry you asked. For book club this month our food theme was camping. Camp food on a Tuesday night that I could make in half an hour and needed to be portable for the drive to Sisters. Yeah, sure. So I brilliantly thought of corn bread. Which seemed kind of plain and too easy and not really that brilliant, so I thought of bringing honey butter to go with it and then that still seemed too easy. Then it came to me – jalapeno jelly. It goes well with corn bread and fit in with my New Year’s Resolutions so well. Yes, this is really how I think. My mind wanders aimlessly like this all day long. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone and I’ll say something that sounds totally random to them but it started from something five subjects back and makes total sense to me. Really, people just need to pay better attention when conversing with me.

Anyway, I found a recipe that looked really easy. In fact, its simplicity completely distracted me from the fact that I would actually be Canning. Yeah, like I moved to Little House on the Prairie. I have never canned in my life, I’ve never even known anyone who has canned. I think maybe my mom tried once. Because we had a plum tree in the back yard that was always dropping a crapload of plums on the ground and she was trying to clean them up. But I don’t think we ever used it. Or she did it wrong. Obviously it left a huge impression on me.

I found cute little jars, not the regular boring kind. I bought fruit pectin (FYI, it’s cheaper at Freddie’s than Safeway). I bought my peppers, carried it all home, turned on some salsa music and set to work. I will say right now that the hardest part of the process was chopping the peppers. Of course they had to be minced into small pieces, who wants to bite into a chunk of pepper in their jelly? This really only emphasized my need for a food processor. In went my minced peppers, cider vinegar and sugar. A freaking butt-load of sugar.

I followed the recipe to a T but then got a little worried. My jelly wasn’t yet jelling when I poured it into the jars. I reread the recipe and the reviews and what I could Google and learned it could take up to a week for it to set. So I waited. An hour. Then another hour. Then two hours. Then the next morning. I had made it on a Saturday night and needed it to be ready on Tuesday.

Tuesday came. I quickly baked my cornbread, mixed up my honey butter and examined the jars of jelly, choosing one that looked more solid than some of the others. When it came time to open the jar, I pried open the seal and was overjoyed at hearing a little ‘pop’. Properly sealed? Check. I wasn’t the only one in the room impressed by that small success.

The real success came at tasting time. It was a little runnier than I had hoped for but more than made up for it with flavor. Sweet with the perfect mix of slightly spicy. (I plan on making the next batch spicier; I just wasn’t sure how many seeds to throw in this time and didn’t want to kill anyone.) Compliments and kudos were received from the group and I went home with a jar two-thirds empty.

At first I thought eight jars would be much too much for me to ever consume, but I’m already almost all the way through my second jar. Which, by the way, had set perfectly by the time I opened it, again with the happy little pop! The Sunday following book club I topped some cream cheese with my jelly and spread it on crackers for brunch. I’ve used it on chicken tacos, which inspired me to mix it with sour cream for a sauce on enchiladas. It was delicious on a sandwich with turkey and brie. Mmmm….

One new recipe down for the month, one to go. With such a dazzling success, I thought I could only do better on the next one. Really? Not so much.

Hollandaise was next on the agenda. I had a friend who tried it, raved about it and passed on the recipe. With the caveat that it was like a workout. Which I’m not so much into. I really don’t like to sweat in my kitchen. I found a blender recipe and was trying to ignore the fact that it seemed like cheating when I found a blender recipe in Julia Child’s book! Hey, if Julia was willing to endorse it, I was willing to try it. In the end it had a really pretty color, and a really nice consistency that didn’t separate as it cooled. But it was just bland. I wasn’t wowed by the taste, not even a little bit. I’ll try it again with some different ingredients added; I just might need some different guinea pigs next time.

This leaves my score so far at 1 – 1. Really the jelly is so good it should count as two points. I’m already planning my Christmas gifts this year. That’s right, everyone is getting jelly. Sangria jelly? Pomegranate jelly? I’m definitely making mint jelly for my dad this Father’s Day.

With This Ring I Me Wed

Remember that SATC episode where Carrie goes to a baby shower and the hostess makes her take her $300 shoes off in her house because she’s afraid shoe germs will kill her kids and then someone steals them? And then Carrie tells the hostess that she should replace her shoes because it was her stupid rule about not spreading germs from shoes in her house to kill her kids that caused her shoes to get stolen? But the stupid woman says that nobody should ever spend $300 on shoes because she obviously has no taste in shoes? So Carrie sends out a wedding announcement that she is marrying herself and she registers for the shoes she wants replaced and they arrive gift-wrapped? Yeah, I love that one too.

And it gave me an idea. It seems that my New Year’s resolution has unleashed the Suzie Homemaker/Martha Stewart/Julie Child-wannabe within me. It seems to keep growing. Two recipes-I’ve-always-wanted-to-try-but-was-too-afraid-to didn’t seem like enough for a whole year. I decided to try one for each month. But now I have all of these ideas just jumbling up my thoughts and they’ve caused me to realize I am missing quite a few kitchen accoutrements to help me fulfill my culinary dreams. Seriously, I would need to get a second job to obtain all of these newly coveted items.

Then it came to me - why don’t I marry myself so I can use a bridal registry and have other people buy them for me? Genius. Even better? Nobody is required to travel, sit through some boring ceremony for a marriage they don’t even think will last (except this one will. I’ll never leave myself.) and I don’t have to shell out a fortune for a wedding. I just get stuff. Yay me!!

Here it is, then. My list. In no particular order of priority or price. (I do firmly believe in thank you cards, so you will get a small token in return.)

1. Food processor. How have I gone so long without one?
2. Tart pan. Regular size and smaller sizes would also be appreciated.
3. Pepper mill
4. Crock pot. I know! I can’t believe I’ve never bought one either! You’ll have the pleasure of giving me my first one!
5. Mortar and pestle.
6. Crème brulee torch and crème brulee dishes.
7. Cheese grater. One of those electric ones. Jen will also send you a thank you because she’s probably tired of being my cheese grating bitch.
8. New knife set. Mine are desperately dull.
9. Pasta press. For when I’m feeling really ambitious.
10. Lemon zest grater. Or lime zest grater. Or orange zest. Just whatever kind of citrus I want to zest. I might even just wave it around while I say “zest!”
11. Cooper Cooler. I had one once and it broke. Or I wore it out. It is the best way to chill wine. Ever. Unless you like to keep your labels intact. But they’ll be my labels so you don’t have to worry about that.
12. Cordial glasses. They’re cute. And fancy. Just like me.
13. Kitchen Aid stand mixer. This isn’t a must, this is really more for the rich aunt who likes to show off her enormous wealth. Except I don’t have one of those. I do like the way the shiny stand mixers look though, so I had to add it.
14. Cooking With Booze. It’s a book I found at the library and loved but didn’t steal because I want my own brand new pretty copy. It has recipes that include booze plus drinks to make with said boozy food. How can you go wrong mixing the two? You can’t. Buy the book. For me. Then you can get your own copy.

That’s my list. In all of its bridal glory. For those of you that don’t believe in same-self marriage, I understand and am generous enough to remind you that I have a monumental birthday coming up. You can call it a birthday present if that makes it easier for you.

Happy shopping!

Real New Year's Resolutions

Admit it. Resolutions are stupid. People only make them so they can sound like they're really good people and have high aspirations of being the Perfect Human. But it's such a joke. Really. How many people have really quit smoking, lost weight, gotten out of debt because of their resolutions? Not me. I do not have the body I want, I'm constantly and continuously broke. New Year's resolutions are not the magic answer to Life's problems.

I have decided that New Year's resolutions should be about something you can actually do. Or will do. Then you'll feel like you've actually accomplished something. And you can feel good about it. Like two or three years ago, I made a resolution to drink more. And you know what? I did!!! I also resolved to take better care of my skin the same year. I think that making only one or two resolutions is the key to success. Really, ten is just too many. One or two is enough for anyone. If you accomplish those two in a year, then feel free to add more the next year. Resolutions should boost your ego, not tear you down. That's what the rest of the year is about. Or having a job. Or living with a teenager. I've said this before, but I will take my ups where I can get them.

Anyhoo, I have a single resolution this year. Okay, more like one resolution with sub-resolutions. I initially resolved to learn to make Hollandaise sauce and pie crust. I've been scared of both ever since I started cooking and I realize how much I am missing out on. I've never made a cherry or apple pie because I firmly believe they can only be made with a homemade pie crust. And as much as I love and critique Eggs Benny wherever I go, I should know how to make them myself.

Yes, my resolution is about eating. Who doesn't eat? Usually people want to eat less. Understandable, but it's not really going to happen. Sure, anyone can eat less for a month or so, but we're talking about a whole year. Twelve months. 365 days. It's a long time to try to do anything less. So I'm not trying to do it less. I'm just trying to do it better. Of course when I thought about it, I realized that I could reach my goal in the first month. Or at least get a really good head start. So I expanded a bit. I am now going to tackle one food-oriented goal a month. I don't know what they all are yet. There will be twelve. I know the summer months will be spent on perfecting the art of the barbecue. I know I'll fit in creme brulee somewhere. The rest I'll post as I come up with them.

The downside is that I now realize how scant my cooking supplies are. I will say now that I will not be offended by getting any cooking gifts for the entire year. The short list - I need a tart pan, torch, crock pot, lemon zester and food processor. I'd be blissfully happy with kitchen gifts all year long, but I'm not stupid. I'll never turn down a pair of shoes. Or a new TV. I just receive graciously like that. It's just who I am.

I think this will be my best resolution ever. Who can't eat more? Who doesn't want to eat better? Better as in taste. Sometimes less is not more.

Happy New Year!!!

I Am a Super Genius!

Alright, maybe not totally super genius, but I’m still feeling pretty brilliant. Or at least sorta smart. Kind of smart-cookie-ish. I know, somebody will think of the obvious way before I did, but just keep it to yourself please and let me have my small moments.

I must warn you before you go any further this is not a pretty story at all. It’s really pretty gross so if you have a weak stomach at all, I suggest you stop reading now.

Still reading? Well, I warned you…...

My pretty piggy hipppopupamus princess puppy, Ruby, has a very nasty habit. (See? Dogs are gross. There’s still time to stop.) She has taken to dining on poop for breakfast on an almost daily basis. I’ve no idea if it’s her own poo or her brother’s, but it is most definitely poo. She comes to the door happily licking her little whiskered lips so I know what she’s been up too. Her skunky, stinky breath is another telltale sign that can’t be missed.

Now, poop eating is gross enough. I already want to gag. But it doesn’t stop there. Because that would of course be too easy. And life with dogs isn’t easy. No, Ruby not only eats poo, but it of course upsets her stomach and she pukes it back up. In the house. Which I then have to clean up. I am extremely lucky that I don’t have an oversensitive gag reflex or I’d probably just have to move out of my house and have it condemned.

On Sunday she spent most of the entire day throwing up. Only it wasn’t like her regular gross puke. This puke smelled like the most rotten, dead, foul thing imaginable. This was beyond gross. I banished her to her crate for the day and lit every scented candle and opened every window. It was so horrible that I didn’t know if it was just gross or a symptom of some unknown health issue she might have. I was disgusted and worried. Great combination. She seemed fine when I got home the next day, so I went ahead and chalked it all up to her just being a Very Gross Dog. And sure enough, the next morning she was back to her breakfast of shit sausage.

I’ve pretty much had it at this point. I really can’t spend the rest of her life cleaning up poop vomit and avoiding her like the plague. I thought about following her out every morning so that I can yell at her when she gets the wrong end of her body next to a pile of something undesirable. But let’s be real. When it’s freezing in the morning, me taking a step outside just isn’t happening. And then I had the Best Idea Ever. Give her actual dog food for breakfast!!!

So last night I gave the dogs half of their normal meal. Half because Ruby is enough of a hippopupamus. She doesn’t need to gain anymore weight for Pete’s sake! I think they weren’t too happy about it and then I tortured them with baths and nail trims afterwards, so I probably wasn’t their favorite person last night. Then again, I was the only person in the house so take that, dog suckas!! Anyway, I’m sure I was forgiven for the dinner slight last night because they got breakfast this morning. I swear they acted like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to them. Like Christmas came early. (You know, that would have a better impact if I was writing this in July. Okay, like it had been their lifelong dream to have breakfast. Better?) The best part of all?? No poop eating!! (Insert sound of angels singing.) Ruby went outside and returned, not licking her little puppy lips, not with vile, stinky breath, but just doing a little happy dance and wagging her entire body. She makes up greatly for not having a real tail to wag.

That’s it. Nothing that will save the world or even a single person’s life. It won’t end world hunger or change the economy. But I don’t care. It will save my carpets. And my sanity. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s my little Christmas gift to myself. Yay me!

I'm a Wordsmith Wonder.

I invented a new word today. It's awesome. Really. And very useful. No doubt you will find yourself using it in no time. Just remember where you first heard it. I insist on getting credit.

Nakedtive adverb, noun -
Having a bad feeling or embarrassment about being naked.

Let's use it in a sentence. "He left the lights on during their lovemaking despite her nakedtivity." Or I could say, "I am less nakedtive about my breasts than I am about my potbelly."

See? It's easy!

I will now begin my campaign to get nakedtive added to Webster's.

Once Upon a Time I Loved the Snow

The bitter cold and below zero temperatures last week brought back so many memories for me. It’s a little ironic that they’re really good memories, considering how much I hate the cold, but what can I say? I take the bright spots where I can get them these days.

Jenny was one of my two best friends in elementary school. She lived on Silver Tree Lane. I love that name. Her mom was a teacher and very petite. She had dark hair, styled like Dorothy Hamill’s, and very little feet. I think they were a size 5. She wore heels all the time (wedges and espadrilles that have since come back in fashion) and we would raid her closet and stumble around in her tiny heels whenever she wasn’t home. Her parents were divorced but seemed to get along really well. Her mom drove a VW bug that took us to the beach many times over several summers. She also had a boyfriend who drove an old BMW. One of those tiny, little boxy ones. (I don't know what it means that I remember their cars so well, I just do.) His name was something like Dale and he was tall and dorky and we laughed at him behind his back.

Jenny’s dad had remarried and his wife’s name was Gretchen. Gretchen’s mother was quite old and very German. I met her once or twice and she was lovely but I never understood a word she said through her thick accent. Jenny’s dad and Gretchen owned a cabin in Wrightwood, a little town tucked in the mountains high over Los Angeles. It was a second home for them but the only home of theirs that I ever visited and it remains one of my favorite places in the world.

During the summery months we’d go to the cabin and swim in the lake. I would go back to school after a weekend at the lake proudly showing off my sunburned shoulders. It was warm and beautiful and the closest I ever got to anything resembling summer camp.

However, it was the winters at the cabin that I fell in love with. Growing up in Southern California, especially as a child, snow was a treat. It often snowed in Wrightwood during the winter, being a mountain resort town. And the cabin really was more of a cabin than a house, although chalet may be a more appropriate description. There was a small, wood-paneled kitchen with a bedroom behind it that Jenny shared with her brother when I wasn’t there. The living room had a single couch, a chair and a small fireplace. Her parents slept in the loft upstairs.

We spent our days sledding on anything we could find – trash can lids, pieces of cardboard, our coats. If it was cold enough for the lake to freeze, we’d “ice skate” around the edges, knowing the middle would never freeze solidly enough. We wandered the streets admiring the Christmas decorations put up by the more permanent residents. Once we’d had enough of frozen toes and noses we’d return to the cabin to find Gretchen waiting for us with hot chocolate or buttered noodles.

At night, we slept on the pull-out couch in the living room next to the warm fire, covered by pounds of down comforters. Having to leave that warmth to go to the bathroom in the freeze during the middle of the night was like a dare and we did it as quickly as we possibly could. We’d stay up late into the night whispering and giggling under the covers, being silly as only young girls can and are. Our favorite show to watch was The Twilight Zone and her dad would bring us movies when he went into town for groceries. One of my very favorite movies is The Elephant Man. I can’t decide if this is because the movie is really that good or because I watched it snuggled under layers of feathers with my best friend, alternately horrified and delighted at the grotesque images of a deformed man.

I haven’t heard from Jenny since my first year or two of college, we lost contact after that. I miss her and think of her often. The internet is supposed to be the great reuniter of everyone on the planet but so far it hasn’t worked for me. Google refuses to reveal her whereabouts to me.

Living with cold and snow is vastly different from visiting it. I now curse the cold for freezing my doors shut, drying my skin until it cracks and keeping me holed up in whatever warm places I do manage to find. But now and then I get a glimpse or a reminder of those weekends at the cabin and the joy that the snow and frost brought me. These are memories that I will treasure always and maybe someday Jenny and I will laugh about them again over a cup of hot chocolate.

Tutus and Tantrums

Sugar and spice and everything nice. Pink hair ribbons and ballet shoes. Bonding over ice cream and passing on my love for shoes. These are the things I envisioned when my daughter was born. I did not imagine that one day she would hate me or speak to me with such venom in her voice, as if I was the Worst Person on the Face of the Planet.

So she’s 13 and hormonal. So what? I get it. I have hormones. PMS is the bane of my existence. For at least a week out of the month I wish I lived in a different body. I don’t, however, respond to every question I am asked with hatred and condescension. My daughter does. A simple request to unload the dishwasher is met with a litany of proof of how that will ruin her life. She has homework, ballet practice, a test to study for, a life to live which does not include unloading the dishwasher at that exact moment in time. How dare I be so mean and cruel as to ask her to take five minutes out of her day to do something responsible to help me? I know. Worst Parent of the Year, right here. Damn me to hell.

That’s why this past weekend came as a surprisingly refreshing relief. Nutcracker weekend is pretty much my least favorite weekend of the year. It’s filled with hours of rehearsals, playing taxi to drive her to the “theater”, gift preparation for the other girls in her group, and a very exhausted, very depressed, very let-down child at the end of it all. Saturday morning she is literally high on adrenalin and the crash on Sunday coming down from it is painful just to watch.

I expected tantrums and diva behavior. I dreaded this year more than previous years precisely because of her thirteen-ness. I tried to head it off by reminding her of how much work it is, for me too, and that we would get through it with less scars if we could be nicer to each other. By we, of course, I meant her. And she knew it. She apologized in advance saying that sometimes she just wants to cry for no reason. I said yes, I understand. Wait until you have PMS and the feeling is at least 100 times worse. We bonded. Yay for being girls.

For the most part the weekend was a success. There was one small setback. I got a glimpse of the diva monster when I dared make a suggestion of how best to shower without washing her hair. It was over quicker than usual and I was so grateful that I didn’t point out how I was right in the first place. Even though I was and an acknowledgment would have been really nice. But, you know, whatever….

The rest of the weekend she was her little girl self that I so love. Only not so little anymore. She’s growing up. It’s odd to actually see her growth through the progression of her ballet roles. She started as a tiny mouse and even the polka girls and clowns looked so young to me. So young and silly and carefree. She’s still silly but she’s starting to lose some of her carefree spirit. I’m sad and proud at the same time. This was her first year on pointe and the first time she’s ever said she was nervous before a performance. Her first butterflies. Even when she complained that her toes felt like they were being cut from her feet, it didn’t come out as a whine. It was more of a statement of how proud she was of herself, a battle wound to be worn proudly.

As for me, I sat up a little straighter when she stepped out onto the stage. I watched her lightness on her toes and the smile on her face. I saw the young lady she is becoming and in that moment, I saw everything exactly as I had imagined it.

Rednecks and When It's Okay to Be a Complete Bitch

Dating sucks. Really sucks. Good friends do not.

My friend met a guy online and they texted for a few days. Because, apparently, texting is now the best way to get to know someone. Don’t bother calling and actually having a phone conversation for 5 to 10 minutes. Sometimes I hate technology. Anyhoo, he suggests they meet. In person - what a concept! He suggests they meet at a bar the night of the civil war game that he is going to watch with a friend. She asked me to go as backup (because who wants to meet a stranger in a bar with his buddy?) and of course I said yes. It turned out to be 45 minutes of my life that I will never get back but did inspire me to offer some advice to all of the poor souls out in the dating world.

How to make a good impression on a first date:

1. Do not be a redneck.
2. Do not imply in the first 5 minutes of meeting that your date is gay. Or, at best, a fag hag.
3. Do not be drunk.
4. Do not stubbornly and repeatedly put down your date’s college team choice. Especially when they’re not even playing at the time. What’s the point? Other than to show what a giant jackass you are.
5. Do not send texts before meeting about how much you’d really like to be in bed with your potential date. It sounds either really creepy or really insincere. Besides, it’s just tacky.
6. Do not be so drunk that you are slurring.
7. Do not repeatedly grab at your date, especially when she is sitting not facing you with her arms crossed. Learn to read body language, asshole.

How to be a good friend:

1. Always have your friend’s back.
2. Go for a pre-drink or two. It will help to calm your friend but also help to get you through 45 minutes of hell if you are buzzed. (Unless it’s freezing-ass cold outside and you immediately lose your buzz the moment you step outside.)
3. Shake the redneck’s hand with your gloves on. It sends the right message - that you think he has cooties and you don’t want them.
4. Be a total bitch to the drunk redneck.
5. Call the drunk redneck out on his inappropriate behavior/texts/questions.
6. Let it be known to the redneck that he will not be seeing your friend again. It’s worth letting him call you a few names in his head and to his friends and blaming you for not being able to call your friend again. Or text her inappropriately.
7. Get your friend out of there as soon as is humanly possible. Be the reason she has to leave if necessary. Remember, you don't give a shit what the dirty drunk redneck thinks about you. Friends come first and it is our right to be bitchy to protect them.

My work here is done. For now.

Rednecks, elephants and circus mobsters

Remember going to the circus as a kid? Remember the sparkling lights and the brightly painted clowns and the beautiful, sequined lady who jumped from the back of one horse to another as they pranced in circles? Remember the trapezists floating so high in the air you thought they could really fly? Remember the brave lion tamer coaxing the big cats to stand up and leap through hoops of fire and how even the enormous elephants seemed to move with grace? Remember the scent of popcorn and cotton candy and all of the colors and laughter and how everything just seemed magical? Well, I went to the circus yesterday and it was nothing like that. Not. Even. Close.

I’ve noticed advertisements for the circus coming to town the last few years. They’ve never been very big advertisements though, and I’ve learned that, aside from Disneyland, very few things are as special and magical as I remember as a child. Then J and I saw a coupon for the circus this weekend and for some reason it sounded like a really excellent idea, something different from our usual Central Oregon weekends of walking the river trail and trying to soak up what remains of the fading summer warmth.

What a joke. It’s called Circus Gatti and their website calls them a “traditional 3 ring circus.” Granted, there were three “rings” and a “ringmaster” but that’s about where the similarities end. Remember the big top? There were no tents of any kind. Everything was set up out in the dirt where they do the rodeo during the county fair. No fancy spot lights, just the afternoon sun. It was hard to know what I was supposed to be looking at. Something actually going on in one of the rings or the trucks and trailers sitting back in the field? Or maybe all the activity going on under the one curtain set up in the middle. Really, none of it was that interesting anyway.

And the show itself? There was a single clown and he wasn’t even wearing makeup. So basically, he was just some bozo in a really bad outfit acting like he was mute. There was no trapeze. There were a couple of rings hanging from some rope that two women sort of spun around on and hung upside down from. It was no Cirque du Soleil, that’s for sure. A couple of guys wobbled up some rope to what I assume was the tight rope. One of them wasn’t too bad, he did some little hops and fancy steps, but nothing that took my breath away. The other guy was a little chubby and fell a couple of times. Not to the ground, which would have pretty much made my day, instead he ended up catching himself and trying to save face while he wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his shirt. Greasy. Gross.

The animals were most disappointing. There were some miniature horses that were cute but underwhelming and looked more bored with themselves than I was. The dogs were pretty cute, but I always think dogs are cute. Seriously, all my dogs have to do is open their eyes in the morning and I think they’re the greatest things in the entire world. I’m secretly amused by their farts and burps (except for the really smelly ones, but those are the silent ones anyway. Silent but deadly. I think it’s their motto.). These circus dogs were more talented than my shedding angels. They jumped over little hurdles and each other! They danced a conga line! They rode a pony! The itsy bitsy, teeny weeny Chihuahua climbed a ladder and leaped a good three feet into the trainer’s arms! Oh, yes. There is nothing left for Cesar Millan to teach these canines.

I thought all of these embarrassing little acts were leading to something. Something Big. Like a Lion. Or a Tiger. Or a Bear. Oh, my! Nope. Not even a monkey. The only big animals were the poor elephants that shuffled in sadly only to be ridden by dozens of bratty little kids who behaved worse than monkeys. Really, it was quite the scene of animal cruelty. I had to keep the tears at bay by imagining the elephant losing her freaking mind and running around stomping obnoxious children and trampling their stupid inbred parents before running off into the sunset. Seriously, nothing would have given me more joy at that moment.

Let’s not forget the music! It was like being at a really bad nightclub. Except for the slow songs that sounded like really bad porn. You know, the kind that tries to be romantic as the camera zooms in on untamed 70’s bush? Yes. It was that bad. The juggler at least tried. Sort of. If by trying you think it makes sense to throw flashy silver pins and balls to techno music, then he completely outdid himself.

This circus was totally ghetto. I didn’t want to run away with it, I wanted to run away FROM it.

Now we come to the crowd that this craptastic spectacle drew. This is where we find the real entertainment. It was an extravaganza of redneck marvels, an endless parade of white trash surprise, literally a feast for the eyes! I don’t know if I can do these people justice, but I’ll try.

We’ll start with Toothless Grandma. Her face looked like one of those shrunken apple heads they sell at craft fairs. Her outfit was simply stunning – black shirt, black pants, black high-top Reeboks all tied together with a gold lamè belt. She further accessorized this haute couture with – please stop to picture and appreciate this fully – not ONLY her key ring hanging from a belt loop, but a HOT PINK Bic lighter hanging RIGHT NEXT to it!! I really didn’t think it could get more fantastic than this, but she did it. The toothless wonder bought AND ate a plate of nachos. Nachos, people! Yes sir, she gummed those babies right before my very eyes.

Next, we come to Chester the Molester. In the living flesh. Baggy Wranglers covering his scrawny ass, long sleeved, oversized brown shirt most likely hiding all the candy he uses to lure his innocent little victims, and sporting stringy, greasy hair with the crème de la crème – a side part pattern of baldness. Yes, the part in his hair was balding and it was nicely sunburned. I watched him follow the screaming little brats as they formed the line for the elephant ride, obviously trying to pick the weakest one apart from the rest of the pack. Just creepy. Super creepy. Luckily, as far as I could tell, Chester’s attempts were thwarted that day. He probably needs a better disguise because, really, the hair was a dead giveaway.

As always, we had the big girls squeezing into too-tight jeans, proudly putting their ginormous mushroom tops on display. There was the female-looking person in a short skirt trying to walk in heels she obviously had never worn before. I wanted to ask her if she’d pooped her pants or really didn’t know how to walk in her shoes, because I couldn’t decide which it was. My favorite outfit may have been the half jeans/half skirt that was obviously hand made. The makeup didn’t disappoint either - teal eye shadow by the pound, brown lip liner with pink lip gloss, fake eyelashes with glitter. Glitter, people! In the middle of the afternoon!! In broad daylight!!

I saw more beer bellies than I could count. One gentleman, I kid you not, sat with his big gut hanging down so far it was resting on the bleacher below him. One of these redneck idiots volunteered to be a victim of the clown. The mute asshole had this loser hopping around trying to do the moon walk or running man or something. I don’t know, I couldn’t really see past his jiggling middle. It’s truly a wonder how some of these people hold themselves upright.

I’m sure I missed a ton of the other glorious exhibitions, but I was starting to lose my sight and had to leave. There’s only so much redneck splendor a normal person can take in one day and I had reached my limit.

I’m sure the circus will be back in town again next year for those of you just dying to see it. After all, the skeezy performers/mob rejects have to make money to buy their drugs and not feed their animals with somehow. Hey, it’s your choice. But you’ve been warned.