Thursday, April 17, 2014

How to not plan a dream vacation

This is not a real contest. Any resemblance to a real contest is purely coincidental.
If I could pick any vacation in the world, I’m not sure where I’d go. But if I had to plan one, and it was a life-or-death decision I had to make right this minute, this would be my dream vacation process of elimination:

  1. Must be close to home. As you know from {this} post, I have a slight flying problem. That kind of puts a kink into planning a fantasy jaunt to a new place.
  1. I already live near the beach, so squeezing myself into a swimsuit just to get sunburned on the beach in Hawaii isn't as exotic to me as it would be to someone in, say, land-locked Lebanon, Kansas. Plus, I’d have to fly there.
  1. I've lived in snowy mountains most of my life, so finagling my frozen feet into winter galoshes isn't as glamorous to me as it is to people who've never shoveled four feet of snow off a long, icy driveway. Like all 24 of those people living in Furnace Creek, California.
  1. I've even been out of the country a few times, which was great except you have to fly there (see the aforementioned quandary about flying).
  1. And camping? Let’s just say there’s nothing natural about spending the night out in Nature.

My husband’s idea of a dream vacation is wearing the same pair of nasty pants for a week while hauling all of his belongings on his back, shlumping his way through the five-million degree heat in the Grand Canyon. It doesn't even have to be the Grand Canyon. Anywhere that’s full of wild animals and poisonous plants and is also far away from doctors and civilization would work.

When we first got married, my husband wanted us to be a Backpacking Family (notice the capitol B.F. – that’s serious stuff.). He envisioned the two of us and our plucky young children looking exactly like the closing credits of The Sound of Music, enjoying mosquito bites and ticks and scary bears as we check out the world at the top of a cliff in the middle of Nature. Except we would most likely not be wearing lederhosen and dresses.

Because I don’t have a dream vacation of my own, that might just be what happens to us. I’ll be hauling cans of Spam up a steep cliff while my nasty pants are hiking by themselves in front of me. Knowing my pants, they would probably beat me to the top and I’d be left alone in the wilderness. Pantsless with my cans of Spam. In all that unnatural Nature.


But, hey, at least I wouldn't have to fly there (see the aforementioned quandary about flying). It might be a dream vacation after all.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

I'm fluent in Southern

When I first moved to The Swamp, where alligators roam free and people keep giant spiders as unwanted -- yet maintenance-free -- pets, I didn't speak the language. They don't teach southern in public schools out in the wild west. You have to go to ritzy private schools for that.

So I had to learn the hard way. Some people send their kids to Immersion School, when you have to hear and speak a language all the time to learn it fluently. But my School of Hard Knocks Immersion School wasn't easy, and I was at the bottom of the class.

When I went to get my driver's license the first week we were in town, the conversation with the guy behind the counter went something like this:

Him: Way tame hen hit. Eye no summon from ewe taw. They Oz mans.
Me: Pardon me?
Him (repeating whatever he just said).
Me (feeling like an idiot): Could you repeat that?
My husband: He said he knows someone from one from Utah. The Osmonds.
Me (blushing like crazy for needing a translator): Oh. Yeah. The Osmonds are great.
Him: What? Did youth ink eye have a pretty schack scent?
Me:.....
Him (under his breath so I couldn't hear): Sheeze amen talk ace.

That's how my first few months as a southern belle went. I hoped people just assumed I was going deaf. In the fashion world, some people wear fake glasses as an accessory. I considered buying sparkly fake hearing-aids in a lovely puce color, so everyone would just nod and say, "Sheikh ant ear russ."

But, Immersion School really works. After a while, I didn't have to ask people to repeat themselves more six-hundred times. I never got the accent down, except for an occasional y'all. But at least I can finally understand when the grocery bagger asks, "Plat stick or pay per?"

Seriously. This is eight roost oar he. And I worked so hard learning southern that I can now have ace hen solve bride.
You would, too, I bet. If ewe wormy. :)

Thursday, March 7, 2013

a tasty cheesy fries recipe with a side of lazy

Tonight we had cheesy fries for dinner. With grocery store sushi on the side. And also some cubed watermelon.

Here's the recipe, it's pretty simple:

1. Open a bag of frozen french fries. Seasoned fries would make this meal even more gourmet.

2. Put tinfoil on a cookie sheet. This is so you don't have to do the dishes later. This should probably be step one, but I think it will still work as step two.

3. Spread frozen french fries all over tinfoil.

4. Pre-heat oven to whatever the fry bag says. This should probably be step one, too. But it will still work as step four. You'll just have to wait longer for dinner.

5. Stick them in the oven and wait for about 18 minutes, or until fries look done enough to eat.

6. Sprinkle cheese all over the fries. It probably doesn't matter what kind you use. Unless you really don't like Gorgonzola cheese. Then you probably shouldn't use it. Same with Muenster or Neufchatel because they just sound kooky.

7. Using a spatula, scoop some fries and melted cheese onto a paper plate This is so you don't have to do the dishes later.

8. Open a container of grocery store sushi. Place several on each plate.

9. Open a container of pre-cubed watermelon. This is so you don't have to cut an entire watermelon and then have to clean up that mess, too. Place several on each plate.

That's it! Now you have a meal that nobody in my family will complain about. Except my husband. So it was lucky he wasn't around for dinner tonight. Which was also the main reason my brain told me to try it.

The best part about this recipe is that you won't break a sweat doing it. Unless you are naturally sweaty. Then you might perspire. But that would just add a little bit of what we Southen' people call extra salt. And it's good for the soul.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Keeping it real -- the brows, at least

The other night my husband and I were watching Gator Boys. All those Downton Abbey fans are missing out. Guys catching and kissing gators are so much more fun to watch than a bunch of stuffy upper-crusters catching and kissing each other.

Anyway, a commercial came on, and the woman who was trying to sell me something had lovely eyebrows. Perfectly plucked and expertly colored arches. Just in case you didn't know, I kind of have a thing about eyebrows. Because mine are all mine. Original. Peer-pressure-lessly unplucked for the most part.

Sure, I'll pull out a few kooky ones on occasion. And though I'm blessed to not have a unibrow, I do yank a few out between my eyes now and then just to be certain.

I never thought much about my eyebrows until about 7th grade. I was walking down the deserted hallway in my middle school with a girl I didn't know too well. Don't ask me why we weren't in class or better yet, why we were together. It's classified information. But there we were, strolling along, when she says, "You know, you'd probably be the prettiest girl in school, if you plucked your eyebrows."

I laughed in an awkward I'm-not-sure-if-that-was-a-compliment-or-an-insult kind of way, and our conversation moved on. But I couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said. I would only be pretty if I plucked my brows. I wasn't pretty because I had eyebrows. I had a bushy, ugly eyebrow problem.

Don't go blaming my parents -- it wasn't their fault I had a bushy, ugly eyebrow problem. Sure, they are the ones who gave me the bushy, ugly eyebrow genes, but my mom had offered repeatedly to train me in the ancient art of self-torture. She was an eyebrow-fu master in her glory days. Except for that one time she accidentally plucked one eyebrow and not the other one before her yearbook pictures. Aside from that, she was a woman I could trust when it came to beauty tricks and tips.

But I didn't want to pluck. For whatever reason, I was attached to my eyebrows. They were part of me. It was like, I was that girl with the eyebrows.

There was this little rebellious side of me that said, "Hey, just because Seventeen Magazine says a girl should pull all of her eyebrows out, smile through the pain, and then draw them back on with a pencil, doesn't mean I have to do it, too." I didn't want to be everyone else. Even if doing so would make me the prettiest girl in the school.

Maybe it was Liz Taylor's fault. Or Audrey Hepburn's. Could be Brooke Shields. Or maybe it was the fact that boys still seemed to like me despite my upper-eye facial hair. I couldn't see what the problem with natural brows was.

So I said no. I still say no. Even though I'm certain that lots of woman today look at me and cringe as they think, "You'd be much prettier if you'd pluck your eyebrows."

When I saw this woman on the commercial -- the one with the perfectly plucked and expertly colored arches -- I said to nobody in particular, "She has really nice eyebrows." Because they were. And I can still admire them, even if I choose to let mine grow free-range.

"They're not real," my husband said.

I shrugged. "They're still pretty."

"But they aren't real," he said again.

"I know. But they are nice eyebrows."

"But they aren't real."

As the Gator Boys came back on, wrestling and kissing those alligators, I smiled. I don't have perfectly plucked and expertly colored arches. But man, I like keeping it real. It's much less painful.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

When you move to a new apartment



When you pack for a move to a new apartment, you’ll realize how much stuff you really have.

When you realize how much stuff you really have, you’ll want to get rid of everything except the beds.

When your husband hears that you want to get rid of everything except the beds, he’ll put a stop to that craziness because apparently a family needs stuff like clothes and dishes and things like that.

When your husband puts a stop to that craziness, you’ll start packing and discover a surplus of universes being formed in dust balls under the dressers.

When you discover the surplus of universes being formed, you’ll sneeze.

When you sneeze, your eyes will itch, and you’ll go searching for your snorkel mask, to keep the dust universes from tickling your nose.

When you search for the snorkel mask, you’ll remember you already packed it, and it’s at the bottom of a precarious pile of boxes.

When you remember that you already packed it, and it’s at the bottom of a precarious pile of boxes, you’ll search for a tissue to sneeze into.

When you search for the box of tissues, you’ll remember that you already packed it, and it’s at the bottom of a precarious pile of boxes.

So you’ll continue packing while giving yourself whiplash from all that sneezing, until dinner time. Then you’ll go into the kitchen to make some gourmet grub.

When you go into the kitchen to make some gourmet grub, you’ll remember that half of your food and most of your kitchen utensils have already been packed, and they’re at the bottom of a precarious pile of boxes. So you’ll order pizza.

When you’re done eating the pizza, and packing the boxes, and moving the boxes to your new apartment, you remember that you now get to deep-clean your old apartment.

When you deep-clean your old apartment, you’ll blubber and bewail and boohoo, too, because you know that the new apartment isn’t going to as clean as you're old apartment, but you can’t leave the old apartment messy because that would reflect on your own upbringing, and what kind of a person leaves an apartment dirty anyway? And also, you don't want the old apartment people to charge you extra for anything.

When you finish blubbering and scrubbing, you’ll move into your new apartment.

When you move into your new apartment, you’ll stare at all of those boxes that need to be unpacked and realize how much stuff you really have.

When you realize how much stuff you really have, you’ll want to get rid of everything except the beds.

And lucky for you, it’s now all conveniently packed up for Goodwill to come and get it.

Friday, September 21, 2012

A Handy Neighborhood Watch Guide (aka: a true story)



  1. If you think you hear trouble in your neighborhood at midnight, it’s a good idea to call the police and point them in the direction of the neighbors who have been in a deep, deep sleep for several hours. This sleep must be as deep as Lake Baikal (which happens to be the deepest lake in the world—I looked it up on Wikipedia, so it must be true.).
  2. The most obvious Perp for yelling and breaking things in the middle of the night would be the man next door who is always as mellow as Yo-Yo Ma playing a lullaby on a cello. It doesn't matter that the Perp (aka: my husband) never gets upset about anything. I can be as annoying as Yo-Yo Ma scratching his fingernails down the strings of a cello, but the Perp always just shrugs and moves on. This makes him a total suspect.
  3. If you’re going to call the police, it needs to be on a southern night so hot and humid even the alligators are sweating. The neighbor's old window air conditioner will blast all that swampy air right onto their heads as they dream of cool Lake Baikal. The AC unit will be so deafening, they won’t hear the police pounding on the front door, which will make the police even nicer to the Perps when they finally peek outside to see what the ruckus is about. This leads to number 4.
  4. Make sure your neighbor (aka: me) is wearing his/her fluffy blue hand-me-down Tinker Bell bathrobe when he/she opens the door to face the police spotlight. Nothing says “Perp” like a fluffly blue hand-me-down Tinker Bell Bathrobe.
  5. If the neighbors (aka: Perps) happen to be moving to a new home in a week or so, it’s even better. Then the police can finagle their way through a maze of boxes, and flash their lights over all sorts of doohickies that normally wouldn’t be laying around.
  6. A school night is the best time to call the police at midnight, especially if they can come in with flashlights and wake up all of the kids to find out if the Perps (aka: mom and dad) had been fighting. The kids will then be too traumatized to go back to their deep Lake Baikal sleep. Except for the first grader. He will snooze through everything, and be disappointed in the morning when he hears about all the excitement he missed.
  7. Encourage the Perps’ children to tell their teachers the next day about how the police came to their house in the middle of the night due to fighting. Make sure the kids know to not actually tell their teachers it had all been a big mistake, because teachers don’t have enough to worry about and it will be good for everyone involved.
If you follow these easy steps, your neighborhood will soon be free of all those pesky Perps. They will all pack up and move away to Lake Baikal so everyone can get more sleep.

Because us Perps are nice like that.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

The post in which I kick Aunt Flow to the curb...


My ten year old was begging me to take him swimming. I put him off. Made excuses. Hoped he’d forget about it.

He forgets to hang up his clothes. He forgets to make his bed in the morning. He forgets to take off his underpants when he wears a swimsuit. But he couldn't seem to forget the Olympics-worthy belly flop he’d been perfecting.

After hearing me make another excuse about why we weren’t going swimming, he said, “Mom, why can’t we go to the pool today?”

I wanted to put it delicately. I'd told him about That Time Of The Month a year or so before, but I still didn't want to scar him for life with Too Much Mom Info—he’ll have plenty of time to be traumatized by it later when he’s married. When his wife cries for no apparent reason. Or feels fat in everything. Or gets pimples even though she’s long past puberty.

Finally I said, “We can’t go swimming because my Aunt Flow is in town, with her long red hair.”

There. Crystal clear. He had to understand what that analogy meant. I waited to see his reaction to the unfortunate news.

“Really?” He frowned.

“Yeah,” I said, glad he understood. “And we’re going to be surfing the crimson tide for a few days, so I’m just not up to going swimming right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How long is she going to be in town?”

“All week.”

He wrinkled his nose. I’d traumatized him. Too Much Mom Info.

Then he sighed. “Is she going to stay with us, or is she going to get a hotel.”

Maybe my crystal clear analogy wasn't so crystal clear after all.

After traumatizing my son with the truth about Aunt Flow -- how she wasn't very nice, and she made me crabby and crampy and bloated, and that the crimson tide was far, far away from the University of Alabama -- I decided to put my foot down. To lay down the law. I'm done with Aunt Flow.

Next time she comes to town, she's going to have to get a hotel room. She's not welcome here anymore. I won’t even offer to pay for it. And she can surf the crimson tide by herself. Maybe she’ll drown and I won’t have to worry about her anymore.

One can always hope…