Gratuitous worship of the Barefoot Contessa

It was the best of weeks; it was the worst of weeks. In a fit of sheer genius, I sent my history-loving husband off to Detroit, land of authentic memorabilia, Bob Evans restaurants, humidity, and funny odors (I am, of course, an Ohio State graduate and thereby contractually obligated to denounce the state of Michigan whenever possible).

I then invited my stack of girlfriends over for a chick's night in, and ceremonial making fun of our former boss's little boobs. Although it's generally the brain we make fun of, not the breasts. But whatever.

This, of course, was all to happen in a two day whirlwind, during which I was managing my clients, fielding phone calls from the man as he sat on the actual Rosa Parks bus, either watering the garden or beholding the torrential rains that came five minutes later, and folding more laundry than two people should produce in a year.

So naturally, it was all set to crash and burn. Dropped him off at the airport, got rear-ended on the way home. Lesson learned: in a Beetle vs. Mini Cooper battle, the Mini wins. Damn it.

Went to the doc, expecting long lecture on weight, blood pressure, need to consume nothing but celery and boiled eggs for summer. Got instead gentle praise, permission to eat lemon tart in France three months ago. Lesson learned: he's not the enemy.

While out running around, knew that the cleaning people were getting the house in perfect condition for last night's soiree. Went to grocery and stood in line behind world's SLOWEST WOMAN ALIVE who took 4 minutes to pull out her debit card. Came home to messy house and message that cleaners were sick. Guests to arrive in 2 hours. Lesson learned: the one day you really need someone to scrub your toilet, she's not going to bring the brush.

Thanks to the Barefoot Contessa, who deserves the highest praise possible, managed to make the house, food, and atmosphere all fabulous, and all on time. Even had time for a quick shower with expensive French bath gel.

Wheeeee!