Bless me

I have a cold, and it's all J's fault.

It nearly did him in last week, which of course pissed him off because it was his Easter/Passover break from the perils of teaching 6-hours-and 37-minutes per day, less prep, lunch, and nap, and not including Fridays which are 6-hours-20-minutes. Instead of stormtrooping Home Depot he had to settle for wheezing in his woodshop and spending far too much time at the doctor.

He was kind enough to share the bug with me. I normally don't accept these things but this one crept into my delicate nose and now has me cranky. Of course, I'm not nearly as sick as he was, but it's still annoying. My throat hurts, I'm sneezing too often to be blessed, and I'm just slightly mud-brained.

The good news is, I am drinking LOTS of iced tea. Yesterday I sucked down two pitchers of Republic of Tea's blackberry sage. So delicious, and it doesn't need sweetener. Today, it's Bentley's Mango White. It's good to know that simple things still comfort.

The bunny trail

So last Saturday we were at Wal-mart, and J was frolicking with the discount paintbrushes and el-cheapo sno-cone syrup like a lottery winner in a ho-house. After loading my wifely cart with Bounty, White Cloud, Lysol Wipes, and trash bags, I plunked myself down on a bench in plasticware to await his clearance for departure.

I was not far from the day's highlight--a mangy white rabbitish human holding an egg and wearing footie pajamas. He was conveniently ambling between the endless shelves of Easter candy, baskets, cellophane grass, plastic eggs, doo-dads, and other crap--and the garden center, where a disinterested woman was getting reamed for giving out two free pansies instead of one.

I tried not to watch all the parents filling their carts with Easter booty right in front of their mewling progeny, thus destroying any potential belief in the true Easter Bunny who hops through windows and fills baskets while the wee ones are fast asleep. Now it's all "Mom, gimme," and into the cart it plops.

But then a mother with two girls, perhaps 3 and 4, wandered up, and the tinier girl stopped in absolute awe, her face glowing, her little legs jumping up and down. "Mommy," she whispered, "Mommy, mommy, mommy! It's him. Look! The Easter Bunny!"

And in that instant, I believed, too.

In small packages

In December I pitched and sold an article to For Me magazine, Woman's Day's younger, hipper little sister. I've been trying to crack the women's market for over a year and finally, I nailed it. Of course, as soon as she accepted my piece, my brilliant editor quit to be a factchecker at Teen Vogue. But such is life.

Anyway, it was slated to run in the May issue and for the last two weeks, I've been hitting grocery mag racks and Borders like a stalker. On Tuesday I went to the new Barnes & Noble to scavenge their giant racks. Much to my delight, a manager saw me hunting and offered to help. We bent and stretched and did all sorts of Pilates, but alas, no For Me for me. Bah.

But I am easily consoled, and so marched off to the cafe for a venti iced decaf whole milk sugar-free hazelnut latte. And for the first time in my entire $4+ ridiculous beverage life, the clerk repeated it back perfectly, marked it on the cup, and invited me to sit down and relax while he whipped it up. Well!

Ass parked in a chair, I glanced at the cafe's rack of recommended mags and books, and there it was: the May For Me, with Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover. I held my breath, pulled it open, and there it was, in all its glory.

Have you ever seen a fat lady dance in a cafe?

Stiff

Dearest Shampoogirl,

Your blonde tresses are really pretty, but I am afraid they are not enough. Nor was your skill in clipping a black towel around my neck that exemplary: the towel slithered to the floor moments later and lay there, rejected, for the next two hours. I felt its pain.

You see, Shampoogirl, as much as it must suck to roll little towels and stuff them in a basket, as much as it must nauseate you to wash hair, oh, three times in two hours, or lead a client to the dryer now and then, it is simply part of your job. I don't believe the salon hired you to be Stuckupprincessgirl.

Thanks to you, my forehead is brown. My scalp and hair really did need more than the ten-second swoop of suds, and rubbing one side of my head was just the ticket. Oh, and the joyful 30 minutes under the dryer with ice cold air blasting on my glaze was just so divine. I felt so precious when you stomped your royal foot and ordered me to another chair when I dared to grab a magazine. Oh, the agony!

Shampoogirl, all my life I have been a generous tipper. I've served for a living and I know how awful it can be. Today I did something I've never done in my entire life: I kept your tip in my pocket. And gosh, Shampoogirl, not one of the other women you hosed down this afternoon coughed it up, either. We weren't cheap. We didn't forget.

But apparently you did.

Your dyed-and-not-so-devoted customer,
The fat lady

Rolling on the river

Sunday would not be Sunday in the Yaegerhut without the hot Panera injection. J has developed this odd addiction to their cinnamon crunch bagels and lowfat cream cheese, and sways with rapture as he feasts and conquers his world for the week.

Not being a fan of their pretty pastries that taste like sawdust, I usually end up ordering lunch at 10:30 am. I have overdosed on their lowfat black bean soup. It's not bad if I can convince them to stop being so damn stingy with the croutons. Honestly. I ask for croutons, and they hand me a baggie filled with oh, four. Once, five. I am not satisfied with less than eight.

On yesterday's jaunt, I was almost delirious as their website promised the trifecta: a new salad, a new sandwich, and a new soup. Wheee! Got there to discover the salad and sandwich, but the same old boring and greasy soup choices. Where oh where was my spring pea with asparagus and mint?

I made the mistake of asking the Paneroid at the counter, and with great sighing and banging upon her shiny register, she rolled her eyes as if I had asked her to calculate Pi to 57 places. And as my husband bounced up and down with glee over his forthcoming toasty bagel, I contemplated all the miseries that my first boss would've heaped upon her snotty, indifferent head. Paneragirl, you are a bad, bad person.

Overblown

It has been a frustrating month, what with disappearing editors and gigs that slink out of town in the middle of the night. At times I have looked at the multi-pierced barista at the local Barnesbucks and wondered if her nonchalant incompetence is actually a sign of superior intelligence.

But then I am granted a small sign or two. Case in point: yesterday, after a meeting that left me reeling, I stopped by a couple of nail salons to deliver the latest issue of Nails Magazine. The salons had been sources for my article, The One Hour Princess (on profitable pedicures) and I thought they might like to see the piece. (It's here if you're so inclined.)

Well.

Got to the first salon, and there was my article, blown up into a giant poster in the front window. The counter was covered with copies. On to the second salon, where the owner threw me into a chair and got teary eyed as she described reading the issue she got in the mail. Apparently she didn't quite understand why I was asking all those questions or taking photos a few months back, but there she was. "It was a dream come true," she sighed, and chased me out to the car to hug me.

Better than a hot stone therapy massage with extra reflexology.

The lizard in the blizzard

Boy, do I wish I'd gone on that cruise with G and D this week.

We got six inches overnight, and a good foot more today--and it's still snowing hard. J fired up his stinky green blower and fumed himself up and down the street, enamoring the neighbors as he cleared their walks and driveways. Soon as he ran out of gas, he hopped into the Beetle. Nothing keeps that man from Panera on a Sunday. We had some yummy black bean soup and other assorted bites. Soon as we got home, the plow came by four times. I guess he needed to make sure he blocked the end of the driveway.

The rabbit that enjoyed my garden this summer was back in the yard last night looking terrified. We think its escape hole got filled up and it was too dumb to dig through. Barefoot Contessa wannabe that I am, I tossed it some raw spinach, carrots, and bread and it came running. So long as it leaves my rosemary alone.

J was in a tizzy this morning, threatening to eat all the food, which I've rationed to last for over a week (if he's obedient). He tore into my good bacon which means my plans for 3 quiches and a pot of bean soup are wrecked. Good thing I've got six boxes of microwave popcorn for true emergencies.

No peeking

It was only a matter of time. In a moment of hope last fall, I planted hundreds of bulbs in the yard: yellow narcissus, white daffodils with orangey-red trumpets, lemony ruffled jonquils. All in enormous clumps. Down the driveway bed, in the big composed beds front and back, and even around the pool.

We've had virtually no winter to speak of this year (a fact that delights me, I must admit) so my one fear is that the bulbs would start shooting up prematurely. It won't kill them, but when true spring hits, the little leaves will sport dingy brown tips. Day after day, I've scanned the yard, watching for the first celery-colored tuft.

Yesterday, there it was. Part of me was thrilled: the bulbs lived! It was a good investment. The other part slumped. I covered it up with mulch, but by the time I came out an hour later, its little friends had all pushed through, clamoring for the sunshine.

And who was I to stop them?

Red light, green light

Will someone please tell me what's going on?

Today J had the rabid desire to consume an enormous cheeseburger (20 ounces, not including cheese and assorted toppings) and a double malt pistachio shake, so I zipped off in my little grey Beetle for a late afternoon date.

By the time I arrived, he was shaking by the doorway, getting whiffs of the beefy aroma and subtly staring down the packs of teenagers who were surely going to take our table, relegating him to leftover pork roast at home.

I was quivering for another reason: the normally 8-12 minute ride (burger nirvana is just a block from the dentist I enjoy so much) lasted a frustrating 38 minutes. Why? Because every self-centered nitwit in Plainview insisted on running the lights and turning left when the green light on my side indicated it was my turn. Not one car per intersection, or even two, but EIGHT! Then NINE, as I aimed my Beetle right at them and growled. And yes, most of them were yapping on cell phones, which is ILLEGAL in this state.

I was so flustered by the time I arrived, I couldn't even think of eating moo-cow. I had a portabella mushroom sandwich, on rye. And a half milkshake. Banana. Yum.

J and his burger had a lovely time, and his photo is now on the wall for finishing the big beast. My man is famous.

Out of the mouths of babes

Over the river and over the woods, in a tiny white jet I go. . .

If I didn't travel, I'd probably never see my family. It is apparently an unwritten rule that I must be the one to stuff myself into an aircraft and live out of a suitcase for several days. Oh, I cannot say they never come. . . but the one who holds the record has been here twice in ten years. I try not to grumble, but Christ.

But my journeys are rewarded with both homemade cookies and strong showers. Not to mention thoughtful comments from the kidlets, who are too smart for words.

Take K, who is 4: When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. And a jockey. And a volunteer firefighter on weekends. But what I really want is to be a blonde.

The cards

Ho ho ho, or something equally festive. If you're waiting by the mailbox for our Christmas card, get back in the house and wrap something. The box has been on my desk for a month and I just haven't bothered.

It's not that I don't wish every last one of you lovely things, miracles, and remarkable moments. Really.

I'm simply focused on finding my next path. Or my next client. Or something radiant.

I know. Coal in my stocking. Humbug.

Flossing: history revealed

Not long ago, a bit of shredded meat got stuck under one of my crowns (the dental kind, not the princess kind, unfortunately), and after half a roll of Glide floss (the multiple orgasm of floss, really) I finally admitted defeat and called my dentist.

Seconds after ascending his throne and being tipped upside down, I was informed that the tooth next to the crown had a little cavity. I accepted his offer of a quick fill, and my life has never been the same.

Let's just sum it up: nerve damage. . . the charming sensation of lightning bolts alternating with rusty nails being shoved up inside the tooth, now nicknamed stubby the evil bastard. . . a lovely procedure to have it opened and drained. . . a root canal in two parts. . . a broken filling on the other side, the only side on which I could chew. . . and a month later, I'm still sporting stubby and food is still getting caught under that crown.

In the middle of all this, I changed dentists. The new guy is great, but I'm real tired of hanging out in his office. We filled the broken beast on the other side, and then the tooth next to it decided to make itself known.

Lo, another crown, more torture, and gums that now go ballistic when I eat meat. I haul out the Glide flosspicks and dig like a pirate on a beach. It's kinda scary. Bits are turning up days later--even after I've flossed three days in a row. Where does the food hide? How does the broccoli stay bright green?

I don't give a damn about the whole state of Michigan, but. . .

We got stuck in Detroit for 4 hours on Thanksgiving, thanks to the self centered idiots leaving LGA that afternoon who simply refused to board quickly and take their seats. It was like flying Air Bronx. Took over an hour to load the aircraft, and then they wouldn't sit. Then, of course, we lost our takeoff slot.

So much for our connection. But in a stroke of weirdness, we got off the plane at the same gate from which our Vegas bound flight had just departed, and so they had little kits waiting for us with our new flight info, a letter of apology, phone cards, and food vouchers. We were stunned. For all the bad things we've heard about Northwest, they treated us quite nicely.

We figured we'd donate the phone cards, and I told J to screw the vouchers as I knew a secret. Dragged him to the Westin in the terminal, where I stayed last January during the auto show. It has one of the coolest lobbies anywhere, with 8 story live bamboo in the atrium, running water, lots of stone, and a zen atmosphere. They also have an open restaurant where I figured he could have sushi and a glass of wine. It's insanely expensive, but a treat for the soul as much as the mouth.

No sushi. Instead, they served Thanksgiving dinner--for $18.75. We almost keeled over. Roasted butternut squash soup with curry, orange, and creme fraiche. Salad with walnuts and dried cranberries. The bird, with porcini and truffles, over stuffing, broccolini, and asparagus, with mashed taters and cranberries. Dessert was a huge slice of cheesecake with maple-sweet potato caramel and toasted walnuts.

It was blissful, and we both marveled at our good fortune. And then the waitress asked if we had distressed passenger vouchers, and told us they accepted them! So we had that amazing meal for barely more than the cost of a tip.

Who knew? I mean, when did those wolverines get so smart?

Fairies

My husband is convinced that fairies fly into our bedroom during the day and make our bed. Today I broke his fantasy bubble and revealed the truth about the Q-tip fairies: they do not exist.

Evil bitch that I am, I then emasculated him further by insisting he fill his little Q-tip jar himself. At first he resisted, pointing at the two jumbo boxes of Q-tips and asking which to select. "The open one," I replied, not giving him an inch.

Moments later, as he stuffed the little sticks into the jar, I swear I saw the tiny wings sprouting on his back.

So my question is this: what are boy fairies called?

The fat lady weeps

A great teacher and poet died last week. Call him professor, call him poet laureate, call him husband and father, call him friend. I called David Citino my mentor and inspiration, and I'm immensely sad knowing that he's gone from this world.

True, his words live on, but that's little consolation for those who long to sit with him, watching those coke bottle glasses bent over a poem, pencil ticking off the extra words, stripping it down to simplicity. Or to hear him laugh, burst into song. All of us were very blessed.

Where's the beef?

There is a raging debate going on in our little sage house this weekend: if a meatloaf is made with chicken and turkey (as opposed to beef, pork, or veal), can it still be called meatloaf? I say yes, especially since the recipe it started from calls it meatloaf, and it is an enormous loaf of ground meat, eggs, french bread crumbs, onions, garlic, pepper, cheese, and thyme.

One would hardly call it chirkey loaf.

Whatever the case, it's delicious. So were the roasted brussel sprouts and carrots. Maybe I'll go have some for brunch RIGHT NOW.

Passion, fruit, tea

I don't often babble about the behavior in New York grocery stores because it is generally so dismal that I just go home and grunt into my pillow. Now and then the cashier speaks at Waldbaums, and the cheery bees at Trader Joe's are always abuzz with joy, but the rest of them, bah. They hate us, and it shows. The nitwits who staff Fairway are the worst.

Lucky for me, there's now a stunning alternative: Whole Foods. Let's just say I am in love, with every smiling, helpful person, with every perfect piece of produce, the honeycrisps and sugar pumpkins, the leeks and carrots I could buy individually, with the enormous stash of tea, the aromas, the floors, the whole damn heavenly place.

Oh, damn the prices. I'm going back, again and again.

Mister Softee rides again

All summer long, I was tortured by the tinkling notes of the Mister Softee jingle. The truck would creep up and down the streets of my little neighborhood, and despite the $8 in my sweaty little hand, would never make it to my particular street.

But then it did. "Deedle-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee, dee dee dee Mister Softee," and I went racing down the driveway, sandals askew, to wave down a hot and stinky truck. It was late August, hot and humid, and the sprinkles on my husband's sundae melted into my hands and shirt before I reached the pool. Still, it was wicked, joyful, and sweet.

Every few days, I ran to greet the truck, quickly switching from ice cream to milkshakes, which keep better, and are especially yummy if you ask the driver to mix in a real banana (as opposed to processed banana flavoring).

Eventually, though, I tired of spending $8/day on stuff that was only making my blood sugar go up. And so I put my hands over my ears, or busied myself chopping garlic when the truck sauntered by, even pausing at the end of my driveway several days. "Once a week," I vowed.

So it was double torture when Mister Softee decided to step it up. Not only did he come by between 3 and 4 each afternoon, he began doubling back at NIGHT! Not 7:30 or 8, but at 9:30, when all good children should be sound asleep in the their beds, and not wandering the streets in search of soft serve. And lately, he has been bumbling down the street, deedly-deeing away, after 10 o'clock.

Methinks Mister Softee needs Mister Sominex.

Playing chicken

Any day that starts out with a husband begging his wife to rescue him is bound to be good. In a pre-senior moment, J locked his keys in the Beetle and I had to dash off with my spare set to let him in. Good thing I work from home, huh?

That accomplished, we got him fed and then visited the jeweler. This is always a good thing. My birthday trinkets were sized and ready but alas my neck grew, and my wrist did the opposite, so I didn't get to wear them home. Boo. But we ordered a new piece for me, a ring made from the stones of both our mothers' own rings, and it will be lovely. And we got my pearls lengthened, so once it is cool enough to wear them again I will look polished and preppy. . . in my tie-dye.

Our third stop had us across the street from a poultry farm, and since there was no meat in the house for J's dinner, he was only too eager to stop. He balked a little when he saw the cages and heard the clucking. But when the chicken man held up the first possibility, J turned pale and bolted to the car like a city boy. I pointed at another bird, a fat white chicken with a good attitude, thanked him for being our supper, and nodded at a white duck. "Honk," he said in return, agreeing to come home with us, too.

Ten minutes and $24 later, I left with two warm black plastic bags. The temperature was disconcerting. J squealed louder than the birds during their beheadings and made them ride in the trunk.

But somehow he recovered enough to get that duck in the oven. And it already smells amazing. I haven't had fresh poultry since I was 13, when we lived in the country and I rode my bike to the chicken and egg farm. Chickens were $4 then, with $1 extra for the execution. My mother always gave me the $5, but $1 bought a lot of candy on the way home, so I watched once and from then on, snapped their necks myself.

That's no longer an option. J would faint.

It's your party, and I'll cry if I want to

Call me ambitious. Or call me insane. Either way, I somehow encouraged the homebound husband (30 more days) to not only participate in the block party, but to invite every human he knew (and was still speaking to). And then in a fit of madness, I invited my posse. Most of whom were already dripping at block parties of their own, but had it all made the A-list of priorities, we could've had 68 people in our yard yesterday.

Friends. Sometimes you love 'em best when they stay home.

But despite that anti-social sentiment, we ended up with a good crowd of 37 yesterday, not including Lenny or Kenny the grill man, hired to keep us well-fed and even more content than usual. Kenny-Lenny was my hero for the day, and he made mighty fine burgers, and did not laugh when I doused them with mustard. AND he got my name right, which is more than I can say for myself or some of the guests, and they weren't the ones drinking mai-tais, either.

It was a glorious day, just this side of too hot and humid. The kids behaved. No one knocked over the pickles. Six rolls of toilet paper were used and replaced in my loo without my having to do it myself, and no one clogged the toilet! This is true party success.

The guests even spontaneously folded and put away our chairs and tables. How is that for wonderful? Luis and Maryann, you get the pamela-ain't-havin'-no-kids-but-y'all-do-it-right Award for the year. With special mention to B&B, but I already knew they were wonderful.

At any rate, I learned the ultimate party/dinner guest lesson yesterday: don't bring something that goes in the fridge unless you ask first. I actually figured it out the night before, when I suddenly had visions of 45 cake boxes competing with my giant bottles of fruity alcohol and even larger vats of mango salsa. I hereby pledge to always bring cookies or brownies unless I am asked to trot my diabetic ass into the corner bakery for a dulce de leche cake.

I got lucky on this one yesterday as we got the message out to most guests before they hit the bakery. (All you who called, gold stars, and all you who obeyed our orders not to bring anything but your asses and your towels, DOUBLE gold stars!) I had room for the two fridge worthy items, including a box of the best handmade cannolis in the world, one of which I'm about to eat for breakfast.

Hell, I may even eat two, because Mr. Party Central is still curled in a little ball, whimpering. Silly man. Parties are fun.