Hmmm....

Country Girl - City Girl

If anyone ever needed to be drawn a damn picture of the difference between our two lives, read the last two posts.

CG1 and I must have composed and posted simul-freaking-taneously this morning, because when I hit, "Publish Post" there she was, right on top of me.

Lord, I do love me some Country Girl. :o)

It really IS only life...

Luckily, we still our sense of humor. Senses of humor. The ability to LAUGH AT THIS SHIT.

If you have your gallbladder out and you don't take it easy for a while...you'll have a hernia. I don't know yet...but obviously I should have left that stuff sitting in the driveway (see previous post about emptying two garages.) THEN...all these local kids start missing school because they're sick and then...YOUR kid gets sick.

Now, I gave birth to the healthiest people on the planet. These kids don't get sick. (That's why when they DO? They nearly die before anyone does anything. "Anyone" here being the mom. Me.) So a couple of days ago, when The Nice Kid started complaining of a sore throat, I handed her a Claritin, explained about pine tree pollen, and sent her on her way. Did it again the next day.

She and I were up all night long last night. She is coughing. Her head hurts. Her ears hurt. Her chest hurts. She DOESN'T have a fever. I have been Googling "swine flu symptoms" every 20 minutes all morning.

Last night she went to bed early. The Not Nice Kid had soccer practice and didn't get home until nearly eight o'clock, so I put her in the shower and she fell asleep on the couch. I dosed TNK. TNNK kicked and fought in the blankets, which is what she does ALL NIGHT LONG while she sleeps. I moved from the couch to my bed. TNK came in crying, because her chest hurt. I got up, fixed something hot and dosed her. (We won't go into the fact that I am dosing her with the only chest medication in the house...which is Coricidin for high blood pressure. Hey, down the road she'll thank me.)

And then? Then? In between the little kid and the middle kid and sick kids (The Big Kid has been sick in her house for two weeks) and the getting-elderly yellow lab who peed in the floor in the bedroom night-before-last for the FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE? Which probably means he has diabetes because he's FAT and he came in and drank water for SIXTY SECONDS?

And in between I have 30 minutes to sleep before a dog/child/sick kid gets me up AGAIN?

Guess who rolled over and wanted to be my best friend. The person I married and who got me INTO this mess...actually thought I had time for him.

Y'all...I know we're not supposed to talk about this but I was SO tired and everyone is SO sick and morning was SO close and I...started laughing. I sat up in bed and I started giggling and then I started laughing and then...all hell broke loose. This was the FUNNIEST damn place I had ever been in my life...I sleep on average three hours at a time and you want to do WHAT? I laughed until I was hiccuping and then I laughed some more.

This didn't go over well. I think I was supposed to be thinking garters and thigh-highs and all I had was...humidifiers. Best I could think of. Wasn't on the list.

Needless to say, this is a tick fuck. TNK rolled over a while ago, blew her nose into two kleenex and asked, "When do you think I'll be better?" When I explained that it just depended on what she has, she coughed for 30 seconds into the blanket and then explained, "There's a mixer tomorrow night."

I don't think she'll be dancing. I could be wrong.

Divided by a Common Language

I am SO American.

I try not to be, but I swear I can't help it.

I really, really do try, when dealing with workmates and vendors/agencies in England, to lower my voice, slow down my speech, avoid random cultural references (a feat unto itself) and to sound apologetic At. All. Times.

As the Poster Girl for calm restraint and clear communication...it seems I am a miserable failure.

At least when dealing with one, particular vendor agency. A new agency that apparently doesn't deal with many American clients.

So these guys are supposed to write stories for me. They interview my customers - across Europe - and then write up articles based on those interviews.

Like I said, this group is new, and they came recommended by someone in our UK office. I had to cut loose the old agency because they were JUST too damn expensive. Honestly, ridiculously expensive and their work wasn't that stellar.

Now I know why they charged so much - they employed American-fluent staff members who always understood, perfectly, everything I asked for.

Apparently they were highly-skilled, bi-cultural anomalies worthy of the price tag.

So, the New Guys: I asked them, weeks ago, for an outline - they sent me a first draft.
Apparently English high school and American high school are so completely different that Brit kids skip the critical Outline step in the term paper process and go straight for the kill.

They don't understand why I want an outline. "Why would we waste time on an outline?"
I don't think they have to understand...just humor me and do it.

I sent them all the information for the current project nearly a month ago. I got the first draft (in lieu of an outline) yesterday. Yesterday. I've been begging for something - anything - in writing for two weeks. They didn't realize I was in a hurry.....

I sent them information, in German, about a German customer and they interviewed my German sales rep in...German. Then they wrote the paper in English.

What am I missing here? The old vendor received information in French, interviewed everyone in French and wrote the paper in Freaking French - for a French-speaking audience. I assumed (red flag) this was common practice. You write the paper in the language of the customer. It's the way everyone else has always worked.

Clearly, and I am not being sarcastic, this is my bad. I did not communicate to the New Guys that I wanted the paper written in the language in which every bit of research was submitted. My lack of communication. I admit it. I assumed, and that never ends well.

So the account rep - who has been on holiday lo these many weeks - just called me. He was defensive and explanatory and going on and on and on without taking a breath until I thought he might pass out on the other end of the phone. Silence. Thunk. Sirens.

Right in the middle of his second marathon justification I said, "Stop...Derek....Stop, Derek. StopStopStopStop! You can stop. You don't have to defend what you've done. Let's just fix it."

Silence. Oh, God, he's had an aneurism.

"Sorry?"

"It doesn't matter that I expected one thing and you thought I wanted something else, just translate what you have and resend it. Next time, we'll know better."

"Sorry?" Again with Apology-as-Question. Who the hell is this guy? Doctor Who?

"Derek. The information I sent to you was in German, the interview you conducted was in German. I assumed the paper would be written in German. But I never specifically asked you if it would be delivered in German. My miscommunication. It doesn't matter. Let's just fix it."

"Oh. Right. Okay. And, actually, that bit about an outline? That actually makes more sense than the way we currently do things."

"You're welcome. Now go buy Nigel a drink, and bill it to me, before he kills himself."

"Right. Well, okay then. We'll have the translated version to you by Tuesday.

"Fair enough. Now we know."

"Indeed." mumble-mumble-mumble.

So now I can't decide if I need to send an email stating, "Okay, here's what I want: Step one. Step two. Step three." so there is no further confusion...Or if that would send poor Nigel absolutely over the edge?

Which is worse? Over communicate and risk sounding like a condescending bitch, which at this point, if I said, "lovely weather" I'd sound like Eva Braun.

OR hope they understand now? But if they get it wrong again, it will be my fault for NOT reminding them to wipe their asses and we'll be yet another week behind schedule.

(See, that's the sarcasm I work so hard to suppress. If only they knew me, I'm sure they'd appreciate the Herculean effort.)

Christ on a bike...Is it 5:00 yet?

Kudos

I hope y'all realize City Girl is TOTALLY carrying my ass. I will, I promise, redeem myself.

Honor They Mother But Don't Get In The Car With Her

My Mother. What a piece of work she is.

Bless her. (All you Southerners know what that means).

She is, and I don't mean this in a negative way, extremely selfish. It's just a matter of fact. A statement of truth. You can check the record.

All day, every day, it is aaaaaall about my Mother. Who lives with (with, not near) my Already-Nominated-For-Sainthood Sister, a safe 600 miles straight north of here.

Anyway, my mother does not drive. Well, she drives, but she won't travel further than 10 miles from the house and she'll only make right-hand turns. No left turns. Ever. For any reason. Not only is she not a Defensive Driver, she is a Defenseless Driver.

But you can't tell her that. Arriving home and pulling into the garage, she has hit the door frame with her car - shearing the mirror from the body like fleece meeting a razor - no fewer than four times. In 20,000 miles. Four. Times. But she thinks she is the World's Greatest Driver because she has MIRACULOUSLY never been involved in an accident out on the road.

Well, hell, if I'd only traveled 20,000 miles in 12 years - did I mention her car is a 1998? She bought it new and it only has 20k on it - I'd have a stellar record, too.

So after the most recent shearing - last week - Mother had an argument with my Brother-in-Law (owner of the injurious garage). During the altercation my Mother stated for the record that she is a better driver than my BIL. My BIL the cop. The patrolman. The guy who drives around for a LIVING.

She absolutely demanded that she is a superior driver to EVERYONE and submitted as evidence her untarnished traffic record. Upon concluding her argument, BIL forbid her from ever transporting his offspring anywhere ever again. EVER again.

This means St. Sister now has to chauffeur everyone, everywhere. She called me this morning just to tell me how much she hates me. She was sitting outside the ophthalmologist's office where she'd deposited Mother for her cataract surgery pre-physical. (Yes, the Driver of the Year has cataracts).

It seems that this morning, my sister's mother (I call her "your mother" while my sister refers to her as "your mother") let St. Sister know it was time to leave for her appointment by marching herself out to the driveway, purse on arm, and standing beside the car, waiting for someone to let her in. Sister has absolutely no idea how long her mother stood there.

She was ready to go RIGHT now. Never mind that it was an hour before the appointment.

When Mother is ready to go, everybody'd better by-God be ready to go. Just like she was ready for me to take her to dinner at 4-freaking-30 when I was visiting last month. It doesn't matter that I'd just walked out of the shower. There she stood. Purse on arm.

I don't say this often, but thank GOD I live in Alabama.

I honestly don't blame Sissy for hating me. I'd really question her judgement if she didn't.

Charity by Proxy

So every day I click on the Animal Rescue Site link (at left) and donate - kibble, I think - to animals in need of assistance.

There is no welfare for disabled/unemployed/lazy animals here in the States. Pooches hanging out on street corners are picked up by the Dog Catcher and held at the pound for a few days...and then get gassed.

There is no Ol' Roy (the dog food equivalent of Government Cheese) program. You can't go to the County Vet for indigent feline health care. So it's up to the private sector to house and feed the poor, fuzzy unfortunates.

At least the animals aren't pierced and tattooed to kingdom come, chain smoking and complaining they can't come up with the scratch to feed themselves...but I digress.

Anyway, when I click on the "Donate" button, on the Animal Rescue site, a slew of other extremely worthwhile animal charity buttons pop up.

Stop Animal Beatings
Save Russian Circus Bears
Help Katrina Dogs
Rescue Feral Cats

I'd give money to all these organizations (don't tell the diocese) if only I could make myself click the buttons.

All the buttons, especially the first two, feature hideous images of horribly abused critters. The problem is that if you can bring yourself to look at the image long enough to click it, you are then led through a series of additional horrifying images.

I understand these animals are being abused/neglected/forced to watch Jay Leno. I GET IT. I got it with the FIRST image that made me cry. I can't look at any more! STOP!

If I click on the poor little bear with the ring through his nose and the abrasion over his eye, I should be rewarded with photos of happy bears. Rehab bears with clay masks and cucumber eye patches on their little faces, "This is what we can accomplish with your help."

So I have to ask Hubster to click for me. Then HE gets upset. And worse, I have to tell him that I'm giving more money to save more animals in more remote corners of the Earth, when we have numerous worthy animal welfare programs right here at home.

"But LOOK at the bear. How can I click past that?!"

Which leads me to wonder...if I'm giving money to bears in Siberia, are Siberians giving money to dogs in Alabama? Is this Internets thing a wash? Or are the locals getting screwed because all they can post online are mug shots of very scary looking Pit Bulls?

How can redneck pit bulls and fighting cocks compete against waltzing, accordion-playing bears?

I know the answer: They can't. Alabama strays need a publicist...some good PR.

Anybody with an agency out there looking for some pro bono work?

This is NOT my train...

Back before Christmas I had annual blood work done and when I went for the results, the doctor says, "Two of your liver markers are abnormal."

Well, DUH. You could have just asked me...you drink like I do? OF COURSE your liver is pissed. I'll drink more water or something.

Turns out, the markers weren't the markers you get from drinking...they were from taking tylenol and SAID's for 30 years. Every DAY for 30 years...excessive excercising (which I got over) and osteo will do that.

So I stopped taking that stuff and my bloodwork went back to normal.

COOL! This means I need to START DRINKING more...obviously, I'm not doing my job!

But then a couple of weeks ago I spent a couple of days popping in and out of the hospital because...no lie...I thought I was having a heart attack. More than one DOCTOR thought I was having a heart attack. It was scary as hell and then I'm in the middle of ONE sentence in my GP's office and...everything came to a screeching halt. The sentence? Contained the words "shoulder blades."

Live and learn, and don't y'all forget this and then you won't have to fork over all the cash I've parted with in the last two weeks (and I have good insurance!)

Shoulder blades=gall bladder.

Textbook. Write it down.

So I had my gallbladder out and I was better the next day but while they were in there? MY LIVER IS ENLARGED. Well now, I thought we had already addressed this? But my liver is enlarged and so while they were cutting around on stuff...they biopsied my liver.

That works. What did it say?

I have three kids, only one of whom is half-raised, and I have things to do and places to go. The last thing I needed when I went in today to have my staples out was to hear, "Stearohepatitis."

Now, we're all agreed there are a lot of letters in that word, but I'll kiss your ass if you see anything other than H-E-P-A-T-I-T-I-S. WTF? Turns out? It means "liver." Given the choice, there could be MENU ITEMS with those nine letters in the description but when I was standing there?

Let's just FREAK OUT.

Long story short? There's nothing wrong with me that a little exercising and moderation won't fix. But I have ANOTHER appointment with ANOTHER specialist and...I don't think so. I'll go, but we're changing tracks here. I AM NOT A SICK PERSON.

Ain't gonna happen. I spent several years working on a graduate degree in physical ed/nutrition and I was going to be a trainer for over-50's. Then...uh, I had a baby at an unexpected time. And then, uh, I had ANOTHER baby at an unexpected time and...I haven't seen a textbook that didn't have pictures on every page in ten years.

I think I'll dust off my skills. And stop washing down my tylenol with bourbon.

Worth It

I love it when Mama Karma and Mother Nature combine forces like the Wonder Twins to set things right.

The Japanese Itcher, the fried iPod and the hotel sheets that smell like Vicks Vaporub ::gag:: ...are all but forgotten.

I am - right now - watching a lightening storm over the Hudson River. The thunder is echoing off the Manhattan skyline and bouncing back on us here in New Jersey.

It. Is. Awesome.

What did we do before Jeff Foxworthy?

Random actions for today...

You might be a redneck if...you're on your way to WalMart to look for one of those metal containers like your grandmother had, in which to save bacon grease. You SAVE bacon grease. You know why I do.

....you rented a dumpster four weeks ago and it's still sitting in your driveway...along with all the stuff you pulled out of the garages and haven't gone through yet. (The neighbors have to LOVE this.)

...you think you'll leave the dumpster there another month and clean out the attic while you're at it.

The dumpster is pissing off the asshole guy next door SO much, you're considering getting a port-a-potty.

Your exotic tropical orchid blooms every year, without fail. Because you take it out into the Alabama humidity and set it under the overflow pipe from the air conditioning unit. And forget about it.

Your Home Depot charge card is platinum. Your Neiman Marcus card is only gold.

You might be an alcoholic if...you take the bag OUT of the box in order to drain those last two glasses.

...you're drinking wine out of a box in the first place. And damn well happy to be doing so.

You didn't have to make up anything to create this list.

Business Travel is SO Glam...Part 947

Picture if you will, a Woman squeezed into the middle of the middle of a Boeing 767.

Her iPod craps out just as the stewardess announces that she can only accept cash - exact change, please - for the purchase of real lunches today.

If you do not have exactly $7 and are hungry, you'll just have to cannibalize your neighbor. Bon Appétit.

At least the woman is in an aisle seat. Things could be worse.

You think? At this point the Japanese businessman sitting in front of her gets up, and stands with his back turned to her, less than a laptop-length away.

She's sitting, he's standing...with his back to her...you can imagine the physical positioning of his lower body in relation to her....head.

Without warning or discretion, Japanese Businessman reaches around and inserts his entire left forearm up his backside, grips the seam of his pinstriped boxers and retrieves them from his pelvic cavity.

This must come as a relief because he does a little wiggle afterward. A wiggle. In the aisle.

Then, hey, while he's up, he reaches BACK around - swinging his elbow to within inches of The Woman's nose - and begins to vigorously scratch his cheap suit wearing, backrest-in-Woman's-face sliding, extra-bag-of-peanuts-and-the entire Diet Coke demanding ass.

For what seemed like an HOUR.

Does he have fleas? Crabs? Body lice? Who the HELL knows but this guy was one itchy motherfucker.

The Woman's reward for this travel atrocity? Three days and nights in beautiful downtown Jersey City.

I was SO bad in a previous life. I really hope it was worth it.

Mad About Mad Men

Here's a little something to help get you in to the Mad Men Mood.

::clink, clink::

Mad Men Me

Friday Funny

Never Buy a Car From a Guy with a Mullet

*Heavy Sigh*

So, my little car...she's not well.

At 185,000 miles she is elderly and on the auto-equivalent of life support.

One week she is incontinent and needs a new valve gasket, the next week she blows out a hip and needs to have a CV joint replaced. All along she needs a steady supply of oil, as she farts blue smoke every morning.

So I've been looking at cars. But when I look, I feel like I'm cheating. Ogling the newer cars' features - TWO cup holders? Sa-weet! - admiring the pretty paint choices, fondling the leather seats.

I have guilt.

Hubster is over my guilt. He's ready to move on and has an opinion as to what I should be driving.

If I HAVE to get a new vehicle, I want a SMALL vehicle. A coupe. A cute car, an easy-to-park car. A little Civic 2-door or even an Accord or Altima coupe. Hey, I'm flexible.

He wants me to drive Sherman Tank.

Current car is a mid size sedan. A middle-age car. I've always had responsible, respectable, dull cars. Hub wants me to stick within the safe confines of the dull category...or move up to a tank. He'd be over the moon if I bought an F150 loaded with chrome.

So I found something in-between: a Nissan Rogue. It is cute but it's a 4-door. It's not an Urban Assault Vehicle, but if I got hit it wouldn't shatter. It - excuse me while I get girly - comes in pretty colors and configurations but it is gender-neutral enough for him to drive without embarrassment. Basically, it is the perfect compromise.

So, last weekend we went shopping. Took a trip up to Nashville to go honky-tonkin' and looked at a few car lots while we were there - Hub had never even heard of a Rogue before Sunday, so he was anxious to check them out.

On our very first try - at the very first lot - a gently used 2008 Rogue sat right out at the street - front and center - practically BECKONING us. We stopped. We ogled. Hub nodded. My hopes soared cautiously.

And then out walked the salesman and within 10 minutes I was ready to leave.

Picture a less-polished Jeff Foxworthy - mullet, ballcap, untucked polo without a t-shirt. He wore mirrored wrap-around sunglasses and had bits of tobacco stuck to his front teeth.

In a word, he was a mess. An ungodly mess.

I expected him to act like I wasn't standing beside him and he didn't disappoint. Talked to Hubster like he was there alone. This was fine. The last thing I wanted was to engage this Hillbilly in conversation.

Hub explained to the guy that I love Nissans, that I've had my car for 12 years and the car before that was a Nissan, which I kept for 11 years.

At one point he started pushing Hub toward a new vehicle..."Lots more choices out back" he said. I looked at Hub and said quietly, "I don't want a new car - I'm really not interested in eating the depreciation and this one is only a year old."

Apparently Mr. Foxworthy thought I was talking to him.

"What are you worried about depreciation for? Sounds like you drive a car until the wheels fall off - what do you care about depreciation?"

Well, F*ck you.

"Because," I looked him dead in those stupid mirrored glasses, "I could lose my job. And if I DO lose my job and need to get rid of the car, I'll be SELLING a used car, so I'd rather BUY a used car and not end up upside-down on the loan."

I was ready to hit him. After ignoring me for 15 minutes, this douche bag had the balls to get snarky.

Hub sensed it was time to go. Douche bag sensed he wasn't going to make a sale, and I was sick-to-my-stomach angry.

We drove off to a different lot, where they had no Rogues, but they sales guy was very, very nice.

Luckily, while in Nashville, Hub discovered CarMax and is in LOVE with the concept: Find a vehicle online and have them send it to your local CarMax lot. It's perfect. He's in total control and I don't risk an assault and battery charge.

Everybody wins but the douche bag. I can live with that.

Why I love fall...

...as opposed to considering springtime a beginning.

Yesterday was the first day of school. For the first time in 26 years, I forgot the camera.

That would be because, I'm tired. I think everyone is born with a certain number of First School Days in them and...I used mine up about 12 years ago. I'm running on First Day With No Kids At Home age-frame and...there are still two kids here.

Ooops!


Think about this...I have a done a "first day of school" every year for 26 years. Twenty. Six. Years. Twenty-six-years. TwentySixYears. Every year. For twenty-six years.

The Big Kid will be 29 in November, The Nice Kid is 14 and The Not Nice Kid is nine. I stood there Monday morning and there they all were. The happy nervous moms and dads with their WalMart bags full of kleenex and clorox wipes. The kids in their clean new uniforms (except for the true Catholics, who...if you're the fourth kid?...that logo is just about bleached RIGHT off that uniform shirt.) And then...me. Scrooge. Grumpy. The Grinch.

There I stood, waiting on my Christmas spirit or something similar, to kick in so I could get all excited and...it's just not there. I have about a week before the first PTO meeting and everyone starts wanting something...cakes, time, bingo prizes, gift wrap orders. I'm betting MONEY I get a hand-out this afternoon with a t-shirt order form in it. Do you have any IDEA how many t-shirts come through this house on a monthly basis?

But then...they get in the car in the afternoon and life is SO good. The Nice Kid spent her day rescuing scared newcomers...it comes natural to her. She washed her locker combination in her jeans pocket the night before school started and had to carry her books around all day. (Yes, they refused to give her the combination in the office...told her she didn't need it on the first day. I'm choosing my battles.) She wore a bright red shirt and shiny red leather shoes and hugged everyone in sight.

The Not Nice Kid didn't pull a card. (We take it where we can get it.) She LOVES Mz Watkins. She alphabetized her spelling words. Lunch was fun. They have to walk single file to recess.

Oh, y'all. Remember when life was so good? Remember when everything was new and exciting and you were safe and your mama took care of everything?

To hell with the economy and health care and philandering governors and potholes. In the real world? There's a LOT to smile about. And I've been smiling all day. :)

Well, I never...

...spending the afternoon filling out forms for the first day of school tomorrow.

Yes. I've had them for a while. Live with it.

Humming along, filling in lines, wondering why in the hell they care what DAY IT IS when I fill out these documents. Names, numbers, addresses. No, I don't know The Big Boy's work number. He has a cell phone. Call it...he'll answer...I've seen him do it.

Don't know his work ADDRESS, either. It's the only dance in town. Get to that town? They'll tell you where he is.

And then, right in the middle of a fairly logical page, is this:

Student lives with (circle one): Mother Father Guardian

WTF???

Now, before anyone says anything, I HAVE BEEN A SINGLE DIVORCED PARENT. Do NOT preach to me. But I will be the first in line to say, Ideal Situation? Married parents. Hopefully, fairly happily married parents and Lord knows, no marriage is better than a bad marriage but in the long run...kids do better with two, here-to-stay parents.

SO WHY ISN'T THAT AN OPTION? I firmly believe that television/video/computer violence is a bad thing because you DO get...what's the word? Not immune, not climatized, but...not accustomed. There's a word for when something becomes so familiar that it's no longer shocking. Stuff happens, people come and go, but I honestly believe it's best to present the best-case scenario and then teach coping skills. Cope with anything; handle everything; and be thankful you're here to have options.

But...don't y'all think that's a little WEIRD? That there's NO option for a single family unit?

So I did what I always do...put an editorial comment under the choices. I didn't circle ANYTHING, and underneath I wrote "Student lives with her PARENTS."

The Big Boy will come in later tonight when I'm not looking and scratch out my comment. And do something politically correct like...circle both parents. (He did that when The Not Nice Kid had this science thingy last year and there was a place to tell what we did with the plastic rings off six-packs. I wrote in, "Do they still MAKE these?", and TBB got all pissy and scratched it out. But, DO THEY?)

Don't you know my kid turns in her stuff every year and the Powers That Be stand there and roll their eyes and mutter to each other? "Oh, Lord, here we go again."

If they'd just act right, we wouldn't have these issues.

Friday...WTF?

Killin' snakes and puttin' out fires...

...to paraphrase a friend.


The problem with unlimited blog fodder is that if you have it? You're either too sick or too busy to post. I spent ten hours last week thinking I was having a heart attack. I could have talked myself out of it if it hadn't been for the PAIN and the fact that TWO doctors agreed with me. And when the heart tests came back clean? They announced I must have a blood clot on my lungs.

Good grief.

I didn't, but one doctor and two hospital visits later, it was suggested the problem might be my gallbladder. I don't know anything ABOUT gallbladders but...how big a deal can this be? I never heard of anyone DYING from gallbladderitis so...this, too, shall pass. I'll put on my big girl panties and exercise or drink lots of water or buy a pair of Dr. Scholl's and life will be good. I'm fairly competent when it comes to stuff like this. Or I used to be.

But then, I went online to check out the problem and do you know the FIRST thing that popped up? The VERY first thing?

Bacon. No bacon.

Controlling gallbladder issues with diet involves giving up bacon, and eating shredded beets. RAW shredded beets. More than once a day. I actually COULD eat shredded beets, if I had to. But giving up bacon?

FOREVER?

Fuck that shit. They can HAVE this sucker.

It didn't help that the diet also involves...oh, other inconsequential things like NO ALCOHOL. Or spicy food. Come ON! I am 53 years old; that means I have 53 more years to live and can you IMAGINE?? FIFTY-THREE years without bacon? Bourbon? Bouquet garni? (Okay, I had to look that one up because basil and bay leaf were all that came to mind and I didn't want to listen to the herb/spice speech.)

But come on...really. I'd eat CARDBOARD if you put bacon on it. And then last night it all came into focus when...keeping in mind it's SUMMERTIME in Alabama...we had BLT's on real sourdough for supper.

And I nearly died. I nearly died until about three o'clock this morning, when the pain finally eased enough that I fell asleep. Turns out? Tomatoes rank right up there with bacon. Heaven will be paved with summertime BLT'S; I know, I read that chapter in the bible. So obviously...this is meant to be.

Take it out. It's day surgery. It's interfering with my activities.

Hell, I divorced a HUSBAND once for lesser infractions.

Watch This Get Happy

A happy little Wednesday morning pick-me-up.

Thanks to Fancy Schmancy.

The Dog and the Butcher by Jonathan Holt from Jonathan Holt on Vimeo.

Potato Salad Placeholder

You know it's the dog days of summer when there's not a single story to be told. Even CNN is running a Dr. Gupta marathon....

In related news, today CG1 is having her gallbladder probed, poked and scanned - film at 11.

While we wait for the results, here is my latest attempt at mayonnaise-free potato salad.

My grandpa - who was English, if that's relevant - used to make the BEST potato salad. Of course there was no recipe so my mother and I have been trying, for 40 and 20 years respectively, to duplicate his formula.

While I was in Chicago the other week, Mother told me she'd been slaving in the laboratory and just about had it worked out.

The problem for me, of course, is that Grandad's salad is loaded with mayonnaise, a/k/a Hubster Kryptonite.

So for the rest of you long-suffering cooks with mayo-phobic husbands and children, give this a try. It's pretty darn tasty.

Almost Grandpa's Potato Salad

3 large, peeled Baking Potatoes, cut into 1"x1" cubes
6 hard boiled Eggs, cut into eighths
1 medium Onion, finely chopped
3 stalks Celery, finely chopped
1/2 cup Salad Oil (flavorless)
1/4 cup White Vinegar
2 tablespoons Mustard (yellow)
1 tsp Celery Salt

Kosher salt

Cook potato chunks in salted water, approximately 7 minutes. Drain and cool to the point they can be handled.

Combine in a medium bowl, potatoes, eggs, onion and celery. Toss.
Combine in a mason jar, oil, vinegar, mustard, celery salt and a pinch of kosher salt. Shake.
Pour vinaigrette over potato mixture.

Refrigerate. Consume.


Notes:
1. Warm potatoes absorb vinegar-based dressings extremely well. Pouring dressing over cold potatoes...doesn't do anything for them.
2. Grandpa's salad was nearly equal parts potato and egg. That's what made it so good!


Post Script: I couldn't find an image of po'sal that looked like mine, so I've taken the liberty of inserting the image of a handsome Brit, in Grandpa's honor. Fifty points to Gryffindor if you can name the actor.

Just Take It Where You Can Get It

Although I started to say, "This hasn't been the greatest week of my life..." to paraphrase a country song..."That's life." And nothing more.

The mean kid next door beat up my kid. Happens. The house phone has been out since the 17th and they came and fixed it and...didn't. Happens. I spent ten hours in the cardiac unit of the ER Tuesday because two doctors and I thought I was having a heart attack. I wasn't but it FELT like it. I didn't have a blood clot in my lungs, either (second diagnosis.) Happens. The Big Boy's birthday was said Tuesday and...we didn't have a celebration. Happens.

And then yesterday, the straw broke the camel's back and I lost it and...everything got put into perspective.

The Nice Kid and I had dentist appointments but she has a summer babysitting job with no back-up, so The Not Nice Kid and I went instead. Lovely visit, lovely report, everything went well which was really soothing to my jangled nerves. We left and TNNK was STARVING, which is her skinny ass's normal state 90% of her waking hours. Absolutely famished. We drove through Burger King, her new fix, and spent NINE DOLLARS on a SNACK, and then headed to the grocery store.

She had apple fries, and when we parked she announced she was staying in the car. It's HOT in Alabama in the summertime, and if she stayed in the car that would mean I'd have to leave it running and hurry through the store and...I didn't want to. So I made her get out of the car and she's standing beside it wailing that she wants to stay in the car and she hates the stupid grocery store and I always let The Nice Kid stay in the car and...I folded. JUST SHUT UP. Just shut the hell up and you can stay. Put her back in, started the car and left STRICT instructions: DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. You will set off the alarm. I'll be as quick as I can but...DO NOT LEAVE THIS CAR UNLOCKED.

She didn't.

A few minutes later I get tackled from behind with a bear hug and there she is, ready to help shop. When I asked..."Did you lock the car?" she assured me that she had. All is well. We shopped. Fresh cherries. Good strawberries. Silver dollar pancakes...40 for $1.29. Sliced smoked cheese. Fresh mozzarella. Smiled at everyone, laughed with the people shopping with us, talked to strangers. This is small town America.

Got our stuff paid for, pushed the cart out of the store and JUST as I'm nearing the car and fishing for my remote I realize...that car is running. As in, THE ENGINE IS RUNNING IN MY CAR.

And it's locked.

Now, I've been driving this make of car for 22 years and I have never locked the keys in it YET because IT CANNOT BE DONE. Impossible. But there sat my car, in the 100 degree parking lot, with the engine running and since there's a key in the ignition? The remote doesn't work.

And I absolutely positively completely LOST IT.

A few minutes later I called my sister, who should have been on her way home from work, and sure enough she was a block away. She offered to come get me, let me take her to the Mexican restaurant and take her car to my house to get my extra keys but OH YEAH...different post...in the madness getting me to the hospital Tuesday my kids lost TWO OF THE THREE SETS OF KEYS to my car. No lie.

She drove to the grocery store and there we stood...calling every locksmith in the phonebook (HER phone book because MY phone book was LOCKED IN MY CAR) and no one could get there within 35 minutes. It was hot, real hot, and this is Alabama and I knew the car had already been running for over half an hour and the tank was full and...can cars blow up? Do we know? Didn't want to find out.

A strange man came over and offered to help but we explained...can't be done. Clicked on everything...I'd been trying to get the trunk open because my car? It's Swedish and it has this opening in the middle of the back seat for ski poles and I WAS GOING TO CRAM THE NOT NICE KID'S ASS THROUGH THAT OPENING so that she could unlock the car. Trunk wouldn't open. Lucky for her.

Finally, I realized that in this sort of situation? You need a friend. So I called the guy who changes my oil. In tears. And when I heard his voice, I lost it again. Took him 10 seconds to assess the situation and he said...I've got guys on the way. I had my sister put TNNK in her car and told them...I don't want to lay eyes on you again until there is a cold margarita with MY NAME and a FLOATER sitting in front of me. They left.

Here's where it got funny. The guy who had offered to help? Came back over to the car. Nice looking man, plain, hardworking, in-shape guy. Explained that he had...that thing you stick down in the door?...in his other truck. Wondered if we could try this or try that. I laughed and thanked him and explained that there was help on the way and then he said...

"I noticed you in the grocery store. The way you moved and laughed. I thought,"Now there's someone who's enjoying her life'."

I stood there for a minute before I realized...this guy is hitting on me. Me. The mom. The OLD mom (I'm 53...they're 29, 14 and nine). The mom who hasn't had on decent makeup in 20 years because every time she buys something? A kid takes it. The mom who wears baggy linen the color of peanut butter and snot. The mom who can feed 40 people on 30 minutes notice.

He was hitting on me.

When it hit me? I burst out laughing. Not softly and politely chuckling but sick-of-this-week's-shit belly laughing. I laughed and I laughed and I took his arm to explain and...lost it again. I stood in that parking lot and laughed out every single ounce of the entire week's CRAP. And then I thanked him and smiled and...lost it again. I laughed until I couldn't BREATHE.

A few minutes later two guys, with 17 teeth between them, pulled up beside my car. THAN YOU GOD, for rednecks. Good, honest, talented, uneducated rednecks who can do ANYTHING. The boy had a screwdriver and a coat hanger...five seconds, tops. He didn't even have to fish around and he shaped that noose with one look at the lock. Five seconds and he was in. In.

I asked if he knew where I lived? He laughed. "Only legal, ma'am. Only legal."

The margarita was really good and really cold and my sister had told the story before I got there and it was really special. And God made me laugh on one of the worst weeks of my life.

It doesn't get any better than that.