The Royal Wedding

I was always interested in Lady Di, and I even managed to see her exhibit at the Met, but I mostly just felt sorry for her.  I loved the footage of her children running into her arms and she single-handedly made it okay for people to hold babies with AIDS.  She was groundbreaking and tragic, at the same time.  Quite a mix.

Brad and I were on vacation with some friends at their condo in South Carolina, when Diana was killed in a car accident.  We were all riveted, sitting around the television, not crying, but stunned, and all of the sudden out of nowhere, Brad's friend drops to the ground and says, "You guys mind if I work out?"

He was serious, and to my amazement he began doing push ups right in the middle of the family room next to the coffee table, at one point even clapping his hands in between.  We were at their condo and I was a lot younger, so I just sat there shifting my eyes back and forth between the television and him bobbing up and down, counting, while I tried not to laugh.  I finally stole a glance at his wife, and this I remember, she took a long drink of her fruity drink and rolled her eyes.  I guess this was a regular thing.

I mean, it was not a studio.  It was a three bedroom condo so there was room to "work out" in a lot of places, especially outside.  Or hey, how 'bout the workout room at the end of the complex?  They have t.v.'s.  Anyway, when I am reminded of Diana's death, like the wedding yesterday, I immediately go to that memory and it has become a regular party trick of mine.

"You guys mind if I work out?" I will say as I turn my back to the bar, and do tricep push ups.  "No, go ahead, continue talking," I will say as I switch up my routine.  Try it.  It is a real crowd pleaser.

Okay.  Back to the Wedding.  Let's break it down into the following categories:  The dress, the hats, Beatrice and Eugenie, David Beckham, Prince Harry, and finally, Brides and their fathers.

OK, I loved the dress. There was much speculation about if she would wear a tiara or not.  I loved the makeup and the hair and the tiara and the dress and I thought she achieved the perfect balance between modern and retro.  That being said, next to Catherine, Pippa was the best dressed person in the wedding party.  I taped it on several different stations to get many perspectives and tidbits of info from the commentators and someone said that in the UK that they call Pippa, The Most Eligible Middleton.  It is hard to pull off satin that is cut in a silhouette like that and she looked flawless.

I am from Kentucky and I love the pomp and circumstance of anything, especially any event that celebrates hats.  I hate the fact that Kate, or Catherine, brought into vogue the facinator and now people are taking it to that next level, where they are trading in chic for ridiculous.  Victoria Beckham walked the line with this.  I think she crossed it.  I realize that couture is not synonymous with realistic, but how in the hell do you eat your breakfast with that shit all in your field of view.  It is like the floaters in my eyes that float in the vitreous matter in my eyeballs, that make me crazy when I am tired or in the bright sun.  Why in the hell would you ever wear something that bounces around in front of you like that?  I am reminded of that fish in Nemo that chases around that lightening bug or whatever.  Bigger and more ridiculous is not high fashion, it is just something that you will cringe at twenty years from now, while your kids snicker beside you.  Ask my dad sometime about his baby blue leisure suit or my mom about her one-piece, black pantsuit that zipped up the front like a onesie, she wore to see Elvis in concert.  Oh, and it had a belt and was trimmed in yellow stitching.  Sooooo great.

Beatrice and Euguenia (pronounced U-geen-ya), OK EWWWW.  Let's review, ladies.  Your mother was just in a grainy video in which she chain-smoked, and drank two bottles of wine as she negotiated selling out her ex-husband, YOUR FATHER.  You are invited to one of the biggest social events in the United Kingdom's history.  Your mother is not, because all she does is try and outdo herself with humiliating situation after humiliating situation.  Now would be a good time to put on a shift dress with a nice jacket and cute heels - not a time to let your FREAK FLAG fly.  Listen, I have three girls and I have learned very early on, to pick my battles when it comes to dressing them. As long as it is clean, and not sexy, then you are good.  But on Easter and Christmas, you worship at the alter of Janie and Jack, sistas - because you live in MY house.

You just know that their Dad, Prince Edward,  came to pick them up  in his carriage, he was all like "Jesus Christ, you guys look like Anastasia and Drizella, goin' to the ball!  Can't you dumb it down a bit?"  

David Beckham is just hot, 'nuf said. 

Moving on.  The children were well behaved, especially Prince Harry.  He is so cute. He snuck a peak at Catherine as she walked down the aisle, and no doubt said something like, "Here comes the freedom drain," or something like that.  I loved that he rode with all of the kids in a carriage after the wedding.  His brother HAD to make that happen as payback for all those bald jokes he makes to the media.  He is very ornery and I respond to that.  He may be my favorite Royal.

Finally, I was very surprised to find myself crying as Catherine's father prepared to walk her down the aisle.  She took a deep breath as she took everything in and he looked as if all of the blood had suddenly drained out of his face to his heels.  That moment is very vivid to me, when I recall my own wedding.  I played softball growing up and my dad always coached me and we have always had a very easy, close relationship.  When we were standing at the end of the aisle, he sized it up and said, "That's not that bad.  We'll be done in about one minute.  Just remember to walk slow.  It's just like softball.  You just step up to the plate..."

"Dad, PLEASE!  No softball analogies.  I just need to focus."

"Allrrriiigggghht.  Alright.  Now, don't go getting upset.  It's okay.  I'll be right here."  At that moment I realized he was trying to calm himself, not me.  That is why I welled up, then, and when I watched the Royal Wedding.

That moment, as a woman, when your Dad walks you down the aisle is symbolic, and meaningful, and steeped in tradition.  Some people are into it, and some people are not.  I am.  For as liberal-minded as I can sometimes be, I am very tradition-oriented.  I don't really know what that says about me, but I guess it is just yet another of my "blog realizations".  Weeeeeee.

Listen, some haters say that it is frivolous and pointless to get all wrapped up in some celebrity wedding, when there are so many important things to be focusing on, especially when it is happening across the pond.  I totally disagree.  I equate getting excited about Kate and Wills' wedding, with the escape you experience when you go to see a matinee.  You want an escape from everything else, a bit of fantasy, and that is healthy.  You need to take a break and indulge your inner prince or princess once in a while.  That is my recommendation to you this weekend.  Put on a tiara or offer your wife your hand as she steps out of your SUV.  Now, do you guys mind if I workout here?

The Gardiner with the smart mouth

Brad hired "The Weed Man" and a landscaping company in April, to do our yard this year, which is unprecedented.  Usually, we go buy bag upon bag of mulch from Walmart, I do all the weeding, and clearance (weeds, leaves, dead petals, etc.) and then the mulch sits there for several weeks until someone offers to help us spread it or Brad hires some kid down the street.  We buy enough bags from a neighbor's kid, that is raising money for lacrosse, to maybe fill 1/4 of our beds - every year.  Brad lures the kid in, with the promise of "spreading the mulch together" and then he retreats to the basement after about an hour and has the kid finish the rest.  We have actually had Brad's seventy-year-old parents help us spread mulch, our laziness and procrastination is so out of control.

I expected this year to be the same.  The only difference being that "the weed man" shows up a few times and spreads seed with this impossibly gigantic and efficient wheelbarrow thing that takes all of 5 minutes and then he leaves his "Weed Man" bill in a deceptively bright yellow plastic door hanger thingy when he leaves.

"Did anyone come today?" Brad asks for the hundreth time in the past two weeks.

"Who was supposed to come?  I say with a mouth full of food while I stand and eat my dinner at the kitchen counter while everyone else sits.

"The landscaper or the Weed Man,"  he continues, "They were both supposed to come today."

"Oh, the Weed Man came today, but he was really late.  Go figure."

"Did you pick up the dog poop?  How long did he stay?  What did he do?  Did you talk to him?"

He was here about five minutes.  I told him to watch out for the dog poop.  He said, 'No problem'.  He left a bill and that was it." I said, getting bored of this line of questioning.  The Weed Man was not hours late.  He was days late.  I wasn't going to push the issue.  We both know why he was hired.  He was smart enough to call himself "The Weed Man" and it made us laugh, so we hired him.  I passed an old woman squatting down in someone's yard on my way to Barrington pick up today, her name was "The Weed Lady," and wondered if that was his mother.  Is that weird?

"What else happened?"  my husband was insistent.

"Well, he asked me to come in the back of his van while I signed his paperwork and he forced me to  take a hit off his joint, because he said it was in our contract.  What else was supposed to happen?" 

"What time was it?  Are you serious?"  Brad is used to this kind of bullshit from me, but I think in the recesses of his mind he thinks, "Well, you never know with her." so he asks stupid questions like that and I cannot resist a straight man.

So, after many days of Brad threatening to have a landscaper there, and unending "phone calls on the way to work" my favorite, the landscaper shows up today.  I had run about a thousand errands with Eva in the pouring down rain and then we treated each other to Marshalls in Grandview for lunch, he is parked outside the side of my house when I come back from dropping her off from preschool.  I introduce myself, go inside, take a shower, turn off my phone, and then promptly take a nap.

In my defense, it is "Playdate Wednesday" where I promise each of my kids that they may have a friend over after school, so I am mentally and physically preparing myself.

I wake up.  Put a load of laundry in, pick up the kitchen and the downstairs and head outside to pretend like I have been "working" at my supposed "from home" part time job, as far as they were concerned.  Here is the one-two punch conversation I have with "Chris," the landscaper.

"Wow!  The yard looks great.  I can't believe the work you have done."  I remember that Brad had called earlier and told me to tell them what I wanted done to the yard and a quick survey reveals that they are about halfway done.  Oops.  "Hey, would you mind trying to get that small treestump out, and removing all of that ivy and haphazard ground cover here?  If you can't.  That's fine.  It's just that everything is growing so unevenly here (it is about a four square foot area in the corner of our bed near the driveway.) There was a tree here, but it died so I cut it down, but I couldn't get the stump out.  I bought sunflower seeds today with my youngest daughter and I thought we could do a sunflower garden here.  If you could just remove everything and till the soil, that would be great."

"Well, that'll take a stump grinder that I don't have, and we have already mulched around the ivy, but sure, all I have is time.  No problem."

Did I hear him right?  I am still a little foggy from my nap.

"Hey, I've got an idea," he smiles, "why don't I come to your place of work and ask you to do something on your time that is not in my contract?"

Jesus Christ.  I was hearing him right.  "Well, I gotta go to school to pick up my kids.  Prepare yourself."  I am trying to smile at him and decipher the verbal attack that is being brought upon me.  "Okay, well, do what you can.  I guess you talked it all out with my husband when you quoted him.  I take a big swig of Diet Coke and pull out of the driveway.

What in the f**k?  I am reeling, while I embark on picking up 7 children.  Whatever.  I decide.

I take the all the kids to DQ because there is nothing in the pantry and I like to get the snack out of the way first.  It is a nightmare, but it is useless to go into the details.  You can imagine.  Seven orders at DQ.   

I pull back into the driveway and release the kids from the back of my hatchback, like a pack of Navy Seal Paratroupers with Vera Bradley parachutes.  "Get ready for this, " I say a little too loudly as they exit out the back with Dilly Bars and slushies teetering in their little hands.

"Wow.  The beds are looking great." I say, again, activating my "people pleasing mechanism" that is powered by guilt fuel.  "Hey you wanna Dilly bar?"

"I don't eat sweets."

"ALLLLRIIIGGGHHTTTY then.  Think your partner wants one?"  I turn to his comrade that is a dead ringer for a Hell's Angel and is 5000 times nicer than him.  He graciously takes a Dilly bar.  "Can I get you anything else?  I have Diet Coke and bottled water in the fridge in the garage."

"No.  Unlike you, I come prepared."  He then goes on to explain how our Lacrosse mulch is not as good as his mulch and that he is going to use it in the backyard while he tries to avoid "the mine field" back there.  It takes me a couple of "huh's" because Playdate Wednesday is starting to heat up, before I realize that he is talking about Scarlett's poop.  "Oh, I just picked it up Sunday.  But I guess that's the thing about living things, if you feed them, then they continue to relieve themselves.  I'll go pick it up so you can continue with your work." My people pleasing mechanism is in overdrive.

"Don't bother.  I think I've already stepped in all of them...On second thought, go ahead, it'll give you something to DO."

 OK. There is only so much apologizing one can do to her landscaper for taking a nap in the middle of the day. (Internally, I am thinking.  How does he know?  I must have had those telltale linen lines on my face, again. Damn!) Anyway, I am DONE.  I shoot him "the look", go pick up the poop, and push each of the seven girls successively, on the swing for the next hour, while they fight and complain about how long each person's turn is, and who goes next.  I am herding them like sheep while I exchange pleasantries with the neighbors when they walk by and shake their heads, the international symbol for "you are crazy, woman". 

"Wow, you really have your hands full,"  Chris has started to feel sorry for me, I guess.  He proceeds to tell me how he is proposing to his girlfriend at Christmas, and she wants to start a family shortly after that. He is suddenly all wine and roses, playing Ike Turner to my Tina Turner after an abusive episode.  

"Well, you should bring her by and show her this sometime, and that will encourage her to keep taking that birth control pill." I am usually not that easily won over, but why put energy into holding a grudge against your landscaper for throwing you some sarcasm, right?  Life is too short. 

I mean, it's not like I am holding on to the experience and blogging about it the next day, or anything, right?  Chris and his judgemental stereotyping of me, are a thing of the past, as far as I am concerned.  He is coming back this afternoon, though, and I am going to be ON MY GAME.  I've got activities the girls are in, and I plan to be fully showered and dressed in an adult-like outfit (no sweats), and a face full o' make up.  Hell, I may even accessorize.  I am going to show him what Modern Day Wonder Woman looks like.

Ok.  Let's be real.  I will be lucky if I get a shower in after my workout today.  The reality is that he will probably ring the doorbell only to discover my puffy linen lined face, again.  Or better yet, he will be trimming bushes outside and discover me sitting on the couch in my robe, with my hand in a Cheetos bag, while I watch my stories. (At least they are of the HBO and Showtime variety.)

Anyway, the yard looks great and Chris was really reasonable compared to past landscaper escapades.  You do not have to tell him what to do, and I advise that you do not, or you will get an ear full of biting cynicism.  Contact me if you want his number.  The pic above is the outstanding job he did.  I should have taken a picture of it before, and put up comparison photos, but I was takin' a nap.

My house in the Spring

I love my house in the Spring.  The people before us were nice enough to invest in a shitload of landscaping, and I guess maintained the lawn like it was their job.  A lot of people feel that way. Unfortunately for our neighbors, we don't.  I love our blooming trees and bushes and porch, but most of all, I value the natural exhaust system the open windows provide in my outdated kitchen.  That emeffer heats up like a boiler room, three seasons a year.  I look forward to the Spring, like Scarlett, my dog, looks forward to the "treat sandwiches" my four-year-old makes her.  I live with a lot of shit other people would have fixed ages ago, instead of say, doing their basement, and it would be even more rural around here, if my father-in-law didn't care so much about appearances, and our overall quality of life.

We bought this house with the intention of renovating it in "stages", but now it seems all we do is put out little fires everywhere because our charming, outdated "cottage like" home is falling apart around us.  I don't mind it that much, because I see the house as a reflection of myself, and I am kind of a mess, but in a refreshing way, I hope.  If "refreshing" is the new synonym for "lazy," I mean.

Our favorite way of coping with any of these small interferences with our daily lives, is with the "bandaid approach."  We figure out, along with my father-in-law, Ken, what will cost the least amount of money, and use up the maximum amount of Ken's time. The man is a SAINT.  I call him, before I call Brad, if anything goes wrong with the house.  He is the anti-Brad, in terms of superheroes that are handy.  He keeps a running tab of all of the things he buys for the house, and then presents us with the bill, if we ever are stupid enough to disclose a windfall we recently had, like a tax refund, or an inheritance.

One of my favorite stories about Ken is when we first moved into this house, and I went to the annual Christmas "progressive party" that year.  (Don't worry, haters, I don't mean Democratic, I mean a party that involves several houses on our street.) I usually have to go alone to this, because Brad tends to travel at least two weeks out of December every year. It is great, because it is yet another opportunity for me to make an ass of myself, without anyone there to reel me in.  The bonus is, that there is not anyone there the next morning to recant my behavior in the morning, either, so it is one of those yin-yang experiences in life.  

Anyway, I am brand spankin' new to the neighborhood, and a neighbor walks up to me and introduces himself.

"Wow!  Your husband is really handy.  I mean, he is ALWAYS working on that house."

"I'm sorry, What did you just say?"  I was trying to absorb what he was talking about.

"I said, your husband, it must be really great to have him around the house.  I mean, he is always up on ladders, cleaning out gutters and mulching.  Has he been painting the house, too?  I thought I saw him painting the other day."  He has started to raise his voice as if I have a visible hearing device, or something.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else,"  I am miffed.  I am also buzzed.

"You live on the corner, right?  The house with the black lab?"

"Yea," my wheels are beginning to turn.  I nearly spit out my drink, "Oh, my GAWD.  Do you mean, Ken, my father-in-law?"  I burst out laughing.  The neighbor's face is turning red, but I don't care.  It's his own damn fault for being presumptuous. "You must think I have quite the Sugar Daddy!  I have two young kids, TOO!  Hilarious."  For once, I was not the one who had to live something down on my street for all of eternity.  Yea for me.   (Side note:  He has since moved away.  I am not nearly that brave.)  

I see my house a metaphor for my aging body and face.  There are certain things I do to maintain myself, but not too much, because I do not want the hassle, and don't want to make the time - and there is always the money.  The finished basement represents my regular pedicures and my died blond hair.  I am not psychotic about this maintenance, but I go fairly regularly, just like I keep the basement up for the most part.

The deck is maintained like I maintain my body.  I work out regularly, but eat what I think tastes good, and my body reflects this philosophy.  Basically, overall, the backyard and deck look alright, as long as you don't look too closely.   I have to weed the landscaping and bring in my cushions when it rains, but sometimes I let things go and say "F**k it."  I, sometimes, even leave the cushions out when it storms. (I used to be so meticulous about bringing them in, even going so far as to ask the neighbors and babysitters to do it for me, when I was not home.)  I relate this to how I used to always have to have lipstick and lip liner on when I was younger, and now I feel "put together" if I have on tinted lip balm and mascara.  I tend to just get desensitized to it all - meaning the maintenance of my backyard and body.  I think, in general, my face matches my body.  They have aged equally.  The cushions are starting to fade and the pillows aren't as perky as they used to be.  I guess it's because they breastfed three children.  Wait, am I talking about my pillows still?  I am confused. 

Okay, for what it is worth, I love the Nars highlighter. It is the best "beauty secret" I have.  I have it in three colors.  If you notice on, for instance, the Academy Awards, the stars literally slather their faces with highlighter.  Even the dudes.  (Ryan Seacrest is a HUGE violator, natch.)  I use it pretty sparingly.  I can vouch for the colors "Orgasm" for blush; "Luxor", if you are a decendent of "Injuns" like myself, and have a lot of red pigment in your skin; and finally, "Copacabana" for when you have a tan or you are olive-skinned.  I swipe it under the eyes when I am feeling unrested, which is most of the time, and I use it on my eyelids if I am in a hurry to go out, which is almost ALL of the time, in lieu of eyeshadow.  You are instructed by the impossibly young and hip saleslady to use a brush to apply it, but I find swiping it on and rubbing it in, in the best light you can conjure up, to work the best.  It is yet another of my "bandaid" fixes for my aging face.  Try it out.

If you are lucky, sometimes Nordy's or Sephora offers it in a trio package, with three smaller versions.  Let me know how it turns out.  But, listen, I will be sorely disappointed if you beeeaaacchhhes slather it all over your faces and I have to endure your impossibly highlighted faces at Barrington pick up.  Use it sparingly.  I beg you.  We do not live in LA.  I don't care what Cindy Tzagournis says.

What is my legacy?

Growing up my parents' best friends were Barry and Diane.  This is definitely where I honed my skills for bullshitting and drinking caffeine for hours.  My favorite thing to do, unless you substitute wine for the caffeine.

We were over there so much (the two families) that almost all of my childhood memories revolve around the Goodalls.  Diane Goodall is one of the funniest people I have ever met.  Her son, Barry, my brother, Pat, and I spent our entire childhoods together.

Barry and I keep in touch when I am in Louisville when I frequent Mr. G's, and we laugh constantly remembering the shit our parents would do when we were little.  He was older, and luckily, he has a great memory, and he is definitely one of those AWESOME people that you know as an adult, from your past, that begins almost every paragraph with "Remember when" and then the stories that follow make you laugh so hard they bring tears to your eyes. There are many revelations, for me, because I was younger, as well.

To hear my mother tell it, I was a clingy child and I would sit on her lap while Diane and she talked about collecting "dalls" - of the Madame Alexander variety.  They were obsessed, and they would drag me to flea markets in search of the rare ones in "mint condition".  Ebay has changed the way the "dall world" operates, now. "The Jodster," her unfortunate Ebay handle, is a force to be reckoned with in the Dall World.  She sells the craziest stuff to the most unbalanced people.  She showed me this Madame Alexander paper doll that is a convenient size for a dall to play with (creepy).

"I mean, do you believe people even buy this stuff?"  She held up the tiny paper doll, and looked at me condescendingly.

I replied, "Mom, YOU bought it first.  Do you recognize that?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought about it that way," she frowned as she swung around on her swiveling computer chair to face her screen, again.

Oh, LAWD. I had a neighbor once say that she felt sorry for women who did not have girls, because then they would never know what was wrong with them.  Agreed.  For instance, the girls and I were talking about how they loved our house, yesterday.  It thought it was so sweet, and then Hallie goes, "I just wish it were cleaner."  Nice. 

Anyway, Diane, my mom, and I would spend hours perusing The Fairgrounds while they wheeled and dealed, and bullshitted and smoked cigarettes.  There was no "smoke free home" alternative at that time.

That HAD to be when I developed my love for Tag Sales, Estate Sales and Yard Sales. Brad and I moved around a lot when we were first married, and literally rented for the first 7 years of our union (Ha!).  He often worked long hours at whatever job we had moved to a city for, and I would meticulously scour the local papers for Estate Sales and yard sales in affluent areas. 

I would take my dog, Elaine, my best friend, to each and every house each Saturday. More than anything, I just wanted to own my own home and have permanency.  I decided I would just buy things to fill my fantasy house, and fix them up, while I waited.  This seemed like a good idea until we moved, and then I would be stuck with all this junk I bought and painted, that I either had to get rid of, or fit in some UHaul.

You are who and where you come from, and I find that it is not until later, when I reflect on why I am, the way I am (interests, flaws, social skills, mother, hygiene)  you are, no matter how much you think you have evolved, forever a product of your environment.

I almost think that you are the most creative when you are poor, because you have to imagine what some "find" you are interested in, could be, with your inspiration.  Even if it is terrible, I sure would like to revisit the 70's console I painted white with yellow diamonds on the doors. It housed our "stereo system" which was a boom box with a CD player on the top.  One regret, because we moved around a lot, and I have a penchant for purging when we would make a move, is that I do not have those things that I first bought and painted to make them presentable in whatever apartment or house we were renting at the time.

One of my loftier projects was in the duplex we rented in Denver.  I would go to paint stores and buy paint that had been returned and paint whatever I felt needed "color".  If you are from the South, color in decorating is a must.  There was this kind of porch in the back of the house that was probably as big as an  5x8 area rug, at best.  I painted the entire thing blue, even the ceiling, and then striped the floors blue and green.  I scrambled together enough money for four navy wicker chairs with matching pillows at a Pier One sale, and Brad and I hung out there all the time.  There were small screened in windows and we would force guests to sit facing us, about a foot away, and we practically knocked knees with them while we drank Colorado micro brews.

I remember our landlord coming over, after the fact, when we were getting ready to move AGAIN, and I proudly showed him my porch.  I had ripped up the linoleum floor and painted the sub floor.  No, no primer needed, thanks.  Not in the budget!  I was inspired!

He was miffed.  He couldn't imagine how, and mostly WHY, I would do something like that.  I just needed to CREATE, man.  I also painted just the cabinet doors of the kitchen a nice yellow color I found at a yard sale.  He seemed fascinated by that, as well.  But, my focal point were the doors of the duplex.  I had painted each of them a different color of the rainbow, door frame and all, baby.  Now that he had to appreciate.

He was cool, though, he didn't take our deposit or anything.  Maybe it's because when we dropped off a check each month to his house, and we pulled into the driveway, we would have to pass a 10 foot lacquered bear that had been carved out of a tree stump.  You see, he understood what it was like to need to be artistic, and in my mind, that freakin' bear was proof!

I guess my point to all this, and what I have realized by writing this blog, is that your interests and your passions are instilled in you, or become important to you, at a very young age. Then the older you get, and the more your life changes, those passions and interests morph according to our availability to those skills.

For instance, I have always loved to write.  I have written at different times throughout my life, but I have never really been secure enough to write what I know - which are my memories and observations.  I was always wasting my time on fictional short stories that I thought would be interesting to my audience, and it seemed false and forced when I would go back and read it, and it was. 

My daughter, Hallie, likes to write.  She writes all day long.  She is not a sportster, but she isn't the least bit self-conscious about it.  I really admire that.  It makes me wonder what I do with her, (or in my case, was forced to do with my Mom and her friends) that she will pick up on and make a part of her, like I did, with the flea markets.  I have to be honest, though, to this day, Madame Alexander dolls just turn my stomach.  With any luck, Hallie will feel that way about blogging some day.

What is my legacy to my daughters and the people I love?  Is it painting?  Writing?  My twisted sense of humor?  My laziness?  It is an interesting question to ponder and unfortunately, but one that you can control.

My recommendation today is to reach back and pick up something you liked to do when you were young or poor, or both, I guess.  If you are rich, I guess then just hire someone to do what you used to like hiring someone to do for you.  I don't know.  I've never really been rich.  I am CREATIVE, remember?

Hallie took this picture of herself for her "autobiography" project.  Almost all of her pictures are what she calls "James Durbinish".  She included the one of me with dreadlocks and a rainbow beanie, and one of her poor grandmother with her fake tattoo sleeve on. When I told her that people might not understand what all that means in both her project and my blog, she said, "I don't care if people don't understand it."  LOVE HER!!!! I think I just answered my own question about what my child is taking away from me.

Housewife Confessional

http://www.hulu.com/watch/10356/saturday-night-live-white-like-me

Saturday Night Live: White Like Me

Excerpt   (05:24)

Alright.  Let's discuss in depth the Giant Eagle Marketplace. (Normally, I do a recommendation at the end of a post, but this time I am going to do an ENTIRE post on the recommendation.  No editor or publisher, remember?  It's all about freestylin' here.)  Anyway, I am obsessed with it and they must know this, because I keep having these ridiculously overly pleasant experiences EVERY TIME I go there.  Okay, let's begin with the swag.  Like the second time I went there, I was perusing the coffee section and I was on my third dixie cup with real cream and expensive uncut sugar or whatever and the lady behind the u-shaped counter with all of the impossibly decorative bean jars, just up and gave me a pound of whatever it was I was bogarting, put a sticker on it, and mumbled something about customer appreciation.  No kidding.  The cynical part of me thought she might be setting me up, and I half expected someone to stop me in the checkout line, on suspicion of shoplifting.  But everything went smooth as a baby's bottom.

Cut to next visit with my youngest daughter, Eva.  Eva is four and she is the last one left at home.  Every night she wants to know, "What are we doing tomorrow?" and then I have to promise her some act of kindness on my part, or a special trip to someplace that can double as an errand.  Luckily, one of the things she likes to do is hit up the buffet at The Giant Eagle Marketplace.

So, after my workout, conveniently on the way home, Eva and I stop at about 10:45 for lunch there.  This is what they did for us.  Eva likes rice, but she did not want any of the vegetables they offer at the wok station or whatever so they walked over with her to the cold bar (filled with cold veggies, ya dig?) let her pick out whatever she wanted, and then stirfried it all up for her with this delicious sauce.  And here is the clincher, they charged us $1.00 for it.  Magically, they stuck one of those customer appreciation stickers on her carry out container and I was positively giddy!

You see, that is where you can get in trouble with the cold and hot bars with your kids.  They load up with everything they can find that weighs more than it's nutritional value and then your bill at the register is more than if you had dined out with a waitress, and cloth napkins and everything.  It was explained to me at an early age, that you get the dressing on the side because it weighs down the salad and they charge you more.  I tried to explain this to my kids, but unlike me as a child, THEY don't listen.  Anyway, here is what I do when we are all eating.

First, I go purchase one of those wine tasting cards.  IMPERATIVE if you are trying to get through a meal with my family and sharing ANYTHING.  They all get waters and I talk up the value of that because The Giant Eagle Supasto" has that awesome "rabbit poop"-shaped ice that they love.  I get a large soup and three small bowls.  I get one stirfry meal and one salad bar, Ranch on the side, natch.  They provide extra containers  at the beverage and utensil station, AFTER you purchase, which I appreciate so I don't seem as hard up as I am. 

Of course, we always have to go upstairs, because my children enjoy watching me balance anything for long periods of time.  From there, you split everything up on four individual containers and soup bowls.  (Notice here, I just say four, here.  Brad would never endure this shit and he would make me crazy if I forced him to.)  If you are my children, you also make sure to make three individual bathroom trips, where I ask all of them on each visit, if anyone else has to go and the remaining two always say "no".  When you get back from one of the trips, one-fourth of your place is gone, no, not a section, but picked at, as if a raven flew in and pecked at your plate for a while. ( Enter solo wine tasting option.)  Finally, if everyone eats everything, you treat them to the sweets section for a free sample afterwards.  That is how it is done, my friends.  Boom.

Ok, now my final insane customer service experience was so great that I actually called the Giant Eagle Headquarters to sing "Erik"'s praises.  When was the last time you did that, if ever?  I haven't been on time for my children's annual medical appointments since they were five, and I am calling a customer service hotline.  Insanity.

Anyway, I am in the checkout line and they have all this cool shit that makes your life "just a little bit easier".  It is their "patent pending" aisle, if you will.  Well, they have these things that clip onto your pots and pans that have a hook to hold your spoon and I am gabbing away to Erik about them like he is my best friend and we are in the middle of a Sex and the City episode having brunch.

"You know what are REALLY great,"  he confides, "are those Rachel Ray spoons that have an upside down "U" on the shaft."  We both giggle at the word "shaft".

"Oh, really," I say as Eva "helps" me remove things from the cart, that are filled with liquid and are too heavy for her.

Before, I know what is happening, "Erik" gets on the bat phone and is saying something about "customer service" again and he asks me what is my favorite color.

I yell out "GREEN!" a little too loudly, anticipating yet another fabulous customer service moment.

This girl comes out of nowhere and hands him a set of TWO spoons, one is a ladel, with Rachel Rays picture on the packaging.

"This is a $22 value,"  Erik winks at me,"just for you.  Let me know how you like it...or better yet, you can let my management know by calling this number."

I thanked him profusely, and called his management on the way home, because if I didn't, it would leave my brain by the time I put the first item from he grocery into my fridge.  For once, "chatty" paid off for me.  Go figure.  All those years of my Dad telling me to be quiet and now I am getting something FREE for talking.  Free is something my Dad covets more than anything.  The irony.  I couldn't WAIT to tell him.

"No, kiddin'," he says at the other end of the line.  "That's great, hon.  I'll get your mother."  The dialogue in print does not do the conversation justice.  My Dad hung up that phone and was "proud" of me, I just know it!"

OK. confession time.  I get the prepared meals at The Giant Eagle Supasto' for Holidays.  There I said it.  My first AA Meeting was not that hard.  (joke, GAWD!) They are yummy, and reasonable and you just have to heat them up.  They are GOURMET, too - I have had Prime Rib for Christmas Eve and Lamb for Easter, beeeeaaaaccchhhees!  I am hooked and you should be, too.  Consider me your drug dealer, of sorts, only I am selling Supasto's, instead of dime bags.  I think they should have the "special events" counter at the end of a long dark hall in the back of the store, accented only by dirty, sometimes broken lightbulbs.  The way people hide things in this town, they would do a lot more business if they were more discreet.

Ok. when I think of the spoon scene above, I can't help but think of that skit where Eddie Murphy cosmetically transforms himself into a white person, only to discover that white people give each other things that should cost money.  Check out the link above.  I know I reference SNL too much, but I don't care.  I have been watching it since it's inception.  Yes, innappropriate, again, I know.  What did you expect?  I didn't get this way by watching "Leave it to Beaver".  He He He....Beaver.

Don't try and sell your house if you live next door to me

About two years ago, the people who lived in the house next door to us, decided to retire and move to their other house, permanently, in North Carolina.  They were professors at OSU and had no children and their yard was always immaculate - a perfect match to live next door to my family.  NOT.  They were gone half of the year in the winter, so they did not have to endure our antics year round, so at least, that was a blessing.  For them, I mean.

One time I was yelling at the kids through our screen door outside cause I was watching my stories and they were being too loud and I was all like, "Be quiet!  I can't hear my story and Raven is finally gonna find out who his illegitimate sister is!"  It was his girlfriend, natch.

"Git offa that doghouse!  I SAID GIT OFF A THAT DOGHOUSE."  I think Mills was three.  She was on the roof of the doghouse watching our other neighbor sunbathe.  "Oh, forgit it!  Just come in and I'll put your show on.  I SAID GIT IN THIS HOUSE!"  I peek out the sliding screen doors and my neighbor has his head peeking over the fence and he goes, "Do you mean me?"  I was mortified.  Oh well, whattaya gonna do, right?  This is life.

Anyway, they decide to sell their house and my middle daughter, Mills, was in preschool and her best friend was a boy whose sister was best friends with my eldest daughter, Hallie.  They basically met by carpool and his mom and I orchestrated their friendship to conform to our needs, like you do, so we put them in classes together so it would be easier for US.  Don't act like you haven't done the same thing.  They are like clay in preschool.  You are in control and you are a fool if you don't exercise it.

I will not use "Jamie's" name because he is a minor.  OOPS.  But they are having an open house next door and there are about a dozen people going through it, at the time.  Mills and "Jamie" are having a play date and they are playing outside in the backyard by the hammock in the far left corner of the backyard, which is in full view of the neighbor's windows.

If you are unfamiliar with Arlington, the suburb where we live (Uruguay follower), the houses are jutted up next to each other, and you can see directly into the houses next to you through your windows.  At least in our part, anyway.  No sprawling lawns here, people.

You have all the privacy that brownstones in a big city have, without the anonymity that a big city offers.  The yards are all fenced in, which I think everyone appreciates, but then that just gives the illusion of privacy, even though no one really has any, because from the top floor of any house you can peer three backyards down and see what everyone is up to.

ANYWAY, "James", we'll call him that, at least, and Mills are in the back corner of the yard and I come out to the deck, to bring them their gourmet peanut butter and jelly and juice box lunch before school.  I do afternoon.  I am one of THOSE moms.  You know, the lazy ones.

Okay, here is what I find.  James' pants are down to his ankles, revealing his ultra cool Superman underoos (do they make those anymore) or whatever, and Mills is lifting up her skirt and beginning to pull down her leggings.  Yea.  I don't care how hot it is, my girls are always climbing and swinging and stuff and I am super conscious about them not revealing their underwear when they wear skirts. And now THIS!  You have got to be kidding me.

Needless to say, I FREAK OUT.  I say everything that any child psychologist would tell you NOT to say in that situation.  If you are a frequent reader, like my closest friends, you KNOW that I REACT and then intellectualize.  Not my finest trait, but whatever.

"What in the SAM HELL (Yes, I am channeling my father, again.  It happens in the weirdest of situations.) is going on here!

"James," immediately points to Mills and screams, "It was HER idea!" as he scrambles to pull his pants up.  Typical male.  

Oh, I said awful things.  Like, for example, "your privates are going to fall off" and "I am calling your mother RIGHT NOW to tell her what you are doing!"  Or how 'bout "you are both doing a DIRTY, DIRTY thing!"  That was my encore after I went back inside to try and compose myself.

It was BAD.  I mean, really bad, but like always, the worst part, and with me, there is ALWAYS a worst part (yet to come) is in the middle of my dysfunctional tirade, I look up at the house next door that they are hopelessly trying to sell that day and I spy at least three, yea, I counted them THREE, couples in separate windows of their house, watching the ENTIRE episode.  Humiliation at it's finest.

Of course, I calmed down and told James' mom later in the day, within earshot of Mills of course, so she could relive it all, in the preschool parking lot.  We HOWLED with laughter.  I am grateful, that she has a good sense of humor about the psychological damage I injected in her child, in his formative years.

Well, they DID sell their house, despite my sabotaging techniques, to a lovely couple who I adore.  I have told them this story, though, and they were not there that day of the Open House.  It's probably best that way.  It's best to just surprise them about what degenerates they have moved next door to. 

My recommendation to you, today, is to GET LOST if your neighbors are having an Open House and have definitive plans for their future.  Oh, and I guess my second recommendation to you is not to lose your cool when your far to young to know what is going on, children, decide to do some healthy experimenting in your backyard.  Oh, and finally, if you can help it, get surround sound on your back deck or patio area, to drown out your constant ranting and raving at your children, when you are trying to enjoy your stories.  Hope this helps.  I have always tried to lead by example here.  Only, you don't follow my example, you do the opposite.

Oh, by the way, I've instituted "Playdate Wednesdays" this Spring, where each of my three kids have someone over after school. I am nothing, if not, efficient.  PLEASE do not get into altercations as you wait in line for your lottery number.  I am just trying to keep this Neighborhood CLEAN, know what I'm sayin"?

My mom thinks you're CHEAP

So we are all out to dinner, taking advantage of the Kids Eat Free and HH Bloody Mary's on Sunday at The Old Bag of Nails in Grandview.  I say, "Hey, guys, how was it having Grandpa Kennie babysit you guys today while Mommy and Mimi went to Lowe's? Did he talk to you or was he just painting and listening to his Talk Radio shows?"

This may seem like a "weird" (thanks Pat for the spelling.  Love it when you and Mom read my blog and correct my spelling errors.  What's next Dad providing videos?) thing to say, but my father-in-law, Grandpa Kennie was painting the interior of his great room and he agreed to watch the kids so I could check some stuff out at Lowe's and bring along my mother-in-law because she gives really good advice on remodeling and decorating and stuff.

My oldest daughter, Hallie, turns to me and says, "Yea, I told Grandpa Kennie that you think he is CHEAP, and they all start giggling in unison.  Perrrrrffffeeeecccctttt.  Can anyone say "damage control"?

Rewind. The kids and I are in the car following Brad in Grandpa Kennie and Mimi's car to the airport after having to go all the way to the north edges of Westerville to retrieve Brad's car from the night before.  We then had to drive back to Arlington (an easy hour, roundtrip), pick up my in-laws' car and got to the airport, where we are to deposit the car in the parking lot of the airport hotel there.  The kids were bitching and fighting with each other in the back.  I had already fed them and they had their electronic devices, but they had grown bored and had started to try and annoy me - a mechanism they have honed and perfected from their father.

So, I'll be honest, I was bitching up a storm, ALOUD, which I don't really do, but I couldn't get my best friend on the phone so I was having the conversation I should have been having with another adult, with my three children (ages 9, 7, and 4).  Inappropriate, I know.

"Why are we going to the airport again?" they asked (and was answered) for the third time each.

"I TOLD you, remember, five seconds ago when your sister, (who is literally butted up against her, because of all of those irritating car seat laws) asked me the exact same question?"

"Oh, I didn't hear you because I was texting on my ITouch.  Now...what?"

"Grandpa Kennie does not like to pay for parking or a cab ride to and from the airport so we have to leave his car in the parking lot for when he flies home so he does not spend any money."

"Why doesn't he want to pay for a cab ride?" she innocently asks.

OK.  I'll bite, I think. Here it comes, the annoyance had built up inside of me and it was bubbling over, "I'll tell you why he doesn't want to pay for a cab ride.  He doesn't want to pay for a cab ride because he does not want to spend thirty dollars more to take a cab home after his two week cruise to the West Indies or whatever because in his mind, he believes that that is why he is able to afford the vacation in the first place - by cutting corners elsewhere!"  I am really worked up now.  "SO therefore, your Dad and I (it takes two, see?) am required to not only retreive his car at the airport, the day he leaves for a trip, but also, return that car at the end of one of his trips, when he comes home!"

"Where is Dad?" my four-year-old, Eva, asks.

"I told you two times ago that he is in Grandpa Kennie's car in front of us so that we may drop off his car!"

"Oh." she says to me in the rear view with those big brown eyes.  "Is Mimi with Daddy?"

Oh my God, I am going to kill myself.  This line of requestioning has gone on for 45 minutes.

"Wait...Mom..." Hallie's wheels are finally turning, "why doesn't Grandpa Kennie just leave his car at the airport hotel for the entire trip and then we wouldn't be involved at all?"

"Grandpa Kennie, heard, in one of his men's only coffee meetings of one of his friends getting his car towed in an Airport Hotel parking lot, so now WE have to endure this routine.  I mean, I could've driven to freakin' Louisville by now, for as long as I have been in this car..."

"Wait...Mom," Hallie's signature beginning of every sentence she utters to me, "How much does a cab cost to get to his house from the airport?"

"A lot less than his month long cruise he just went on!"

"So what?  He just spent all of his money and he doesn't have anymore for a cab?  Is that it?"  She is obviously imagining poor Grandpa Kennie in his Hawaiian shirt pulling both of his pockets out on the tarmac of the Columbus Airport, (Yes, he takes the shuttle, too!) only to make little bunny ears with the insides of his pockets - like that character on Monopoly.

"No, Hallie, because he is CHEAP and he does not want to SPEND the money!"  Oh, shit I had taken it too far.  I reeled it back in.  "Listen, Grandpa Kennie takes us to the airport and picks us up on every trip we have taken.  I am not being fair.  I am just tired of being in the car and answering all these questions.  Now this is in house talk.  In House Talk is our family code for not telling outsiders what goes on inside our house.

We finally pull into the Airport Hotel parking lot.  "Come to think of it - I could take care of this with one phone call to a towing company and we would never have to do this again,"  I say as I hold up the my phone.   "Who wants to make the call?"  All three kids raise their hands, even Eva.  Priceless.

The damage was done, though, and apparently Hallie has reached the age where she has decided that "in house talk" does not apply to her anymore.  I am sure we will all have a good long chat about this conversation at Apple Valley Lake this weekend where Grandpa Kennie and Mimi and Hallie and Brad and Mills and Eva and I will all be holed up together for three straight days.  This is my attempt at preemptive damage control.  I'll let you know if it works.

SO, fast forward, we're at the Old Bag and I explain to Hallie what "taking something out of context" can do to a familial relationship and she starts crying and runs to the bathroom.  Good times.

Anyway, Grandpa Kennie if you are reading this, which I am sure you are, because I am going to send it to you.  I want to apologize for calling you CHEAP in front of the kids.  I love you and I think I speak for all of us when I say that we just wish you had never gotten your hands on that book "The Millionaire Next Door."  Now watch this shit go VIRAL throughout the Underwood Family.  Weeeeeee.

So my advice to you, today, is not to fuss with cabs and parking fees when you are going away on a trip.  Park at an Airport Hotel, leave your car there, and then call your family members repeatedly on the separate legs of your trip to make sure they have retrieved your car.  I know a very nice man who does this and it works like a charm for him.  Oh, and don't forget to take the shuttle!

P.S. Love the girl in the background wearing red.  Is she crying or sweating.  I'm gonna go with sweating.