Life as I know it

I never did like the circus...

2008-11-25T18:54:00.000-08:00

Something about the scary clowns, trampy costumes, and the smell of elephant poop turned me off from the circus when I was just a little girl. Maybe I should have learned from that when I likened sex with G to Cirque du Soleil. Sometimes flash and flexibility are just a facade to mask people who might otherwise be considered one step up from carnival folk...
G disappeared. Full on, Houdini-style, no messages, no calls disappeared. I was perplexed for the first week--his last few texts to me still called me cookie butt and were generously sprinkled with Xs and Os. I hadn't seen him, but he'd been sick, then away for work, and... oh right, he's 25. I can't help but think that he's going to post videos of us up on IF*ckedaFatChick.com... maybe it was that I finally told him I'd like to see him more than once every two weeks. Maybe it was just about the sex. Maybe this is what 25 y-o's do. Who knows... either way, I'm better off without him.... right?

Politics and Parmigiano Reggiano

2008-09-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my sister made spaghetti with meat sauce. She used a finely ground turkey instead of our usual Italian sausage, and big juicy chunks of tomato in the jarred sauce. It was good, especially with a sprinkling of Parmigiano Reggiano, but it had quite a bit going on. I ate it, but couldn't help feeling that it wasn't quite right.

Tonight, I heated up the leftover pasta with some French butter and another dusting of imported cheese. This time, it was perfect. The spaghetti was a blank canvas for the gorgeous parmesan, and the slick butter sheen was just enough to tie it all together. The simplicity of the food was what was so satisfying. No complicated sauce, no squirting vegetables... just something warm, creamy, and good.

Dating Sucks

2008-08-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

Date #4 with G was a laid back one. I fried up some cha gio that I made for Sue's birthday and we had it with all the fixings. He dove right in and wrapped them up in lettuce with mint, cilantro, and noodles, happily stuffing everything in his mouth before swooning. I love that we like the same kinds of food--it makes a huge difference when you don't have to explain to someone that yes, you can actually eat paper made out of rice. After dinner, we pretended to watch a movie as we once again tested my range of motion. Turns out, I'm alot more flexible than I thought.

This was a week ago. A week and a day, actually. I know I'm new to the whole dating thing, but it's kind of hard to not see someone as frequently as you'd like to. I know I need to put things in perspective, that this is supposed to be fun, but the HM side of me requires more attention than once a week dates. Is this normal? Do people really see eachother just a few times a month or has G simply gotten busy? He says he is, and I'm sure he really is working late, but how difficult is it to meet someone for a drink? Hmmm... maybe I have to re-think the whole "I'm an independent woman" persona. I don't seem to be wearing it very well.

Cirque du Soleil

2008-08-12T13:32:00.000-07:00

Date #3 with G was the proverbial turning point. I made a delicious summer dinner of shrimp goi cuon and sliced peaches for dessert. We took turns tripping over our words as we each unloaded a work-week's worth of angst and goings on. It must have been the peaches (2 yellow, one white, all perfectly ripe and juicy) but I couldn't get my mind out of the gutter. As we sat on the couch leafing through an album full of DVDs, I leaned in and kissed him.

Next thing I knew, he was devouring me like I was the last fresh spring roll on the platter. It must have been a combination of the knowledge that we were indeed finally alone and that this was something we both wanted, but we couldn't get enough of eachother. From the couch to the floor to his spartan-inspired bed, we groped, kissed, grabbed, and nibbled whatever we could reach. The actual sex was more than I'd ever experienced in my 34 years... there is definitely something to be said for the stamina and ingenuity of a 25-year old. He was earning his wings as a fledgeling boytoy position by position.

The next day, as I debated how to fill in my entourage about the night's events, I texted them five words: Last night: Cirque du Soleil.

Mummies and Shrimp Cocktail

2008-08-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

Date #2 was a movie picnic--I brought shrimp cocktail with homemade remoulade and G provided two different types of dessert: a soft apple pastry and a crumbly cinnamon confection. We had originally planned to see Hancock, but the abundance of 12 year olds in the back row made it impossible to eat our smuggled goodies with any semblance of privacy. We exchanged our tickets for Mama Mia, but that was a little close for our comfort as well. We ended up seeing The Mummy 3, a very noisy, convoluted movie which was perfect for our plan of illicit snacking and a heavy dose of making out. We had a couple of Kodak moments--the first when I fed him a giant shrimp with remoulade which he had to choke down before admitting that he doesn't eat mayonnaise. The second came moments later when, being the ladylike creature I am, I inadvertently flicked a shrimp tail in his eye trying to get it free from the little decorative shell. I giggled for a good ten minutes after that...

G and I are doing very well in the making out department. I find myself daydreaming about his kisses constantly, much to the delight of my jaded work colleagues. They gleefully blow eachother smooches when they catch me texting him, and exchange knowing looks when I space out during the day. Date #3 is going to be dinner and a rented movie at his place on Friday... no promises about being good.

Flutters

2008-08-01T12:54:00.000-07:00

There is something about a first date that is unlike any other date you'll ever go on... the anticipation of the day, the mad rush to fix your hair even though you gave yourself almost two hours to get ready... As I sat on a barstool waiting for G, so many things were running through my head. Would he overlook my chubbiness because of my spectacular cleavage? Would we be able to talk as easily in person as we did online and on the phone? Would he be as cute as he was in his pictures?

Luckily, the answer to all of these was yes. We had an amazing dinner, during which we shared an app that D would NEVER have tried, and ended it with a piece of red velvet cake and jasmine tea. We talked about everything from family to work and everything in between. At one point, live music started up and dubious renditions of Jimmy Buffet classics provided a soundtrack to the meal. We never stopped talking and before I knew it, it was 10:30. I had an early day, so we slowly made our way out to the parking lot. We stopped to admire the koi pond and he slipped an arm around my shoulders. I knew I was going to kiss him--I had stared at his lips for too long during dinner to not do so. As I leaned against the car and smiled up at him, I realized that I hadn't had a first kiss in a very very very long time.

His was moviestar good--he laced his hands through my hair, and very slowly, softly, kissed me. I don't know if I melted into him or if he sank down into me but the next thing I knew, we were making out like we were sixteen and our parents were away for the weekend. We only came up for air when I heard some giggling behind us and I broke away as a group of 20 somethings tee heed past us. "One last kiss." I said to myself, just barely out loud, as I put my arms around his neck and pulled him back down. Five minutes later, we were both breathless, my knees felt weak, and we both backed away because there's only so much kissing you can take before the inevitable happens.

Afterwards, I giggled in my car as I drove home, fumbling for my phone to tell everyone that yes, it had gone very well.

2007-09-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

James is not your typical Marine. About my height, medium build, and somewhat shy, he is definitely on the reserved side. I met him at my sister’s birthday party and we’ve been emailing ever since.

Last night, he and his roommate Anis met Emily and me out for dinner. I picked the restaurant, guided only by an obscure online review of the only spot listed which wasn’t a national chain. To my dismay, the dilapidated tiki bar on the deck didn’t offer frozen drinks, and my Malibu pineapple came garnished with a tired slice of lemon and a bone-dry piece of lime. My request for a paper parasol garnered such a look of disdain from our waitress that I gave up and turned my attention to the mildewed, plastic wrapped menu. I had to laugh when James and Anis ordered calamari and shrimp. Given what I had seen already, the seafood at this particular establishment was more likely to come from a plastic bag than any local body of water. Still, I gave the grouper sandwich a try and Emily had the linguine (The waitress suggested chicken scurrs, repeatedly, and when I translated that as chicken skewers, Em decided to go the seafood route too) with mixed shellfish.

Conversation was great—Anis, Emily, and I were bantering around the funny stories like they were pingpong balls. James sat back, listened and laughed at the appropriate moments, and was just generally being hard to read. They kept asking about seeing us again though, so we’ll be going out for sushi and The Bean tonight.

Oh, and the food was AWFUL… Emily’s linguine was probably the best dish, with big scallops, shrimp, and mussels, but my group sandwich tasted like nothing… not a thing! It wasn’t bad, it just literally tasted like air! Even the bread was tasteless! Anis’s calamari, true to form, came in uniform round Os, heavily breaded and likely from Gorton’s. James’s shrimp was good enough to earn a second portion, but we will not be going back there for the food.

One-handed Chef

2007-09-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

Slice the bread... drain the capers... cut the smoked salmon... Nicholas is crying, pick him up... rub the steaks with olive oil... shake on some salt... grinding pepper is impossible to do with one hand.

It was 7pm on a Wednesday night and my aunt was visiting from France. The only thing she wanted when she got off the plane was a "big American steak." As I assembled the smoked salmon canapes and chilled the champagne flutes, I let Nicholas dangle his feet from his perch on the countertop. Where was Toui? Spring mix goes in the big silver bowl, vinaigrette needs to be made fresh. Don't forget the bread in the toaster oven, and spread it thickly with the French butter, not that American stuff. Steaks go on the grill pan when it's smoking hot and I seriously regret not changing into a Tshirt. My new blue blouse will smell like Outback forever now.

Arranging salmon prettily is not possible when you've got a 15-month old under one arm, so I slapped it down on the buttered crostadas, threw on some capers, and sent the platter out to the living room. Damn, no lemon, the lime will have to do. Squeeze squeeze... where's the baby? The steaks were ready to be turned, and I could barely see in the tiny kitchen for all the smoke. Hmmm... tonight might be a good one to meet a fireman.

Sunday at Vermilion

2007-07-15T13:12:00.000-07:00

The new chef at Vermilion has a great way with soft shell crabs. Today, I had my first of the summer, fried crisp in a light tempura and served on a wonderfully fresh ratatouille as a starter. I paced myself, know that if today was to be a true me-day, I'd have to savor my glass of framboise and the meal to follow. No quick bowls of pho this Sunday, I'd decided. Today I'd take my time.

Lunch was a shrimp salad sandwich, piled high on a toasted brioche and blanketed with slices of red onion so thin you could read through them. It was perfect, creamy with mayonnaise, spiced with a hint of tarragon and pepper, it was somehow exactly what I had been hungry for. The side of Old Bay fries was soggy, so I left them for the kitchen mice.

Dessert was a decadent panna cotta made with Nutella and paired with macerated strawberries. Like the preceding courses, it was just right for a summer lunch--cool, velvet-soft, and just hinting at chocolate and hazelnuts.

You may be wondering how Friday night went. Long story short, I've decided (with help from my nearest and dearest) that I'm singularly boy-crazy and I'm going mad obsessing over the flavor of the month/week. Henceforth, I'll stop devoting my energy--and my blogspace--to silly boys who don't merit the keystrokes. Sorry to disappoint, but it's for my mental well-being.

Random Thoughts

2007-07-12T09:29:00.000-07:00

I'm very upset that Rainier cherry season is almost over. This year, I've had probably a million gajillion of them, but it's never enough...

Last night, I watched The Messengers. I had to fast forward through the scary parts, so it took me about twenty minutes. After that, I went through and watched the making of and now I think that I can watch it all the way through tonight... with one finger on the mute button, of course.

The regular lifeguard at my parents' pool was on duty last night. He's completely hot. He looks Scandanavian, like his name would be Lars or Sven. Unlike the girl who was there on Tuesday, he actually watched me swim. Good grief, the last thing I want to worry about is what Lars thinks I look like in a bathing suit.

Last night, when I changed out of my bathing suit, I caught a glimpse of my backside and scared myself silly.

I'm doing MyFoodDiary.com again. It's amazing how much you can focus on food when you're counting your calories. Thank goodness for the turkey rice soup at the cafeteria.

I saw my old boss, Toni this morning. Her car was facing mine at the corner of Gallows Road and Annandale. She was wearing a white tank top, smoking, and flipping her ponytail around. I got so nervous when I saw her that I felt like yakking. Ick.

Mysterious Me

2007-07-11T07:59:00.000-07:00

I watched a strange little movie called The Mistress of Spices last night. It stars Aishwarya Rai and Dylan McDermott, but the main character is a gorgeous spice shop in San Francisco. The mistress of spices has spent her whole life learning about sensing what people want, then helping them attain it with a mixture of spices. She lives under 3 restricting rules: 1) she cannot touch another person's skin 2) she cannot leave the shop 3) she cannot use the spices for her own interests. It was beautifully shot, with lots of abstract scenes and closeups of spices you may never see in real life, but the overall effect was a little art-housey for my taste. Naturally, she fell in love with a handsome young architecht who lured her away from her shop, and then she had to deal with the consequences. I never knew that chili peppers could be so spiteful.

One thing that struck me, though, was how demure and ladylike she was. The main reason why her architecht fell for her was because he'd seen her from afar, and she always had a little half smile for him. They never actually talked, and when they finally met, even the viewer felt relieved and excited at the prospect of getting to know her better. I had this same realization after I saw Memoirs of a Geisha for the first time. I'll never forget how Chris laughed at me when I said I was going to start being more geisha-like. Kimono and white makeup aside, I think I do need to work on being more mysterious.

So many of you have told me to not do anything about Jason at the Bean, I suppose I have to listen to you. I don't know if I have it in me to smile but not laugh too loud, listen to him and not make too many jokes... is that really what men want???

Floating

2007-07-10T17:03:00.000-07:00

There's something marvelous about being chubby that never occurred to me until today--it makes it really easy to float in the pool! I guess I'd never noticed it before because I'm more of an ocean swimmer, but it was so relaxing to float around in the deserted pool at my parents' condo complex tonight. No one but me and the adolescent lifeguard who was busy texting away on a tiny phone...

I swam dozens of laps. She got tired of watching me when she realized that I was quite possibly the slowest swimmer in the world. I'd make my way down the length of the pool, touch the edge with my fingertips, then flip on my back to float back down to the shallow end, propelled only by the intermittent flutterings of my arms and legs. When I was close to hitting my head on the bright blue tiled wall in the 4' end, I'd head out and do another. Over and over again, thinking about nothing but how blue the sky was and how perfectly cool pool water is, I spent an hour or so getting back in touch with the Esther Williams in me.

Only too soon, it was closing time, and I wrapped my blue and green sarong around my waist. I hadn't worn it or my plain black swimsuit since Thailand in November. I wonder why and flip flop my way upstairs.

Chrissy's Mojo

2007-07-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

I have to admit, when I was told that Emily's friend Chrissy had some major mojo, I didn't know the extent to which it applied. This past Friday, I got to see it in action.

She hadn't been at the Bean for longer than 5 minutes when three guys sidled up to our booth with a very calculated, "Hellloooo ladieeeees..." Keep in mind, Virginia and I had been there for at least 20 minutes, nursing beers and listening to music with nary a nibble in sight. The ringleader was a very cute, very secure guy who immediately pulled up a couple of stools for his compadres and scooted in next to C. If you ever get the chance, take Chrissy out with you. She's the most powerful guy magnet I've ever seen.

You may be wondering if Jason, my 25-year old boy, was at the Bean that evening, and I'm happy to announce that he was. He was just as cute as I remembered, in a rumpled yellow Polo oxford, jeans, and the backwards Redskins baseball cap. We played darts, flirted a bit, and at one point, he re-tied my sash that V had conveniently yanked free. He put his arm around me quite a bit, but nothing pervy or even remotely inappropriate (dammit!). Somehow, in my efforts to keep things light, I didn't find out why he hadn't called, and I'm still a little confused about that. I get the feeling that he likes spending time with me, but isn't exactly going to go out of his way to make sure it happens. So does this mean I keep going to the Bean religiously, or play hard to get? Does he even still have that Lean Cuisine coupon?

At the end of the night, when we were settling up tabs, one of Jason's friends snapped a picture of us with his cell phone. J had his arm around me and I was smiling, praying that I didn't have anything in my teeth or an extra chin. All he said was that he had a good time, and that he'd see me around at the Bean again. Is this his way of saying he just wants to be friends? Boys are so confusing. Weigh in on this one please, there are only a handful of days til I see him again, and I'm not sure how to play this hand!

Cricket and Slurpees

2007-07-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

Apparently, Virginia and I are brilliant at darts. Friday night, we went to The Auld Shabeen to watch my favorite local band and get in some R&R before V's first day on the job. After dinner, a few shots of SoCo and lime, an hour of playing marathon PictureMatch, and a few drinks, we were ready to play cricket.

Our neighbors were two twenty-something boys, well into their second pitcher. My boy, Jason, was the requisite Charlie Brown lookalike, with a backwards baseball cap, flip flop, and cargo shorts. He reminded me of Jack Black, with his mischievous smile and constant head nods. V's boy was much cuter, but much much drunker. He was sporting strategically frayed jeans, flip flops, and a tattered polo. We'll call him Drunkass.

In the beginning, we stuck to our respective dartboards. A few pitchers later, we invited the boys to play with us and proceeded to give them a championship spanking. Drunkass was all over V, waving his arms in a manner that would have made any high school basketball coach proud. Every now and then she'd give him a quick punch to the midsection to stave him off. I tried to run defense, but ended up being pulled back by the beltloops and held with two very nice, stocky arms. Soooo high school, I know, but there's just something sexy about a guy who puts his arm around you to whisper in your ear. By last call, I'd learned that they were both 25, worked with computers, and lived around the corner. No, I didn't tell them that we are a couple of cougars in comparison... When they announced last call, Jason indicated that they'd be going to 7-11 afterward, which started a monologue from V about her favorite 7-11 foods: hot dogs, slurpees, nachos with jalapenos...

Long story short, we declined, then I changed my mind halfway home. As we cruised into the 7-11 parking lot, I saw him, leaning against a railing, clutching a little bag of food. He escorted us inside, made small talk, and was generally being a sweetiepie. V stayed inside, creating the perfect hot dog and watching Drunkass scoop up hot dogs, ice cream, a breakfast sandwich... I went outside and gave Jason my number-- he was very excited that I wrote it on a 75 cents off Lean Cuisine coupon. Drunkass came stumbling out with his booty, yelling for J to follow, and our moment was soon over. As he walked away (backwards, waving at me), the homeless man on the corner yelled a thank you to him for his sandwich and soda. There's something to be said for 20 somethings!

I'm talking a big game, but we all know the truth: I hope he calls. I'll keep you posted.

PS: Chef Boyardee just wants to be friends. He's clearly gay.

Squeeeeeeak

2007-06-22T07:08:00.001-07:00

Last night, VAP and I went to dinner at McCormick and Schmick's. I had the Maryland crab soup (delicious and peppery--perfect with the sourdough bread) and the fried catfish with remoulade and rock shrimp. Virginia had a gorgeous mixed green salad (which I pilfered) and a beautiful broiled seafood plate. Dessert was the superstar though: I had a trio of mini-desserts including a brioche bread pudding, a 3-berry cobbler with ice cream, and a creme brulee. VAP got a glass of mixed berries. DELISH!

The real fun started after dinner though, while we were waiting for the valet to pull up with my battered truck. In front of us was a canoodling couple, fresh off the pages of an Abercrombie ad. Behind us was a toothpick of a girl, with bright shiny hair, flawless makeup, and a chichi size 0 outfit. Behind her was a group of similarly glamorous 20-somethings chattering like magpies and shouting into Blackberries. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that my front door screeches like a cat on a stove when opened, and all these glamazons were about to hear it. This triggered a wave of Betty Rubble-like giggling from me, my infamous "hee hee hee" that I find completely mortifying. They all turned to look at me and the amorous couple glided off to their gray Mercedes. Hee hee hee... here came my Montero, plastered with FSU decals and a grapefruit-sized dent on the side facing us. Hee hee hee... squeeeeeeeak. All of a sudden I wasn't the only one giggling and VAP and I couldn't escape fast enough. Mental note: find and use WD-40.

BTW, D is making me dinner Sunday night, and we're going to a movie. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

2007-06-21T09:54:00.000-07:00

Bulgogi. Yumminess on rice. I just learned that I've been saying it wrong for 33 years! It should be pronounced BU-gol-gi, not Bu-GOL-gi. Did you know that? Well then, you learned something today, didn't you?

Still haven't heard from Chef Boyardee. Apparently, flirty emails may or may not work to procure the elusive 2nd date. Hopefully he's just busy, but who knows what the rules are anymore? Chris, my love doctor, tells me to just chill out, and that I'm already thinking about this too much. If that's the case, am I a nutjob? Am I destined to a future of late-night stalkings and spending my free time making gouaches of my victims' photographs?

I'll keep you posted.

First Dates... ugh!

2007-06-19T10:53:00.000-07:00

So, it hasn't been that long since I've finally smelled the proverbial coffee and moved on from a 10+ year "relationship" to face the single-girl world on my own. My first dip back in the dating pool was last night, with a cute chef at my hospital who we'll call D.

We first met in April, when he was my catering manager for a big graduation reception. The sight of him in his crisp white chef's coat and arrogantly crossed arms as he surveyed the buffet table was enough to make me swoon (inwardly, at least). He went over the menu again with me, asked questions about the service schedule, but all I could do was concentrate on smile and how much he looks like Brendan Frasier. Fast forward through hundreds of dull, then flirty, then date-y emails, and I found myself at a little Italian restaurant with him, debating the most appropriate small talk and feminine-yet-delicious-yet-easy-to-eat meal.

Surprisingly, we talked about everything, and he even invited me to go camping with him and some friends (it was really hard not to choke on my Pinot Grigio... imagine me peeing in a hole in the woods?). My veal piccata was light and tangy, with a side of fettucine and gently toasted garlic on top. Dessert was a gorgeous limoncello tart with raspberry coulis drizzled over it... yum. By the end of the meal, I noticed D furtively glancing at "the girls" and I started daydreaming about the perfect first kiss. Back at the hospital parking garage, we came to a stop by my parked mess-mobile and we dawdled over the view, the heat, and a somewhat awkward hug. No talk of a next date, not much beyond the usual, "That was fun" comments from both of us.

I drove home deflated. I looked as good as I possibly could: makeup, earrings, perfect boobie dress, and yet I had no idea if he was interested or not. This morning, I had an email from him thanking me for going out with him. Strange, I thought, as I replied. He remarked that a security guard passed his office and stared at him for a while, and I shot back with, "Maybe he was reviewing the tapes from the garage last night and he thinks you should have kissed me too." A couple more flirty emails, and I think we're going out again soon.

Too forward? We'll see. :)

Not a creature was stirring...

2006-12-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

It is the Friday before Christmas, and the office is eerily quiet. The students are on break and my coworkers are off doing their last-minute shopping. Being a nice Buddhist girl, I've opted to hold the fort and do a little catching up.

It's been a while since my last entry, but November was such a blur with the trip to Laos and Thailand, then Thanksgiving... where should I even begin?

Earlier this month, Tabby came to visit from Boston and we decided to ho it up in Annapolis. Dressed in our cold-weather ho-wear (knee-high black boots, black skirt, and plunging top for me, crochet top and lucky jeans for her), we proceeded to take up some prime real estate in a little bar on the water. We met some nice boys from Fort Meade who plied us with shots (SoCo and lime... mmmm) and witty banter that seems so funny when you're drunk. I ended up naughty-texting with one, Jesse, for a while before his youth and spelling mistakes started irritating me. Chatting with him made me realize that yes, there is something to be said for ENORMOUS penises (don't ask how I know this), but there is so much more to consider... With age comes maturity, and a sense of humor, while good, does not pay the bills.

So here we are, at the end of the year, and I'm still somewhat single (does Dave even count anymore?) and nibbling on the remains of a Chipotle burrito. What on earth will 2007 hold for me?

Dirt Cake

2006-10-31T14:52:00.000-08:00

Happy Halloween! I am dressed as a chubby princess, in a lovely burgundy velour gown festooned with bright gold trim and white sateen insets. Perched in my coiffure is my 30th birthday tiara, which is barely the size of half an orange. It looks like it got caught in my hair some time last week and I didn't realize it was in there. I got several looks this morning, and it's funny the way people will look away, as if embarrassed for you. Hellloooo, I'm aware that I'm dressed in polyester and rhinestones. It's okay to stare.

At noon was our annual Halloween potluck lunch for the medical students. I made pasta with pesto and chicken and my world-famous dirt cake. I put it in the traditional flower pot, with a few flowers sticking out of it. I placed it on the coffee table, away from the buffet, and sat back to see how long it would take for it to get noticed. My boss was getting the most laughs with her costume. She was an airplane crash victim, complete with bloody scars and an exposed tibia jutting out from a rip in her pantyhose. She was positively oozing blood in her flight attendant uniform and the kids couldn't get enough of it. Overall, the food was good. I felt a little bad for the lettuce and sesame dressed salad, but it didn't stand a chance with the fried rice and lasagna taking up prime real estate on the buffet table. Once desserts were sliced and passed around, I noticed the fourth year students furtively sticking their spoons in the dirt cake. The third years, at their first potluck, had no clue what they were doing. I could tell no one wanted to say anything, until my chairman glanced down and asked, "What the hell is that?"

It's time to go home now, and put away the tiara. First though, I'm off to Sue's house to hand out candy and see if I can find any frogs to kiss. Wish me luck.

PS: The Navy guy never emailed. I don't like squid that much anyway.

More cowbell!

2006-10-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

If I had known the quality of the baked goods that were going to be there, I would have attended my nephew's band concerts from day 1. As it is, I didn't figure this out until last week. Kevin is currently deployed, so I was a last-minute escort for my sister, Sue.

Imagine a school filled with giggling, screeching, running tweenies hurling themselves at one another, hugging as if they'd just escaped from prison. Now imagine having to wade through them to drop off your bottled water donation in a cafeteria that smells like pee. I'd never felt so old in my entire life.

The concert was to be held in the gym. Rows and rows of those terrible plastic chairs were lined up in front of sticky brown and gray bleachers. We'd gotten there early enough to get great seats, on the aisle with a perfect view of the percussion session. Before long, the chairs were filling up with work-weary parents and nonchalant sibilings too cool to make eye contact. I hadn't had dinner yet, so my tummy was grumbling.

"They sell doughnuts for $5." My sister informed me without looking up from her trashy romance.

Like a shot, I was off, wallet in hand, in search of a box of Krispy Kremes. I wandered the halls dreamily, following the scent and admiring the murals that adorned the cinderblock walls. $5 and twenty minutes later, I was sliding back into my seat with the coveted green and white box.

"Don't even think about eating those in here." Again, not looking up from Lady Catherine's heaving bosom.

"Are you kidding me?" I screeched. "I'm starving!"

"No one else is eating their doughnuts."

I looked around the room wildly. Surely SOMEONE must be digging in. I couldn't possibly be the only one who hadn't eaten since noon. As if on cue, a disheveled dad in a dirty red windbreaker ripped open his box and proceeded to stuff half a doughnut in his mouth. My sister looked up with one eyebrow cocked. Okay, so I didn't want to join the ranks of dads just trying to embarrass their kids.

Before long, the concert began, and I was pleasantly surprised at how good the band was. The chorus came out and I was downright amazed at just how bad a middle school chorus could be. Maybe it was because they had to follow the child prodigies of the symphonic band who, by all rights, did a hell of a job on the tribute to Nathan Hale. I was busy daydreaming about the hot chorus director (hot is a relative term here; he was the only male over 25 and under 50 in the room) when I realized that the concert was coming to an end. I stuffed the program into my purse and stroked my box of doughnuts. Soon, my pretty, very soon.

As the bodies spilled out of the gym and headed toward the cafeteria, the screeching started again. We pressed on relentlessly, ever closer to the homemade baked goods and bottled water waiting for us. Alas, when I arrived at the door to the cafeteria, all I could make out was a sea of people, mobbing the tables like so many birds of prey. I turned on my heel and made my way to a bench. I carefully pried open the box and inhaled the sweet, vanilla scent of a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts. My sister plopped down on the bench next to me and we sat silently chewing, waiting for Garrett to appear.

It wasn't long before he showed up, adorable in his black pants, tuxedo shirt, and smurf-blue cummerbund. In his hand was a little paper plate with a brownie, a cookie, and some kind of coconutty bar. His cheeks were bright pink from the exertion of the concert and he was juggling his sheet music in his free hand.

"I brought you some nibbles, Tatie La. I'm really glad you came."

I gave him a hug. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world, kiddo. You really rocked that cowbell."

My New Assistant

2006-10-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

I found an acorn at the bottom of my purse. I picked it up last weekend at Oktoberfest and he’s been hanging out with my spare change ever since. I drew a face on it with a Sharpie. Not a smiley face, just two eyes and a straight line. He’s not in a good mood.

My boss is listening to Clay Aiken. My boss is a Claymate. A 47-year old Claymate. She has long, Crystal Gayle hair and she listens to Clay Aiken. Should I repeat it one more time?

Today is the type of day where it is helpful to repeat, “I love my job, I love my job, I love my job…” so that I don’t flip out and tell people what is really on my mind. “I’m sorry that you got a 53 on your exam, Student X. Maybe you should re-think your career options. I know for a fact that your deans are going to recommend that you go into Pathology so you don’t have to deal with people who are still breathing.” Instead, I smile my gentle smile, hand out Kleenex and Lemonheads, and tell them that everything will be okay.

I need help. I have so much paperwork on my desk, I can barely find it. At least I have a new assistant. His name is Clay Acorn.

Down with burritos!

2006-10-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, someone envies you.

Yesterday started off like any other lazy Sunday. I was dressed in track pants and an obnoxious T-shirt that reads "Keep talking, I like watching your lips move..." I was busy working on the perfect bite of my Chipotle carnitas burrito when I realized that there is something inherently wrong with eating something that weighs more than your purse. As I licked a wayward dollop of guacamole off my lip, I caught her looking at me from her booth across the aisle.

Her frizzy, mouse-brown hair was trying desperately to escape the confines of her velour scrunchy. She was wearing a light green T-shirt that had been washed so much, it looked powdery. It did nothing to hide the rolls at her midsection and clashed badly with her pink sweats and gray flipflops. She had no qualms about eating her burrito, and I spied a second one in her plastic basket. I turned back to my Town and Country and considered my options for the rest of the day.

I had planned on going to World Market to find a bottle of the Australian red I'd tried at my favorite restaurant last week. She was probably headed for Safeway to get tuna noodle casserole ingredients. My next stop was to Blockbuster to get a couple of movies. She was probably on her way home to feed her cats. I wasn't trying to be unkind; I just didn't want to end up like that.

With a resolve I didn't quite feel in every bone of my body, I put down the second half of my burrito and gathered up my things. I felt her gaze on me as I tossed it all in the trashcan (oops--even the plastic basket) and hopped in my car. It was much too nice of a day to spend inside eating burritos.