Skip the City Sex...Give me those Hats!

I, like virtually every other female on the planet, saw the movie "Sex in the City" this weekend. If you enjoyed the TV show, the movie was a much-needed fix, a rollicking raucous time. As a woman who will never, by any stretch of the imagination, be labeled as "fashion conscious," at least I can live vicariously through the trendy do's and don'ts sported by Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.

"Sex" is about putting yourself out there...in wild style most people would could never afford or be caught dead wearing in public, and in relationships, good or bad. The fashion parade in this movie was, for me, like a hidden treat in the popcorn box. It was almost a distraction, trying to follow the dialogue, as I took in high style at every turn: the Manolo Blahniks, the Dior...everything glowed like a candle at Christmas, no doubt thanks to the super cinematographer and thousands of key grips with keylights.

Don't get me wrong, I do love a good six-pack of abs on a man, and there are some hunky specimens in this flick. I like Chris Noth, but at one point, I swear it looked like he'd been made up for a funeral! And there were glimpses of body parts that I wasn't really prepared for, since "Sex" was a TV thing, and there are TV things, and movie things...shower scene...you get the idea.

No, what really sent me over the enjoyment edge was the array of hats displayed by these gals, particularly Samantha. Hat wearing, for women, is passe these days for the most part, unless you live in Paris or belong to a Red Hat club, and so simply to see them onscreen was big fun.

My favorite was Samantha's outrageous straw hat that could have sheltered a third-world country under its wings. And though at first I laughed out loud to find her face under all that shady straw, Kim Cattrall carried it off perfectly...she knew it was ridiculous, but there's a price to be paid for haute couture, and she pays it with interest.

I don't have the self-confidence to wear that 50-gallon straw concoction without injuring myself or bystanders, and there's no way on earth you could ever persuade me that a turquoise bird headdress is an acceptable bridal accessory. But hey, that's why we go to the movies! "Sex in the City" is the wannabe movie for Everywoman. We may never have the good fortune to live in a chic walk-up in Manhattan, or jet to the Coast to meet our svelte 20-something lover, but a girl can dream, and the dream should include outrageous hats.

I always say, "if you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly." Or a turquoise bird!

Tourism, Arizona-Style!

I recently returned from Spring Break in Arizona, which is the most beautiful state in the union, and I can say that without hesitation, since I'm an Arizona native. My family and I wore it out: trekked, photographed, souvenired, and experienced everything Northern Arizona had to offer. We tried to do our part to boost late-night eating opportunities in Sedona and the Grand Canyon, but let's review, in that part of the world, they roll up the sidewalks at 8pm. Nothing's open, they can't even turn on the street lights because there aren't any.

I understand they want to preserve the beauty of nature and all that, but when you're the last living souls departing the Grand Canyon shuttle bus after sunset, and you have to use your son's camera flash in order to find your parked car, well, that might be a little off-putting, don't you think? Must be the Park Service's idea of a little joke...which probably accounts for all the people who fall over the edge of the Canyon every year, looking for their car without benefit of a lighting plan.

We're accustomed to visiting the Smokies, where you can't go 5 feet without a fudge shoppe, a boiled peanut stand, or an all-night diner, all bathed in tacky halogen floodlights. You can thus understand our frustration when, after having tromped around the Grand Canyon for 18 hours, not only could we not find our car, but as we exited the Park, we then learned that the 3 restaurants outside park boundaries were closed. While we sat at a Wendy's drive-thru, waiting for the guy to take our order over the speaker, instead he turned off the power to said speaker, and waved us farewell. Nothing open for the next 100 miles.

My husband, who is the ultimate Nice Guy, said, "I guess they want everybody to get a good night's sleep." My son and I would have preferred to buy a cheeseburger, but we made do with peanut butter crackers on the uneventful car trip back to base camp. Thankfully the huge number of stars glistening in the sky fed my soul, if not my tummy.

Arizona's not as heavily populated as Tennessee, a fact my son pointed out numerous times as we criss-crossed I-17 to various landmarks and national parks. In fact, IMHO, I think there are only about a thousand people in the entire Northern Arizona region, and they just sort of take turns moving around on different days, to tease you and make you believe that there's the possibility of finding food or fuel on the next corner. We did Stand on the Corner in Winslow, Arizona, by the way. Pretty silly, but a requisite activity for Baby Boomers who deny their age.

We definitely achieved a heightened awareness of recycling and the environment on this trip: every time I tried to throw away trash, I had to sort it into the correct bin, or smash my own aluminum can, even on the hiking trails. I'm not complaining, but it took some getting used to. We were also mindful of the severe drought in that part of the West, which my son tried unsuccessfully to use to his advantage in an attempt to avoid brushing his teeth.

I'm proud to be an American, and I think our National Parks system is fantastic. Overall, they do a great and thankless job, spending my tax dollars to subsequently make me walk around in the dark near a 10,000 foot drop. But they might need to update some of their info, or look to their more commercial tourist neighbors, for example: on the way to the Petrified Forest, we saw a sign that said "SLOW DOWN! METEOR CRATER ON RIGHT!" approximately every 300 yards. By the time we were within spitting distance of that crater, we knew it was there. In fact, we were so hoodwinked by all the signs imploring us to stop, we did so. I mean, really, how many times can you say you've experienced altitude sickness by the side of a meteor crater? I did, but that's another story for another time.

So, flush from our meteor crater experience, we headed over to the Petrified Forest, and I'd heard someone say that the Painted Desert was nearby, as well. Now I'm no virgin traveler, so I'm looking for signs that would suggest "Petrified Forest & Painted Desert," but the signs only display the words "Painted Desert" with an arrow. Which we followed, naturally.

Well, I haven't traveled all the way from Tennessee only to miss the Painted Desert, so I politely asked the park ranger at the entrance gate, "Um, excuse me, how do you get to the Painted Desert?"

She didn't even blink, but pointed over her shoulder. "It's over there. You're in it. That'll be $10, please."

"Oh, I thought we were at the Petrified Forest."

"You are. Painted Desert's over there."

My husband looked at me. "Wow, wasn't that nice of them to move everything so close together!" Always the diplomat, good grief.

We rated the Petrified Forest a 10 on the Fun Meter, because we had a great time climbing on the logs and walking the trail, and spending a ton of cash in the gift shop. But opinions were split on the Painted Desert: the Adult Rating was an 8, the 10-Year Old Boy in the Backseat's Rating was a 4. "What's the big deal?" he asked, on the fourth or fifth time I stopped to take photos.

"The big deal's that it looks like somebody painted these mountains!" I said.

"OK, I get it. But for 28 miles? Can we please find a Wendy's before they close?"


Note to National Parks Service: it's human nature to rate food over scenery. Food = Survival. Tourists gotta eat. Can you work on this, please?

God Bless Us, Every One...especially those of us who
wrestle with Christmas dinner plans...


Ok, just got off the phone with Mom about Christmas Eve food. I love my parents, but here's a little sample of our conversation:

Mom: I just wondered what I should bring for Christmas Eve.

Bunkie: Ok, Sis is bringing meatballs, stuffed mushrooms and spanikopita.

Mom: WHAT? What's that? The boys won't eat that fancy stuff.

Bunkie: Mom, it's Greek. You've had spanikopita before.

Mom: No, I've never had that.

Bunkie: We ate it last year. Greek pastries stuffed with spinach. Sis's making them.

Mom: Huh! I think I'd better bring onion dip or the boys won't have anything to eat.

Bunkie: But we're also having shrimp, and summer sausage. And you're bringing sausage balls. Onion dip's not exactly what you think of, when you think Christmas food.

Mom: It's not enough, you don't know how those boys can eat! I'd better bring ham roll-ups too, and pickles and olives and celery stuffed with peanut butter. And some devilled eggs.

Bunkie: MOM! We don't need all that food! There will only be 9 of us. It's not even dinner, it's supposed to be appetizers.

Mom: It's dinner if it's served at dinner time, and I'm telling you, it won't be enough! And I'm bringing Blue Bell ice cream, because remember, we're doing you're sister's birthday and she wants Mississippi Mud cake. You can't eat Mississippi Mud cake without Blue Bell ice cream. And cookies...I'm baking cookies this week.

Bunkie: MOM! I have Blue Bell in the freezer, not that we need to add 8,000 more calories to a 2" slice of chocolate cake with fudge icing...trust me, we don't need any cookies.

Mom: But I have 2 Blue Bells in my freezer I bought just for this. Oh, and I'm bringing you 2 beef sticks from the freezer. We won't eat them.

Bunkie: Um, how old are they?

Mom: I just bought them. Actually I bought one, then I forgot I bought it, so I bought another.

Bunkie: Well, if you just bought them, why'd you put them in the freezer?

Mom: So they would keep. But the boys like them, so I'll give them to you.

Bunkie: Ok, fine.

Mom: I'll bring plastic cups and plates too.

Bunkie: Mom, what about my Waechtersbach, you know, the red Christmas china I use every year? You don't need to bring any cups or plates. I'm 48, I think I can be trusted to serve dinner on real plates.

Mom: Ok, but it would be easier! Just throw everything away after we eat...

Bunkie: Mom, please no paper stuff, ok? We're fine. We'll have plenty of food. Mom...mom...are you there? What are you doing?

Mom: I'm writing this down. How do you spell that thing your sister's making? Never mind, no point writing it down anyway, the boys won't eat it. What about cheese and crackers? There has to be cheese and crackers. I know the boys will eat that.

Bunkie: Yeah, they can put onion dip on it. Remember I told you I have a new marble cheese tray? I'll take care of the cheese.

Mom: And the crackers? I have crackers here. What kind of cheese are you getting?

DAD IN BACKGROUND, YELLING INTO AIR: ONE BIG MAC, CUT THE CHEESE!

Bunkie: Mom, thanks, I've really gotta run. It will be great. Love you, bye!

Mom: Love you too. Oh...I'm bringing egg nog!


Thank God for my parents. And dear Lord, please send the Wise Men to my house on Christmas Eve bearing Pepcid AC. Amen.

On Pilgrims, Fuzzy Vacuums & Raw Birds

Just today I threw out the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers, some of which spawned a sickening green-blue mold that would have made Louis Pasteur proud. As I jammed the contents of said refrigerated Petri dishes down my Dispoz-All, I had time for a few post-Thanksgiving reflections. Lucky you.

1) Revisionists revealed to us the week before Thanksgiving that Hernando de Soto celebrated this country's real first meal of thanks, and served nothing but bean soup. I like bean soup as much as the next person--which means that if that's all there is in the pantry, I'll eat it. Thank God the Pilgrims sailed over here and met Squanto, so he could teach us how to really put on the dog, er...turkey & all the trimmings. Thanksgiving--to me--requires strawberry jello salad, cornbread dressing and the required cold turkey sandwich on Friday, as my beloved Texas Longhorns beat the Aggies on TV. OOPS, that didn't happen this year. But my sandwich tasted delicious anyway!

2) Pilgrims putting on the dog makes me thankful for my 2 Fuzzy Vacuums, Sophie & Cricket. When our 9 guests had departed, when dishes were washed and put away and as we languished on the couch, Sophie & Cricket kindly licked our kitchen floor clean. For two hours. No more spilled gravy or green beans, and all the pie crumbs vanished from sight. Good dogs! Bet Priscilla Alden would have traded ol' Miles Standish for a coupla four-legged clean-up pals any day. Note to self: name next dog Hoover.

3) My 10 year old son wanted to "learn to cook" our feast this year. This, in itself, is hilarious, because I am famous for not cooking. I excel at staying out of the kitchen. So I'm thankful that my sister, a chef de cuisine in her own right, came over to teach the poor child how to whip sweet potatoes and roll a perfect pie crust. Alas, they both dropped back and punted when it was time to stick a hand inside the 26-pound turkey and remove those oh-so-gross bags of "stuff." No amount of coaxing, or comparisons to the Iron Chef would do. And let me tell ya, the amount of "stuff" you get with a 26-pound turkey could feed a family of 4 for days. At our house, we refrain from disguising those turkey body parts as ingredients in our side dishes. This means there's no giblet in the gravy (Note: in the South, gravy is a side dish), and in certain parts of the country, this can be considered a criminal act. Go ahead, arrest me. What we pull out in the bag, stays in the bag, and goes straight into the trash, OK?

I hope everyone enjoyed a peaceful, relaxing Thanksgiving, especially since this holiday is in danger of being skipped over altogether. I mean, seriously, when the retailers replace the Halloween candy with candy canes, it's pretty bad. But it's never too late to be thankful, and I challenge each of you to take your gratitude a step further: send a card to a soldier, or a soldier's family. Say a prayer for those in the military and the ones they love. Visit a shut-in or an elderly person, or read a book to a young child. These are the daily miracles that make our lives special, and thank God for that! Gotta run...the bean soup is burning...

Ode to the Commode...Because You CAN Take it With You!

There I was, sitting quietly at home on a Friday night, basking in a little pre-birthday calm, when imagine my surprise to hear the doorbell ring...at 10:30pm. People my age don't routinely enjoy visitors after the respectable hour of say, 8:00pm, so to call me surprised is the understatement of the Western world.

Further imagine my surprise to find this beautiful specimen of a portable potty chair, full of UT (Texas, please) orange mums, sitting on my porch, complete with toilet paper. Step into my shoes for a moment, as you scan the horizon, looking for "friends" who you know are lurking behind the bushes, to no avail. But your eyes focus on something in the yard...what is that?

Of course! A giant "48" spelled out in brand, spanking new Depends, right there in the dew-coated grass! The sudden POP POP POP of flashbulbs suddenly blinds you, and then voila, here are three women in ski masks, giggling uncontrollably as they try to speak.

I am going to kill them, but you can't quite figure out who deserves this death sentence, because of those danged ski masks! Finally your son, up way past his bedtime, recognizes his school librarian, which is another topic for another day, and all hell breaks loose.

My husband invited these perpetrators, these violators who have revealed my age to the neighborhood, into the house for lemonade! My son found not only his digital camera, but the video camera as well, and began to record this moment for posterity, no pun intended.

Then these "friends" of mine relay, in great and hysterically funny detail, how they just happened to run into 27 mutual acquaintances of mine at Wal-Mart, as they were rounding up the Depends, and the pink thong undies they strapped to my mailbox (which we didn't find until 11am the next morning, don't you know the mailman is my new best friend!).

And then they "got lost" looking for the house where the real owner of the potty chair resided, which of all places, is only 4 doors up from my house...so of course they had to stop for directions 18 times...so not only do my neighbors think I have bathroom issues, they also know I have friends who go around in ski masks late at night when they should be home sleeping!!!

But I'm nothing if not a good sport, and I do love a good practical joke. In fact, this is probably a mere fraction of a payback for all the pranks I've pulled on friends over the years...but the ultimate insult in this case is that the next day, I had to roll the potty chair up the street to return it to its rightful owner. Naturally I waited until dark...

All I have to say is that I'm blessed to have such fun, inventive pals, who have their very own birthdays to look forward to. If you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly. And now, with portable potty chairs, well, let's just say that bears don't necessarily have to do their business in the woods anymore, do they?

POTTY PERPETRATORS, BEWARE!

My German Blood is Boiling in this HEAT!

Ok, last time I checked, I was living happily in Middle Tennessee...a land of four distinct seasons, none of them too extreme, or too lengthy. I am of German heritage, and it is a known fact Germans follow the rules, we don't deal well with extremes. My German genes built me for cooler climates...extra fat layers, and all that. While summers where I live can be humid and hot, for the most part they're bearable. Especially with a cold German beer or two.

Not this summer. To say it's hot is to say Elvis sold a few records. Where I live, we haven't seen a raindrop since early June, and for the last ten days, the mercury in the thermometer has red-lined the 100 mark or higher. I fled Texas, and Arizona simply because I'd seen more than my share of eggs frying on the street. (Ok, maybe not, but haven't you always wanted to?). But in this stifling, steaming situation in which I find myself, all I want to do is sit around in a t-shirt, hold the cold beer can to my head, and scream at The Weather Channel when they announce, with a smile, that this ungodly high pressure phenomenon will extend at least another week. My German blood is boiling, and I simply can't function when temperatures soar above 90.

"It's summer, it's supposed to be hot," people lament, as I shove my face under the ice dispenser at various fast-food establishments around town. I hate hot. My friends know how much I hate it, because they've heard me whine every August. "It's SO HOT! My thighs melted to the car upholstery! Do you know that the Heat Index is 200? Feel that hot wind? It just seared off my face! It's SO HOT, I can't breathe. I'm going to die, right here in this parking lot, thighs stuck to my front seat."

Last night I was so hot, I called my girlfriend to commiserate. (co-mmiserate: to be miserable with another person, such that the misery escalates to unrealistic proportions). My girlfriend resides in Greensboro, NC, which is also painted red on this week's newspaper weather map. She is a fellow Heat-hater, and soon we engaged in a friendly game of I'm Hotter Than You, and I don't mean Lohan vs. Spears. Our conversation went something like this:

BL: It's SO HOT! The heat index was 110 today!

BL's FRIEND: Oh, please, where are you, Seattle? Our heat index was 125, and tomorrow it'll be 140!

BL: (pausing, pondering the plausibility of friend's exorbitant claim). But it's SO HOT here, we have Ozone Alerts!

BLF: At least you still have an Ozone. Ours vaporized last Thursday. I saw it fly away with my own eyes, right before my retinas began to smoke.

BL: Those were your false eyelashes melting, you tramp! What kind of idiot glues extra body parts to herself during a heat wave, anyway?

BLF: This coming from the woman who wore a sweater when it was 108.

BL: Who?

BLF: You, you moron! In 1984 we toured the Jack Daniel's distillery, and the digital thermometer over those vats of mush read 108. You were wearing an orange sweater. Not a good look, major perspiration stains, as I recall.

BL: Hello, that would be vats of "sour mash," not mush, and it was cooking, which explains the 108 degrees, and it was winter! And those 'perspiration stains' were from me hanging onto that vat for dear life, after you tried to push me in, so you could have the cute tour guide for yourself!

BLF: (muffled, garbled noises) Oh, sorry, bad connection, must be the heat. Weatherman just said tomorrow's gonna be 150 here, gotta go freeze my pantyhose. Bye!

BL: THIS IS SO NOT OVER!

I have another friend, a man, and therefore not so competitive when it comes to tour guides and temperatures, and I recall every August he would step outside our place of work and exhale with a loud sigh. "I want it to be hotter," he would broadcast. This usually happened when the mercury approached the century mark, so he was, in fact, being ironic. But we always laughed at the people who took him seriously, and occasionally would comment, "Oh, you'll get your wish! Tomorrow's supposed to be 105."

For now, I'm going to crawl inside my freezer with a Hershey bar and hope that when someone comes to thaw me out, it will be October. I wonder how a beer popsicle tastes?

Where, Oh Where, Did My Relaxing Summer Go?

So it's nearly three months since my last post, and you're no doubt publicly dissing me for being a Total Slacker. Au contraire, mes amis. Total Slackers sleep until noon, loll about in their pjs, watch loads of bad TV, and surf the Net for untold hours.

I am the very antithesis of a Total Slacker: I am a Mom with a School-Age Child on Summer Break, and I defy you to glance at my PDA's Daily Calendar and still accuse me of sloth! I've cooked for VBS, driven a team of Boys Emitting Non-stop Fart Noises to their first overnight camp experience, arisen daily at 7am to feed the Next Olympic Champion breakfast before his swim practice, and chauffered Tiger Woods Wannabes to their golf lessons at the ungodly hour of 7:30am.

Somehow, in my spare time, I was rooked into certifying as a Stroke & Turn Judge...not as wildly orgasmic as it sounds, ladies, and according to my best calculation, for every hour spent standing on concrete in 100 degree heat waiting for a six-year old child to complete the third minute of what should normally be a thirty-second event, I was rewarded with approximately 1.3 taut male lifeguard chest sightings. You gotta ogle your hotties where you can at my age, OK?

I've survived never-ending sleepovers and the Tired Crying Fits that accompany them; I've washed more beach towels and swim trunks than I can fathom, I've scouted the sale racks for new tennis racquets and golf tees and swim goggles, while ordering new school uniforms, a duffel bag suitable for camp abuse, a rolling bookbag, and a ping pong table to keep everyone occupied in their "down time." I'm not kidding.

I've packed and shopped and laundered and cooked on trips to the beach, to the mountains, and on one occasion, to Vacation Hell and back, as I watched my dreams of sleeping late, sipping coffee, and writing that next best-seller flee from my grasp. To top it off, I've managed to work out with my trainer, naturally at an hour of the morning when most people are engaging in a fun new hobby called "sleep."

Don't get me wrong...I'm fortunate and blessed and all that mushy stuff, to have the time and the family and the resources to enjojy all of these memory-making moments. But I was vastly unprepared for the social life of a 10 year old child, and I recommend that Human Taxi Service Training be a requisite for college graduation, because you're gonna need it, trust me on this.

Truth be told, I've enjoyed my summer, and amidst the bedlam, I introduced my son to classic movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ernest Goes to Camp, and Beerfest (ok, that last one was a joke. Seriously. Total waste of film. OF COURSE I didn't show that to my son!).

We "found gems" at a gem mine, we discovered that Mom can still play Fur Elise if she wears her bifocals and stands very far back from the piano keyboard, and we played rousing rounds of Spoons (my sister cheats like a sonofabitch). We've read the new Harry Potter (excellent!) and we've basked in the glow of swim team ribbons covering our refrigerator.

Man, what am I gonna do with myself when school starts?