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?

Moon Your Moms!

Happy May, out there in electric internet land. I'm busier than a one-armed paper hanger these days. Is it me, or is May a more hectic time of year than the Christmas season? At least with Christmas, everything boils down to the 24th & 25th. But in May, everyone scrambles to compete for "end of the year" bashes and banquets, as we pat ourselves, our scholars, teachers and athletes on the back for jobs done, well or otherwise. Graduations, receptions, parties, plus all the Mother's Day hoopla, and my family also has 2 critical birthdays to celebrate, followed closely by a wedding anniversary. No wonder I'm stressed!

While all these little balls hover in the air, striking my head (ouch!), I'm also cooking for vacation Bible school, planning my son's summer (golf, tennis, swim team and summer camp), and scheduling a time t0 celebrate Father's Day that can accommodate everyone's travel plans. Throw in a family vacation and requisite kennel reservations for the Queens of the Mud, book haircuts on the 2 days a month the stylist works since her kids are also out of school, and then before I can breathe, it'll be time to start buying school supplies!!! SOMEBODY STOP THE MADNESS!

I am a college-educated grownup, fully cognizant of the fact that I have the Power to slow down my life, take control of my time. But when, exactly, will I learn to do that? All my friends laugh at me when I say I'm the Human Taxi. "Enjoy it now," they quip. "Soon they won't want to be seen with you." Good grief, in just a couple of years, my son won't want to ride in the same vehicle with me? So how do I force myself to "enjoy" these short-lived moments of intense over-scheduling and constant frenzy?

I've always turned to humor to get me through difficulty, and this is no exception. In the midst of your May Madness, I go to Dollar General Store and buy a carton of Moon Pies. You know 'em, you love 'em, you munched 'em with an ice-cold RC Cola in the summer time as you hung with your homeys on your back porch, sort of.

Because I'm so adept at problem-solving, here are 2 fail-safe options for ya: a) crack open those bad boys and shove them in your mouth as fast as you can, savoring the gooey delicious combination of chocolate, marshmallow and cookie; or b) wrap up that box and give it to your Mom for Mother's Day.

I'm serious! I'd swoon if my family gave me a box of Moon Pies for Mother's Day! Flowers fade, I don't wear jewelry, and I love chocolate! Moon Pies represent what Mom really wants from you: the chance to slow down the ride, get off the train, and remember the past you shared together. What better way to do that than by sharing a Moon Pie?

Of course, if I really did give my Mom a box of Moon Pies, she'd send them home with me, in the care package she always shoves in my car. But it's the thought that counts, right?

So go on and Moon your Mom...get out those old photos, betcha can find one with you eating a Moon Pie in it...I double-dog dare ya...and if you can't, then goldurnit, get out the digital camera and take one! Start a new tradition!

Here's to all the Moms in the world, may they forever be Mooned!

My War with the Weather

I recently returned from a nice spring vacation with my family. It was nice, only because I was with my family. The weather was awful. Let's review, when you go on "spring break," you expect a modicum of spring, as in, warmth, sunshine, occasional light showers to bring May flowers. You do not expect a thirty-degree drop in temperature in a two hour period, nor do you expect rain to become snow during your nature hike, five miles from the ranger station, when all you're wearing is a pair of shorts, a tee shirt and Birkenstock sandals. This is exactly what happened to me and my family, during our trek to Newfound Gap in the Great Smoky Mountains. If you factor in the temperature drop, plus the 25 mph winds, we're talking single-digit cold, here. We're talking frostbitten fingers, numb noses, and "I ain't gettin' outta the car to hike to the bathroom" cold. Not the spring break I was looking for, to paraphrase Obi Wan Kenobi. I'm a Bad Weather Magnet, my whole life. You want a sunny day for your picnic? Leave me off the invitation list or you'll get driving rains and flash floods. I've done the golfball-size hail in June in New Mexico, the tornado in February where tornadoes never happen, blazing heat in the Swiss Alps, and snow in the Sonoran desert. Once my friend Bryan and I rode the chairlift to the top of Aspen Mountain in July on a gorgeous summer day, ditto the shorts, tee shirts and sandals. The very second our butts left the chairlift, the wind gusted, the temp dropped to sub-freezing and a viscous fog made visibility akin to what you see when you're taking Mepergam post-surgery. Let's review, we were standing on a cliff, as in, Certain Death Drop-off, and it's foggy and cold. Was that enough? No, of course not. The Weather Gods weren't yet appeased, because it began to snow. Bryan and I sat on the ground and inched our way down the mountain to warmer weather, where a woman resembling my mother hollered, "Where's your coat?" Bryan immediately broke off all correspondence, and can you blame him? As a result of my climatic trials, I'm a Weather Channel freak, trying in vain to fend off storms before I accept any social invitations. My colleagues, friends and family call me "Wendy Weather Girl" but what they'd really like to call me is "Bad Weather Hex Priestess." Next year for spring break, I'm going to Iceland, and maybe I'll at least get a good tan.

Mardi Gras is French for "melted plastic baby"...

As usual, I'm several days late and several thousand dollars short, but hey, you're here, so get over it.

Many of you out there in BlogLand may have participated in a little wanton celebrating on Fat Tuesday. Suddenly, perhaps out of respect to those in Katrina's wake, everyone wants to celebrate Mardi Gras, whether they understand it, or not. You do what you've gotta do, but it's my purpose in life to educate those poor unfortunate souls who don't have a clue what Fat Tuesday's all about. They're in the same boat with the Cinco de Mayo gringos, but that's another story for another time; May 5th, to be exact.

In my neck of the woods, there are 2 kinds of people: those who think Mardi Gras is a type of goose liver, and those who think it's somebody famous, as in, "You know, that Marty Graw who made the Louisiana purchase?" Trust me, I heard an actual person say this out loud.

Both camps, of course, are incorrect. But Mardi Gras is difficult to define, if you've never experienced it, and especially if you think that Lent is something to pick off clothing.

I've enjoyed my share of Mardi Gras parades and beads and coins over the years, and the alcoholic beverages and trashy behavior that accompanies them, thankyouverymuch! But when you have a 9 year old in the house, not only is it a major letdown to parade around baring your hooters just to get a Juicy Juice, it's also unacceptable behavior. This is why God invented the King Cake. King cakes are the 'safe' way to party at Mardi Gras, and since I've never met a baked good I didn't love, I am a king cake expert.

King Cakes aren't really cakes at all, they're a sweet bread, formed into a ring, covered in white gooey icing and decorated in purple, gold and green. In the Middle Ages, king cakes were invented to empty the pantry of all the yeast, sugar, flour, eggs and lard, before a pious household embarked on a strict Lenten diet of gruel and water, i.e. the Medieval version of Sugar Busters.

The "king" in king cake refers to the religious festival of Epiphany, when the Three Wise Guys showed up in Bethlehem with a grocery bagful of green, purple and gold colored sugar in little plastic jars, along with lots of tacky plastic beads and coins that they threw to the stinky shepherds, because, frankly, the Wise Guys hoped those shepherds would scamper downwind.

A king cake baker has a secret: she gets to plop a plastic baby doll into the dough as it bakes. Some lucky Mardi Gras king cake eater will be served the magic slice and stab that plastic baby with a fork, becoming "king," which means next year they bake the king cake. Or call a reliable bakery.

Being the respectable mom that I am, I figured cake was a pretty fair trade for adult beverages and trashy behavior. I found no shortage of king cake recipes in the 47 cookbooks displayed proudly in my kitchen, untouched for the world to admire. The problem, however, was the procurement of the plastic baby.

I guess this has been a universal dilemma through the ages...no doubt Mary had great difficulty finding a plastic baby for the world's first king cake. And husbands being what they are, no doubt poor Joseph was useless. But there's no king cake without a plastic baby, so I ventured to a craft store, and it was downhill from there.

"Um, yes, do you have any plastic babies?" I asked the clerk.

Cold stare, hands on hips, pointed finger. "We got all sortsa doll heads an' doll bodies an' doll parts, Aisle 3."

"Thanks, but, well, I need a small baby...to bake in a cake."

"DO WHAT? Did you say bake in a CAKE? What kind of baby shower are you throwin', hon? We ain't got no babies that'd fit in no cake pan, it'd be hell to slice. You outta be ashamed, the poor expectin' mama, how'd you feel if you bit inta your baby shower cake and got nothin' but a forkful of baby arm?"

"Oh, well, see, it's for a King Cake. For Mardi Gras. You put a tiny plastic baby in the cake, like a surprise. You know, for Mardi Gras. For celebrating Fat Tuesday."

"FAT TUESDAY? From the looks of you, you celebrate Fat Wednesday to Monday, too, don't ya? Naw, ain't none of my plastic babies is goin' in no cake for a buncha overeatin' devil worshipers!"

For a split second, I considered baring my hooters at this vile woman, but knowing that the subsequent arrest would interfere with my ability to drive carpool, I maintained my composure.

"Oh dear," I said. "You've found me out! Laissez les bon temps rouler."

"HEY! YOU COME BACK HERE! WHAD' YOU SAY?"

"Don't worry! Your plastic babies will only spontaneously combust after you ring them up. How festive for your customers!"

Exercise Your Rights...to the Remote & the Recliner!

I have invested in my health and wellbeing, so they tell me. 'They' are friends who invited me into their home under the ruse of eating homemade poundcake, but instead introduced me to my new Personal Athletic Trainer. Lo and behold, 'they' even paid for a couple of sessions for me!

"This will help your knees, your flexibility! You'll feel better!" 'they' said, as I glared at them while the Personal Trainer smiled his perky, Zero Body Fat smile. "Oh yes," said the Personal Trainer. "I promise, you'll see results after the first session!"

Results meaning I could no longer raise my arms above my waist. For 3 days. I'm not kidding!

I must admit, it's not my Trainer's fault. I am a UCBG: Ultra-Competitive Big Girl. You show me a room full of free weights, I'm gonna heave until I snap. You put me in the same room as a SG (Skinny Greyhound) in pink spandex, who's bench-pressing 200 pounds without breaking a sweat, and I'm game, sistah!

The worst thing for me was the Fitness Ball, reminiscent of those giant red rubber balls with handles that we used in preschool to hop blithely around the playground. Who knew they'd grow up to become Expensive High-Precision Fitness Instruments.

Let's review, Big Girls and large rubber balls don't mix, ever. Talk about a self-esteem buster, "Here, sit on this ball, roll on your back, and lift 75 pounds over your head non-stop for ten minutes." Sure! Hey, this is so easy, why don't you just toss me a couple of small children and I'll juggle 'em while I'm at it!"

For the first workout, I held my own, and no one saw me throw up in the parking lot. But despite my endurance and fortitude, I couldn't get out of bed for the next 7 days. Did that concern my Trainer? Of course not! He called my house. "Um, Miss Bunkie, where are you? We have a session."

(me, coughing up lungs) "Oh, sorry I'm late. But my left arm fell off last night, and I don't think I'll be able to make it today."

(dead silence) "I see. What I see is that you're not very committed to your Exercise program, or your fitness goals. Is that an accurate statement?"

(me, brain cells firing rapidly as I think up great excuses) "Um, well, I don't see how I can possibly attain my fitness goals with only one arm. My doctor concurs. I'll bring a note. I promise."

Yeah, I promise all right. I promise to stay home and do finger exercises as I channel surf between Desperate Housewives and the Weather Channel! I still have one good arm...

The Edible Yule Log...it seemed like a good idea at the time...

Yeah, I realize four major holidays have come and gone since I last blogged, deal with it. I celebrated too much on all of them--snuck too many mini almond Snickers from my son's goody bag on Halloween, scarfed too much pecan pie on Turkey Day, drank too much wine on New Year's Eve. You know the drill.

No, I didn't forget about Christmas. For Christmas I decided, against my better judgment, to bake a Buche de Noel, or for you non-French types, a Yule Log cake. Normally, this is a delectably sinful sponge cake, jellyroll style, filled with buttercream, topped with chocolate ganache, and decorated to resemble a log. Don't ask me, it's tradition.

I'm not known for my baking. No, that's wrong...I'm known in 3 states as the girl who forgot to core the apples for a pie...but I had this recipe from The Food Network from several years back, and I figured, how hard can it be? Pretty danged, I soon learned. There's an art to rolling up a thin sponge cake without breaking it into large hunks that fall wistfully to the kitchen floor, where hungry dogs lie in wait. I didn't want to go there. It was time to haul out the Betty Crocker cookbook from 1954, back when women had plenty of spare time to roll cake in the comfort of their own homes.

Proper Yule Log technique involves lots of cotton kitchen towels sprinkled with confectioner's sugar, nimble fingers (no licking, please), and the ability to keep one's composure and remember to remove the cotton towel from the cooled cake, prior to frosting it (don't ask).

But as luck would have it, and when it comes to luck, I can bake a Yule Log cake but never win at PowerBall, my cake was delicious. My baker-par-excellence friend Carol provided tiny little marzipan mushrooms, because everybody knows all the best Yule Logs have mold spores growing on them. I bogged down when it was time to "decorate the log with a pastry bag filled with buttercream frosting tinted green." Pastry bag operation isn't on my hard drive, and my vain attempt to create realistic-looking "ivy tendrils" around the mold spores resulted in a big green mess (see photo).

My family was more amused than delighted at Christmas Eve dinner, when I proudly displayed my creation. I guess they thought I had dropped a chocolate layer cake and then scooped the remainder onto a Christmas platter as a last resort. My Buche de Noel wasn't pretty, but oh-my-gawd, when I bit into that light sponge cake, when that buttercream and ganache hit my tongue, well, it was nothing less than orgasmic. I admit, I was a little sad when my son said, "Mom, this is just like a Little Debbie!" but at least he was honest.

I hope you all enjoy a happy, healthy 2007. This is gonna be one heckuva year, I've decided. And I'm on a baking roll...tomorrow I'm searching the pantry for that Valentine chocolate mold I've owned for 10 years and never used...by gosh, we're gonna be festive if it kills us!

Pumpkins & Candy Corn Be Hanged, It's Movie Popcorn Season!

Autumn is a time for crisp, cool days, leaves flying like little helicopters against a brilliant blue sky, and children frolicking in costumes, begging for candy. I do love October and its mischief, but what I like best about fall is that Hollywood rolls out the Big Movie guns, and I'm in thrill-seeking heaven.

I earned a college degree in filmmaking, which naturally led to a career in advertising. In my defense, if you can't document truth and justice on celluloid, the next best thing is to sell useless products to unsuspecting millions. Look, not everybody can be Steven Spielberg, and a girl's gotta pay the bills!

My passion for movies is a delightful sickness. I'd go to the movies, or watch a movie(s) at home, every day of my life, if I could get away with it and still be considered a responsible grownup. Comedy, Romance, Horror, Adventure, Action, you name it, I'm there, popcorn in hand. But lately, with my subscription to Netflix, (The World's Best Invention), I rarely leave the house for my cinematic fix. Yesterday, however, I indulged in a real theater experience, and I have to share.

I saw "The Prestige," starring Michael Caine, Christian Bale & Hugh Jackman. For starters, Chris & Hugh ain't bad to look at, and all three of these gentlemen are superb actors. I do love a good 'costume movie' and this fits the bill. But it's the shocker plot twists that grabbed me. Being the clever student of cinema that I profess to be, I can usually figure out the formula, and am rarely surprised at a 'surprise' ending.

But I never saw "The Prestige" coming. Dang, now I have to see it again, to discover the nuances and director's tricks that escaped me the first time. What a shame, I'll have to eat more popcorn! I hate that for myself!

In my immediate movie-going future are "Marie Antoinette," "A Good Year," "Flags of our Fathers," "The Queen," "The Departed," "Babel," "The Last King of Scotland," plus the 63 titles on my current Netflix list, waiting to be delivered for my viewing pleasure.

Ahh, I do love Autumn, and hope you can savor the fall color. Thank God for yellow, as in movie popcorn butter...