The Scarlet Letter

The startlingly deep prick releasing the velvety warmth of deep iron-scented blood made the muscles in my jaw quiver and tighten. Through pursed lips and slippery skin I exhaled and begin to stitch the vestal sutures on my scarlet A. Long before this reckless perforation, I had carefully studied and selected the object of my design. For years, I had contemplated his beauty, his strong clean lines and hard pulsating edges pushed asunder by the jolting slash streaking across his center which caused all symmetry to be tossed out into a hidden world that was filled with conflicting emotions.

Covetousness and loathing were the foundation of my handiwork long before the needle was carefully run through with the deception of silky fragile floss. In the best of times the object of one’s design is well thought out, chosen for sound and logical reasons. Designs that are dependable, easy to work, logical, and above all meet the expectations of the society who is always judging your end result. No, my design was more happenstance a result of wanting what someone else once had tasted. A leftovers design – still palatable but once bitten into reveals a residue of unsavory crustiness formed around the edges. At first I had a grave distaste at the sinewy toughness, and yet I kept chewing away like a crazed heroin addict until I discovered the deep warm center filled with a dichotomy of honeyed goodness and salty bile. Deep endless pools of salty and sweet boiling hot and ready to be poured upon the pristine white linens of my young eager heart.

To most the A seems an innocuous creature but I discerned that beneath his barnacle-like façade lived a deep old soul. The A’s suppressed finely tuned intellect filled me with a yearning to be wrapped up within its strong unwavering lines. Instinct screamed for caution in working with this rough-hewn design. This needle would be sharp and capricious; the cloth unyielding and coarse, and the silken threads that would weave us together would break and cut without notice at my heart and strike at my pride. Seemingly a caricature of the place and time, the A took no notice of my ministrations. When my hand first caressed the generous fabric of youth, the A seemed surprised at being the object of attention and when realizing that a fissure was revealed set his opposing axis firm to keep my intrusions at bay. Sadly the A would never fully realize that I understood and honored the slash within his hard rigid lines.

The designer sometimes makes the critical blunder of thinking he can control the development of his project. I made this mistake with the A. At times I would be driven to throw all caution to the wind and sew until each stitch became hardened with sweat, tears and the gristle of poor timing. The A always beckoned, an unfinished project that offered no rewards for completion, no satisfaction, no prize to proudly hang and admire. The beauty of this project was in the uncompleted stitches, in the anticipation of a strangeness that was all too familiar to the touch. The A called to me and for over 15 years I answered with silken strands tightly binding my heart. As time passes and life becomes messier and messier, the simple joy of the first letter of your alphabet becomes too complicated to revel in. Years of pricks, cuts and roughness had dulled the shimmering glimmer that had led me to the A. It was a design that too many others would carelessly caress without ever taking the time to look beneath the Herculean shell. Never detecting the rich combating lava of sensitivities that threatened to spill forth from the A’s magnificent slash. The never yielding A just crouched behind his brass-knuckled hardness and let the steaming lava burn and tear within his gut. My project was folly so I stuffed it far away from my sentiments and sensitivities. The complexity of the human spirit and the geography of life set our compasses to point in opposite ends of the earth.

Isn’t it funny how rose colored the past becomes, how sharp edges become tattered flannel and aching sorrows transform into downy cotton filled blankets of dulled emotions. The fiery A I burned onto my breast, a place where I impaled my hopes and dreams upon it's sharp crown has become one of those gossamer dreams from my youth. There was no lesson learned from my designs, no great moral to give close to my unsinkable stitching. The branded scars fade and the great healer named Time vanquished the dull aches. As it does for all of us, the beat goes on…. And the A, you ask, what became of my most precious A. In my mind the A remains unchanging, an impenetrable force of life, love, hate and death. He stands tall and blazing red in the hot skies of my mind’s eye but if you were to stop, really stop and be still and look very closely at the A you will see the smoldering trail of honey and salt pouring forth from his wounds of time.

Oil Spill

Let me just start out by saying I suck as a blogger - I could take some lessons from my dear talented friend at www.theoneinheels.com but I long ago decided she can pick up my slack on getting a strong passionate voice out on the things that matter. And of course, she has not let me down. However I felt I needed to join in on the matter of the oil spill.

The Gulf Coast has long been my refuge, my mother still lives on the back bay and many of my friends call it home. My child's godmother lives on an inlet where she and her family have experienced the wonders of dolphins coming up to her dock to give birth. Now I wonder will my little girl only hear of this type of miracle because of the devastation caused by the oil spill in the Gulf?

Most of America doesn't really understand the hard working survivor mentality of the Gulf residents. My mother's family who settled on the Gulf Coast in the 1800s were a scrappy bunch of hard headed salt air lovers. They fished and farmed respecting the land and the Gulf as providers of both food and livelihoods. And they stayed and fought mother nature. A water spout comes ashore and wipes out your home - rebuild it, a hurricane blows in and wipes out your home - rebuild it.

But this is a different type of menace creeping ashore. How does one rebuild from a deadly spill? If the life in the Gulf is killed off then how does the hundred of years of balance between man and sea continue? Look, I know we tipped the scales too far this time with the Drill Baby Drill mentality and our endless dependence on oil. I have felt the greasy weight of guilt pushing down on me every time I fire up the ignition on my oil powered car. We can continue to be cogs in this carbon fossil fuel driven machine or we can unite together as a strong voice and demand that gulf drilling be put to a stop and alternative forms of energy be made more affordable and readily available. I realize that it is baby steps but at least I can start by putting down the keys and putting on my walking shoes.

To The Mommy Bloggers

Each time she leaves me it is like a little piece of me turns to ash and crumbles. I can't let her know because I have to strong for her but I wonder if one day in an airport watching her walk down the jet way to fly away from me if I will just fade away, like ashes blown in the wind. I had different dreams for us. You, see I waited to have my baby, I wanted her to have so much more than I did as a child. Not the material things, no, I found out early that the nicest of the nice things don't amount to much if you don't have a loving home. I wanted her to have stability, happy parents, a pet, a neighborhood all enveloping her in a big blanket of love.

I knew she would probably be my only baby, I had waited so long to meet her father only to miscarry and misjudge. She is worth is all, the beautiful little life that danced a disco in my belly and refused to come out until my doctor finally found a way to coax her into this world. Maybe she wanted to stay with me as long as she possibly could because she knew ours would be a future of good-byes.

I chronicled every bit of minutia about her, the squeaks, the expressions, the firsts. She was a wonder to behold, the smartest baby ever, heck, she could even sign kitty and airplane when she was only a few months old. Today, I don't read those journals, I keep them tucked away in a place safe far away from my thoughts to prevent a pity party from taking over and reducing me to hot mess.

When she was four, I discovered blogging and I thought I would put away my purple ink pens and lined paper journals to keep an electronic record of my precious and the joys of motherhood. Across the nation, other mommies shared my thoughts and mommy blogging surpassed personal journaling to become a business entity for a lot of these moms. Me, I quit blogging, took down my site, forgot my password and turned off my feed. When a court of law tells you that they have decided that your baby, your only baby will spend the majority of her time with her father thousands of miles away from you, well you may need some time to go lick your wounds and figure out how to make this part-time mommy thing work for you.

Homeroom mother, Brownie leader, chauffeur, class chaperon, nursemaid - these were the things I aspired to become. The mom who hosted slumber parties and would hang a disco ball in the living room for dance night, not the mom who schleps onto a plane every 6 weeks to spend a precious long weekend with her daughter. You mommy bloggers don't know how good you have it - typing away about your little ones latest antics blissfully cocooned by the sound of your children's voices. Where are the mommy bloggers who write alone waiting, anxiously awaiting, the next time they can smell the sweet smell of sweaty hair and chocolate-coated lips. Do they have to shut it all away in a strong box with a big lock only to be opened when their baby arrives.

Oh the jealousy - reading a mommy blog, passing a school carpool, walking past homes where mommies play with their children in well-lit front rooms. You mommy bloggers have a special gift, the gift of living each and every day with your babies. A gift of never having to suppress your surprise at how much they have grown since you have last seen them, a gift of putting a lost tooth under a pillow, a gift of making them lunch for school each day. It's that minutia that is so special, so precious and so fleeting.

Look, I do count my blessings - she is healthy and thriving and I do get to spend some time with her thanks to joint custody. It makes other mommies uncomfortable when they learn she goes to school somewhere else, at first I thought they were judging me. "She must be a meth addict, hmm, to fat for meth, maybe it's alcohol, or maybe she is insane." But I think it is because they see the little piles of ash and think "that could be me" and want to run least some of that toxic ash float over to cast a dark cloud on their precious.

Driving Miss Fais Doh Daisy

Driving along St. Charles Avenue you will encounter the muses. Erato, Melpomene, and Terpsichore greet you as you follow The Avenue to the river's bend. Along the way a siren awaits, her song so seductive that you will throw yourself in front of a passing car to reach her voice that promises everything you desire. This is my Davis' sister.

The first time I laid eyes on her was at a the Windsor Court High Tea. She arrived in a halo of blue smoke with her tiny body draped in a pink fuchsia flapper dress with a pink marabou feather hat cocked flirtatiously over her silvery eyes. Taking her cues from Daisy Buchanan she was of course fashionably late and like a bird of paradise in a room full of pigeons, she flitted to her seat, pulled out her sterling silver flask and the got the party started. She called herself Sterling and thrilled me with her smokey voice that was filled with money and promises of better things on the horizon.

She was too superficial to be preoccupied with herself and her earthiness transcended her materialism. Like Daisy, she came from a family of careless people, she smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into her vast carelessness. Sterling followed her gilded rule to let other people clean up the mess she had made. And oh, the messes she could make from human hearts to Baccarat crystal all broken with her engraved calling card of nonchalance. Yet somehow her deathless song compelled me to follow her home.

The minuscule foyer in Sterling's flat on Jefferson Avenue was jumbled with discarded gifts from her admirers: European chocolates, antique jewels from Royal Street merchants, and a giant Russian Imperial samovar. Sparse furnishings and an abundance of half-filled wine glasses and over flowing ashtrays comprised her parlor. Designer clothes, most of them gifts from her beaus were stained and strewn everywhere from the rabbit ears on her television to the arms of her chandeliers.

She poured a spilling glass of Beauregard for herself, lit a long cigarette while she stripped down to just her skin. Pulling out her little blue leather diary she reported to me that she had several social dates to prepare for and she wished that I would join her as a driver and companion. I was so distracted by her careless ashing, blatant nakedness and sloshing wine that I agreed to drive her around the city for the evening. She instructed me to find something presentable to wear from her wardrobe while she bathed. The Girbaud jeans and Indian headdress I had selected were not what she had in mind for me, instead we left her home swathed in silk, stone martins and white pumps.

Sterling was and remains a terrible passenger, she insists having all the car windows open, she smokes and ashes incessantly and reaches over to try to grab the steering wheel. Her worse habit is when is throwing her left leg into the driving pit and pushing her foot down on your accelerator foot. The roads of uptown New Orleans are well known for breaking axles and eating mufflers, but Sterling had no care for my car maintenance future, she had men to seduce, wine to drink and gifts to receive awaiting her. I also discovered that along with her impatience, Sterling also gave terrible directions - we ended up speeding through Thomas Housing Projects (in retrospect, she seemed to be recognized by some of the dealers hanging on the corners), crossing the Avenue according to her directions and ended up in the midst of Calliope Project before finally reaching our final destination of Patout's miraculously without being shot.

A table full of European gentlemen greeted her - watching her was a bit like watching Scarlett work the picnic at 12 Oaks prior to the war. She actually sashayed and batted her eyelashes. She ordered for everyone - the most expensive wines, food and of course champagne. She delighted everyone with her polished french and latest thesis on classical rhetoric. Once her gentlemen suitors were plied full of fine Creole cuisine and loads of alcohol she would begin to divest them of their valuables. She would admire a watch, ask to try it on and then somehow forget to return it. Palming a gold nugget bracelet she begin to feel faint and asked me to accompany her to the powder room. Sterling said she was bored and needed to go to her next engagement in French Quarter at Maximo's. It was time for me to drive. Citing motion sickness, Sterling sat in the back of my car and barked out short-cuts to the Quarter.

Upon arriving at Maximo's we were escorted to a table full of Australian tourists, they were a bawdy sort. Sterling transformed from pseudo courtesan to an outback wrangler right before my eyes. She threw off her white shoes and jumped up on the Maximo's bar demanding shots and zydeco music. (note to reader: Maximo's in the 80's was a trendy bistro) She made each of the hulking Aussies join her on the bar lying down while she straddled them and poured liquor straight from the bottle into their open mouths. Suddenly she screamed, "Take me to Tips". This time I have Miss Daisy and 6 large men in my little Honda. All drunk, all yelling, all singing, all throwing my tennis balls from backseat to front seat. I was just trying to stay on the road and off the neutral ground with all of the debauchery taking place within my vehicle.

As I pulled the car to the corner of Napoleon and Tchoup, I could hear the sounds of the Radiators pouring through the side door. Sterling jumped out with her admirers and led them straight to the bar and then to the dance floor. She two-stepped with furs flying around her shoulders, a menthol cigarette in hand and never spilling her glass of wine. She whirled in a silky blur from partner to partner until a dark brute man leaning against the bronze bust of Professor Longhair caught her eye. He was rich, old Garden District money - he wore an expensive seersucker suit from Perlis and immaculate white bucks. Like so many of those uptown men, he looked like he could throw a mean punch and never wrinkle his Brooks Brother shirt. She fais-doh-dohed over to him and they huddled together as intimates sharing a secret dance. I thought I saw a jeweled flash and perhaps a large amount of currency pass to her hand as she draped her arms around his broad shoulders.

I look back over my shoulder at the drunk Australian tourists, wondering how many hundreds of dollars they must have spent tonight on entertaining Sterling. As I begin to feel a bit sorry for their empty wallets, I saw Sterling disappear in the wet New Orleans night with the dark Garden District hulk. Her charms spent and her appetite sated for the evening, she left with her new prizes to toss carelessly about until the next time she would go for a drive.

The Crescent City Cadger

I am sure that the writers for Treme must have known him. He probably hitched a ride with them uptown, made them buy his dinner at Patois, took them on a bar tour, then borrowed twenty dollars before hopping out of their cab on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon while pocketing all of their cigarettes and weed. My Davis.

For me, it all started when his sister called me because she was tripping on mushrooms with her current beau and needed me to drive them in her late model Mercedes (complete with shrunken heads hanging from the rear-view mirror) to her home on Jefferson Avenue. Being the sober friend has it's advantages in these situations because when you suggest to the trippers that a game of homemade twister is just what the doctor ordered, they are all over it, and also all over the homemade twister board. But that's another story...

He showed up in the midst of the mushroom fueled game. Having just finished a gig on Oak Street, he reeked of hemp, Marlboro reds and absinthe. He was surly in his lack of confidence but genius in his talent. I took one look at his questionable hygiene, quavering physique and pearly whites and I fell - hook, line and stinker.

We talked all night about Jesuits, Jazz and Jung. He commenced to enthrall me with his illusions and superstitions. He was jacked up on nicotine and caffeine causing Terre Ferma to shift and stars to collide and softly tumble down around his shoulders in a haze of bong smoke. Misunderstood not a misanthrope as so many perceived him to be - he wanted to keep the soul of the Crescent City pure - his town, his music, his art, his drugs.

As the dawn slivered through the plantation shades refracting off the homemade twister board, I felt sad that our evening was going to end. Would I see him again? Little did I know that my Davis would haunt me for the next 20 years.

Looking back, I realize that I met my Davis at the height of his game. His band had signed a record deal, he license was valid, and his pot was Jamaican. He even slept in a bed with sheets, thanks to his good fortune of being able to squat in his mother's empty home on the Avenue. And, yes, he called, he loved the way I smelled and the way I laughed at his wry observations. I dug his shows, his drummer's mania infused with his soulful glances cast my way. He was a musician, I was a painter, we were in the best city in the world - ah, that crazy love.

Crazy love became just plain crazy. My Davis fought with his band mates and quit the band this led to six months of him drinking black coffee, chain smoking and mooching money. He may have been poor and of questionable hygiene but he never changed his standards. How could I not deeply love a man who would live by candlelight so that he could still eat oysters brochette at Galatoire's? The bitter grounds that littered the kitchen counters seeped into our love. Basically, I was tired of supporting his fine-dining, daiquiri-loving ass and the humiliation of being the main squeeze of the Crescent City Cadger was bruising my pride. One brisk fall morning, I left a wad of cash on the bedside table, packed my gym bag and went back to my carriage house. My bed was empty but at least I could shower without fear of fungus and my elderly Blanche du Bois neighbor was ready to medicate me with Gin Ramos Fizzes. My broken heart was quickly healed by visiting Australian boys who two-stepped through the warehouse district with me.

My Davis lay dormant through until the holiday season. On a fine December evening I wandered home from caroling on the bayou and there he was straddling my barstool, drinking my WhoDat Champagne and eating my crab bisque while drumming a riff with my antique candlesticks. Rather than just dropping my cash in the Salvation Army's red bell ringer bucket, I pledged my hard-earned dollars to the Davis Christmas Fund. We traipsed through the holidays attending parties, picking mistletoe and burning the yule log on the levees. Twelfth Night rolled around and he pinched a tuxedo from his dad's closet so we laissez bon temps rouler through the Carnival Season. We would party all night and I would get up go to work and my Davis would spend the day drinking black tar coffee and littering my home with greasy Mother's wax paper and Hubig's pineapple pie wrappers. I knew what I had to give up for the Lenten Season.

My Davis left on Ash Wednesday, along with all of my loose change and several pieces of jewelry and silver. It took a lot of time to wash Davis outta my hair and out of all the other crevices that he had slipped and dipped into. Once cleansed, I left New Orleans to start an advertising agency.

On the Gulf Coast, work became my life. I ate, slept, drank and pub-crawled with my agency. My Mac was my best boyfriend. The briny air carried the scent of me earning money all the way to my Davis. He hot-wired his brother's car and drove east until he found me. Suddenly my cute little beach-side duplex was given the air of the 70s, thanks to my Davis' bong. He claimed this time he would earn his keep. He planned on giving drum lessons and illustrating books, needless to say all he did was drink my ovaltine and eat my boca burgers. In a moment of desperation, I called his mother to come get him. SHE TOLD ME TO KEEP HIM! Somehow I managed to evict him but through a rather unclear series of events, he ended up living across the street in the home of an elderly man. He would stand on the curb, drumming on the wrought iron fence serenading my wallet and wine rack. So I moved - again.

Minnesota was too far to hitchhike and I don't think my Davis could get his hands on a heavy coat. However upon my return to the South, there he was waiting for me on Magazine Street, sniffing my hair and asking me to buy him a cocktail. He was drumming again and living uptown. Katrina had come and left her black kiss on the city but he was still standing waiting to cadge his next good bottle of Shiraz.

Blow

Re-Post from Sunday, March 4, 2007

Well, Blow Me Down

Magic truly happens when you purse your lips together and blow...whoa there gentlemen readers please return your thoughts to your northern hemisphere as this post has nothing to do with the testosterone fueled polar region of the male southern hemisphere. This magic is not the deep swamp voodoo of my youth but an everyday type of magic. The magic that exists in all of us and in the small wonders of each day. The magic that seems to fade into the background of our hectic lifestyles as we grow older, more responsible and just too darn busy to stop, put our lips together and blow...

The next beautiful sunny day, sit on your back steps, front steps or just plop down in the grass with a wand in your hand. Simply dip the wand in a translucent slightly greasy liquid and then position the wand in front of your lips and blow. The magic begins as you conjure beautiful prismic light filled spheres that gently float into the air. Play a Lawrence Welk album in the background and voila you have graduated to Hollywood Magic. Sissy and Bobby always cut a graceful rug to Lawrence's wonderful champagne music. Heck, there is just no way you can have the blues when you are blowing bubbles.

Even in the icy winter season you can have fun blowing. Just run yonder to your closest 7-11 store and buy a few pieces of Double Bubble. The packaging alone is pure magic and then you unwrap it to find a charming pink confectionery that will enter your lips as a gummy treat that you can transform with a simple blow into a sheer pink delicate bubble. Truly talented blowers often demonstrate the magic of the "Double Bubble" where a bubble is blown within a bubble. I must warn enthusiastic readers that experience has proven that the biggest bubble blown is not always the best bubble blown. It took my Granny a lot of ice, WD40 and pure grain alcohol to remove a bubble explosion from my Farah Fawcett inspired hairstyle in the summer of 1979.

The piece de resistance of blowing magic of course invokes fire. It is bewitching to extinguish a dancing flame with a simple breath. Add a decorated cake, gift-wrapped boxes and friends singing: "Happy Birthday Cha Cha Cha" and the magic of the ages is present. When you make this special blow your wish will always come true. Be forewarned that Birthday candles should always stay on the cake, no matter how cute you think you look after a bottle or two of the finest bubbly - it just ain't cute the next morning when you wake up in your granny's bed half-naked with birthday candles stuck in your hair cemented in place by big dollops of royal icing. (Once again home brewed grain alcohol was invoked and it seems that nothing dissolves hard icing like a fine misting of WD40)

Some time this week put your lips together and blow. Like Glenda the Good Witch in her beautiful bubble you will feel lighter and transcended above your everyday worries. If blowing bubbles or candles don't work for you, call Hugh Grant or President Clinton they seem to ease their troubled minds with a more therapeutic type of blowing. Personally, I don't want to mess another hairstyle a la Monica L. with a blow gone bad - Granny's in heaven now with her WD40 and grain alcohol.

Black Friday Breakfast

Black Friday Breakfast Bake



If you're like me you have spent the past 2 weeks preparing for the Thanksgiving weekend. There are dust bunnies to corral, fine china to wash, silver to polish, dining room tables to decorate and of course Black Friday Shopping Advertisements to review. Black Friday was originally planned by the merchants of America as the kick-off day for Holiday Shopping. I believe that it is a day for Thanksgiving cooks to unwind after the many hours spent in the kitchen chopping, baking, broiling, mixing and topping the whole big meal off with a dollop of whipped cream.

Whether you get to your local shops at dawn to catch the early bird specials or sleep in until 6:00 am in order to miss the 4:00 am shopping rush, this easy make ahead breakfast casserole will feed everyone left at home while you are out saving money on all of those wonderful holiday deals.

This dish is made the day before and needs to refrigerate at least 6 hours prior to baking. All of these ingredients are a snap to find at any supermarket and require minimal prep work. The recipe follows the step-by-step pictorial.

Cut the crusts off of 7 - 8 slices of bread. Any type bread will work - wheat, white, sourdough or even rye. Line the bottom of a 13x9x2 pan that has been sprayed with cooking spray. Since I have been washing dishes all week, I make this meal in a throw away aluminum pan. I plan on shopping all day not on standing in front of my kitchen sink.

Clean a bunch of green onions and chop off each end. You can clean all of your vegetables in a solution of 3 parts cold water to 1 part white vinegar to remove any yucky bacteria.

Chop the green onions into small pieces. A sharp knife works best but I have used clean kitchen scissors and even once in a pinch my daughter's safety scissors to cut green onion.

Spread chopped green onion evenly over the slices of bread in the baking pan.

Wash a red bell pepper. Red bell peppers are among the most nutrient-dense vegetables you can buy, with just one medium pepper (148 g) containing only about 30-40 calories and providing an excellent source of vitamin C (one of the best sources), vitamin A, and vitamin B6. This same serving also provides a good source of fiber and vitamin E (a potent antioxidant). This diet-friendly treat has no fat, cholesterol or sodium and very few carbohydrates.

Using a sharp knife cut the top off of the red bell pepper.

Remove all of the seeds and the white membrane from the cavity of the pepper.

Cut the pepper into strips.

Then cut the pepper strips into small pepper chunks.

Evenly spread the red bell pepper chucks over the green onions and bread.

Next comes the sausage. I use the pre-cooked turkey sausage links to keep this dish healthy.
If you decide to use raw sausage you will want to cook it first according to the package directions. Chop the sausage links into bite-size pieces.

Open a 4 ounce can of no-salt added mushrooms and drain the water from the can. I included a picture of my can opener because I love it. It opens cans in a snap and does not leave sharp edges. If you have little fingers that like to help in the kitchen or if you are a bit clumsy (like me) then you should invest in a smooth edge can-opener.

Add the drained mushrooms and chopped sausage to the baking pan and spread evenly over the vegetable mix and bread.

Pour 6 ounces of shredded Sharp Cheddar cheese over the sausage. You can use the reduced fat cheeses if you are watching your calories.

Sprinkle 6 ounces of Monterey Jack cheese over the Cheddar cheese.
I like cheese so I always pour a bit heavy.

Break 7 eggs into a medium bowl.

Mix the eggs gently breaking the yolks.

Along with salt, you will need 2 tablespoons of butter, ground mustard and white pepper.

In a small glass bowl melt the 2 tablespoons of butter in the microwave for approximately 30 seconds. Pour melted butter into the egg mix. A light margarine or butter may be used in place of real butter.

Add one teaspoon of ground white pepper to egg mix.
White peppercorns are fully-ripened berries that are sun-dried after their red outer skin is removed. It has a slightly milder taste than black pepper.

Add one teaspoon of ground mustard to egg mix.

Add one teaspoon of salt to egg mix.

Add 2 cups of milk to egg mix.
There you are done measuring, doesn't that feel good?

If you want extra zest add 4-5 drops of Tabasco Sauce. I recently visited the Tabasco Plant and sampled all of the Tabasco Sauces. The Garlic Pepper Sauce is my new favorite. You can also add several dashes of Worcestershire Sauce in place of Tabasco or if you are feeling spicy add both.

The Egg Mix should look like this. Now mix it thoroughly for 2 minutes until the eggs are bubbly.

Pour into the baking pan the egg mixture over the cheeses.

Cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil and place in refrigerator overnight. The next morning preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Bake uncovered for 1 hour until the cheese is slightly browned and the eggs are firm. Remove from oven and serve hot.

This recipe makes 12 servings but when I am feeding the men it seems to only serve 6.

Recipe

7 -8 slices of bread, crusts removed
1 bunch green onions, chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 four ounce can no salt added chopped mushrooms, drained
1 package of pre-cooked sausage links, chopped
6 ounces sharp Cheddar cheese
6 ounces Monterey Jack cheese
7 eggs, beaten
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 teaspoon ground white pepper
1 teaspoon ground dry mustard
1 teaspoon salt
Several dashes of Tabasco Pepper Sauce or Worcestershire Sauce
Line bottom of a 13x9x2 inch baking dish with slices of bread. Cover with chopped green onions and red peppers. Sprinkle with shredded cheeses. In a medium bowl, mix the eggs. Add spices and pour over cheeses. Refrigerate for at least 6 hours over overnight. Bake uncovered at 350 degrees for 1 hour.

Whats so funny about Peace, Love and Getting Cut in Half by a Stage?

I love live music. Blame it on my mother - every show that came to Baton Rouge during my early developmental years you could find my mom with 2 small children on the front row. I will never forget the Rita Coolidge/Kris Kristofferson show where Kris gave my mom his empty Jim Beam bottle as a keepsake. (We later made a RonCo root beer candle from that bottle) Perhaps it was my father's influence, despite all of his BIG political accomplishments he was most proud of playing the Captain on the HMS Pinafore. Many a day I would drive my dad around (most of the time with him seated in the backseat a la Miss Daisy) singing harmony with him to Andy Griffith songs.

As a teenager, one of the saving graces of my move to Mississippi was going to the barn to listen to "Anvil" play. Brian Huddell, Ronnie Schmidtling and Jimmy Burril were the shit. A lot of people went out to the barn to engage in unadulterated party, but me (who loves to party) I went for the music. The sounds of Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello played by those 3 talented members of "Anvil" were some of the highlights of the 80s for me. Following the untimely HS graduation of the "Anvil" crew came Richie Gardner with his band "Secret Beat" following the trail blazed by the "Anvil" Boys. (How I wish I still had the lyrics to Winnebago Woman written by Richie for me) The Concert Choir Hall gained new life with “Secret Beat” licking their axes to our favorite New Wave Songs.

Following High School, I decided to go back to Louisiana for college. While LSU had a lot to offer in the way of getting your drunk on, I missed the warm hazy nights filled with live guitar riffs, singers romancing their mics and drummers spewing sweat all over drum kits and amplifiers. I needed my live music and knew it was just down the road in The City that Care Forgot. Upon transferring to college in New Orleans, I immediately secured a carriage house within walking distance of Tipatina’s. On average 5 out of 7 nights the bronze bust of Professor Longhair would greet me as I walked into Tips for my live music fix. I fried chicken for Dwight Yokum after his last set, second-lined with GWAR and out-shot the Big Elvis from Dread Zepplin. Countless nights I went home with my ears ringing and my heart still pumping from the thrill of listening to the band.

Uptown New Orleans was alive with music and I was ready to swim in the sounds of everything from "Bow Wow Wow" to "The Zion Harmonizers". Protopunk was big on the music scene and the "New York Dolls" were the Godfathers of this edgy sound. "The Dolls" were playing at the Maple Leaf uptown and I was first in line to get in the door. The crowd looked like the extras from Bladerunner and when the music started a big pit was formed in the middle of the floor (notice I did not call it a mosh pit – it was just a big scary pit filled with pseudo vampires and real-life taxidermists) There was little me straining to get closer to "The Dolls", when the peripheral vacuum of the pit sucked me in. Now, I am about 5’2” on a tall day so the middle of the pit is the last place a small gal wants to find herself trapped in. Within the bowels of the pit, I was shoved, bounced, passed, grabbed, rubbed and dos-e-doed to the very sharp edge of the stage where David Johansen was belting out “Personality Crisis”. Well, couldn’t he see I was having a major crisis of my own! As the pit pulsated to the song, big punk dudes and even bigger punk chicks were pushing me closer and closer to the stage until the edge of the stage became one with my rib cage.

Despite the searing guitar playing I could still hear my ribs crunching into little pieces one by one. The pain was intense so I begin to beat on the floor of the stage and Johansen’s shoes, yelling to David “Help me, help me, Save Me, save me.” I just knew that I was going to be a victim of pit vivisection. As I was frantically trying to get Johansen to save me, he leaned down to cheek to cheek with me, strummed his guitar in my face, gave me a big misty smile and announced to the crowd. “Give it up THIS is our biggest fan!” The crowd loved me but I was too busy blacking out to care.

After that, things were a bit hazy, as my lungs had both collapsed due to the impact of the stage slamming against them. Some big man with an Aqua colored Mohawk (I believe he was either a Turtle Farmer from Houma or had recently been kicked out of Tulane Med School for excessive recreational drug use) picked me up over his head and passed me out of the pit. It took a lot of ace bandages and painkillers to get over that show but man oh man no one can rock like Johnny Thunders. (Except for the great Brian H. and Richie G. and Craig D.)

Many shows have followed along with many accidents and incidents and significant hearing loss. My next post will cover my personal odyssey to see the "Ramones" and my false press credentials used to meet Better Than Ezra. And remember as we walk through this wicked world searching for light in the darkness of insanity, not all hope is lost it can be still be found at the edge of a stage, in a pit or sitting in the gospel tent. What's so funny about Peace, Love and Live Music?

It's a neighborly day in this beautywood. Wood you be my neighbor?

Having a giant "FREAKS WELCOME" tattoo on my forehead has guaranteed that I will meet (and sometimes marry) all of the sociopaths, recently released mental institution patients, social abortions and garden variety freak-a-zoids in a 100 mile radius. Of course this puts a huge burden on my social life because each special personality has their own unique needs such as hourly meds, rides to the electroshock clinic or just a friend to drool on who will listen without casting stones. Living in New Orleans, which happens to be a Freak Mecca (which is the reason the 3 wise voices in my head told me to follow yon star with my camel caravan to the Garden District) brought many blithe spirits into my life and some even into my home. There was the Tourret's Syndrome Skinny Santa (a good information tidbit to store away if one ever parties with a turret's santa: mixing tourret's meds and alcohol will cause severe lockjaw), the bisexual bipolar artist in angst known only as Mamie (I spent over 12 hours with her at Big Charity hospital as she was treated for lockjaw) and the coffee swilling, cigarette rolling trust fund baby who had a touch of Reduplicative Paramnesia (we could fritter away the days going between the real New Orleans and his New Orleans that was located in his butler's pantry) After finishing college I knew I was due a change - I needed to expand my social circle to include the sane yet still interesting citizens of the Big Easy.

My meeting Andrew Wood was like having a succulent whiff of Jean-Louis Fargeon scented demimonde accouter enter my life. We met working at Bauerlein a slick glossy advertising agency during the reign of 30something on network TV. The ad agency was just bursting at the seams with 30something wannabes and me. These co-workers were not the lively creative psyches that I was hoping to attract. These were people trying to mimic their real life after a TV show I had never even viewed. As a result of my disillusion, I spent a lot of time holed up in my windowless "office"* with Scotchguard spray mount as my only companion. Then on one fabulous day Mr. Wood was my office neighbor.

Being an amateur stalker at heart, I watched Andrew Wood closely. How I admired his deftly mischievous rapport with the other creatives, his seamless use of rubber cement and above all his intellectual artistic talent. How could I, a homespun redneck from the shores of small town Mississippi ever hope to be friends with such a wonderful creature? We finally met when Andrew took pity on me and told me I was indulging in dangerous spray adhesive practices. He could sense I needed a mentor and a friend who was not criminally ill. That day amongst the sticky glue molecules and toxic fumes wafting through my "office" forever changed my artistic soul.

Walking into Andrew's life is a bit like finding yourself in Mr. Rogers make-believe land. His friends included a midget sophisticate, the radical fairies and a bevy of intellects and designers. His home off the street car line on Carondelet Street was a mystical outpost filled with objects d'art, flea market funk and the aroma of creative freedom. The madcap fun was non-stop whether we were craving an Elvis bust from spam or mailing bologna to pen pals in Brazil and Eartha Kitty was always on paw to act as a feline muse along with our cocktails du jour. Everyone at Chez Wood was having a neighborly day in the beautywood.

Though we have both moved on from our New Orleans days, I still relish the time that I get to spend with Andrew. He has shared with me the Atlanta that is soulful and crusty, who else but Mr. Wood would take me to the Martin Luther Shrine District Sweet Auburn Fest to sip loaded daiquiris bought from a street vendors while we watched young African American girls dance Afro-centric routines followed by a visit to Margret Mitchell's grave site. He always has the time to stop and shoot a round of goofy golf or eat a rainbow snow cone. It's always a beautiful day in his neighborhood. Oh, Wood you be my neighbor....


I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?

Won't you please,
Won't you please,
Please won't you be my neighbor?



* my "office" was also the maintenance closet housing mops, sweepers and cleaning chemicals

Free to a Good Home - One Gently Used Uterus

I am starting a movement to have removable body parts - I'm sure there are a lot of us who have some thing hanging around that we really don't need anymore. It could be a set of old earlobes that at one time looked really cutting edge wicked with a hole the size of Denali Park in them thanks to the cool discs the size of bone china tea saucers you kept adding to each lobe.

Perhaps you have a slightly aged flabby pec that was tattooed when it was a firm 20 something muscle but now your Wilmaforever tattoo is reading more like Wilmaforeverandeverandever. At the time it was a body part that seemed to be of some use whether it was akin to the plumage of the polygynous birds of paradise used to attract mates or a part that has been hanging around since birth but has worn out it's welcome on your over-taxed aging body.

Personally, the first thing I would detach and give away would be my uterus. It has served my purpose and I am sure there is a nice family out there who has the time and energy to give it the care it deserves. Or I would be glad to make a trade, I would be happy to have a nice penis. At this point in my life I have much more use for my own personal penis without a male body attached to it. Oh the joy of my penis getting excited when I came home each day, jumping up to meet me and giving me unconditional satisfaction and love. The freedom of being able to get paid what my male counterparts earn just by bringing my penis to work with me each day. And joy of all joys, I would jump the first ice cutter with my penis in hand (wrapped in thinsulate of course to ensure it's comfort) to sail to the arctic circle where I would spend countless days writing my name in the snow. I know my penis would be missed by his previous owner but he would be in a good hands with me and if it didn't work out for my little penis friend I can send him to a penis rescue society that would ensure placement in a good nurturing home.

I have been researching e-bay and craig's list for other uterus sellers but so far no retailers have been located. I think a gently used on-line uterus boutique is way overdue! There are so many uses for a uterus still in good condition - you can use it as a coin purse and once a month it will expand into a handy overnight bag. It makes a very fashionable party hat or cutting edge light shade - play your cards right and you may be able to utilize one uterus in so many crafty ways. I would recommend pulling out the ole bedazzler and giving it your own special personal flare.

Watch your local paper for my new business explosion. Uterus R Us - coming soon - all uteri are accepted and if yours has special talent we will highlight it with the spotlight profile. We accept cash, paypal, money orders and of course I will barter for a good slightly used penis - yeah, like there is such a thing as a gently used penis!!!!

Re-post from May 17, 2007 - Oh how I miss my Baby!

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Thirteen Thursday #1

Here is my first attempt at 13 Thursday....

13 Things That I Love About My Daughter

1. The stork bite on the back of her neck that she has had since birth. I love the way her blond baby hair still curls around that small red "bite" reminding me of how she was carried into my life on the wings of God
2. The perfect little fingernails on her ten fingers - now that she is a big 5 year old girl her nails are polished a variety of lacquers
3. Her beautiful blue peepers - The storm of emotion that can pass through them and become sunshine in mere moments
4. The perfect bow of her lips that curl into an easy smile
5. Her long beautiful strong legs that run, jump and dance through each day and look so great in go-go boots!
   
6. The way she purrs when she snuggles with me like a sweet little kitten
   
7. Her deep compassion for the sick and needy of the world
8. The unwavering faith that she has in God
9. She tells me "actually, Mommy" with so much confidence
10. The soft pads of her palms when she enfolds her hand within mine
11. The thirst she has for science and geography - she wants to travel the world!
12. Her ability to always stop and smell the roses
    
13. When she says "Mommy, I love you" I know that I have reached a utopia in my heart - how I love my precious girl

I wish that each of you will find a love as pure as this in your life. She is my joy and the breath of life that God has blessed me with...


PEACE and Greens

Putting the Steel in Magnolias

I have had the immensely great fortune to reunite this past year with several of my very best friends from high school. We were the girls of the early 80s - defined by our big hair, heavy black eyeliner and penchant for clothing adorned with bows, alligators and polo riders. The geography of our existence was contained within a man-made beach to our south, the Shy Anne social club to our east, Saint Stanislaus Boys school to our west and some pretty scary rednecks to our north. Compared to the world today our world was very small and simple. As idyllic as our small town life would seem to be we were all itchin' to keep cruising past the Jeff Davis strip and on into the big sophisticated world we were certain lay beyond our little high school boundaries.

Listening to my girlfriends talk about themselves in High School makes me wonder if my perception of those days was clouded by a sticky web of Aquanet and waterproof Maybelline eyeliner. One of my favorite bloggers is one of these friends and in many of her posts she writes about how she was unpopular in high school. Funny, how I remember her as being very well-liked, pretty, funny, talented, and quite frankly she hung out with me so she must have been popular. (at least she was popular with me) Another friend tells her teenage daughters how unattractive and nerdy she was in high school while what I remember is a tall beautiful girl with a perfect smile, amazing alto voice and wicked sense of humor. The homecoming queen was also in our high school girlfriend club, she was considered the most popular and beautiful girl in town. Just a few weeks ago I found myself telling her that I wished she was more self confident.

I am not even sure what defined popular in 1983 all I know is that my best friends were the girls who turned heads from the petite little mormon spitfire to the tall cool drink of smokey sound. I was always the comic relief for these beautiful flowers. The loud chunky thighed girl who brought some earthiness to the beauty surrounding me. I am not bitter about being the dirt, because thanks to them I was able to meet some cute band guys and get a lot of free drinks.

My beautiful friends have grown into beautiful women that I admire greatly for the lives they lead. The road has held some giant switchbacks and steep drops for each of them since we toasted our last bottle of pink champale in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Each one has faced her share of heartache and disappointment with a survivor's mentality. Where are the girls of 83 nearly 30 years later. The tall cool drink is one of the most fantastic mothers I have ever met, she has organized countless school and community fundraisers. She was recognized by her home state as volunteer of the year and walked step for step with her critically ill son until he regained his health. The tiny spitfire walked through fire to get her degree and has a beautiful talent with the written word and is a bastion of fashion. The homecoming queen has single handedly raised two amazing daughters and gutted homes for Katrina victims all while keeping the twinkle shining in her beautiful blue eyes. The pretty little beach sprite left the country and now fills the world with beautiful ukulele music and wonderful designs. The footprints left by each of these women reflect hope, love, friendship and has made my world and I believe the world in general a better and more beautiful place to live.

In general I don't write when I am sporting my rose colored glasses, I prefer the hard light from my cheaters but I watched Steel Magnolias and realized those fictional movie characters had nothin' on the real magnolias that I have the honor of calling friends. Our geographical boundaries have grown and our hair has lost alot of volume but our journeys have brought all of our lives together again and I rejoice. My pink champale is chilled - here's to you magnolias of mississippi may your steel petals continue to shine.

I promise to love, cherish and not chase you down the street with a crowbar

A lot of people look at me with crazy eyes when I tell them I have been married three, yes, three times. I am not ashamed that I have taken the ceremonial walk down the aisle three times, I am just old school - meet someone at a crowded party, sleep with them on the first night and marry them three weeks later. I am proud to say there has never been drugs or alcohol used during any of these three marriage ceremonies, although it probably would have been in my best interest to have gotten sloppy drunk and passed out with my head wedged in some space much too small for it to be removed without liberal amounts of butter, Clinque daily moisturizer or Crisco rather than say "I Do". This head stick was my most effective contraceptive method throughout college and worked fine until the morning I woke up with my head stuck in the SAE Fraternity House Lion's Mouth and a pink Vespa scooter containing a litter of pygmy guinea pig babies and a half eaten Stromboli in the scooter basket. After that I had to swear off the Goldschlager and just use plain old Absinthe. (Turns out the Vespa, Stromboli, and Guineas belonged to a Luxembourg exchange student majoring in veterinarian medicine whom I had befriended at a luau and plied her full of Everclear jello shooters in exchange for a ride and a snack. I heard she is now the CEO of Goldschlager Europa.)

The marriage ceremony and 2 week honeymoon part of my relationship history was not that bad. I would wake up each morning to the various rainbow prisms off a variety of engagement rings and try to remember the name of the fellow next to me. The divorce part however is like taking a dull bread knife and sawing at the dorsal aorta trying to expunge life killing plaque. I have tried to be trite in my view of divorce, saying things like, "I crapped out on the marital table of love" or "I folded before the diamond and my husband lost their shine".

While this makes me no expert on marriage, it certainly has given me the advantage of knowing how toxic divorce is to a person's heart, mind and soul. The new car smell of a 62 inch plasma tv or your soul-mate always dissipates in the most inconvenient manner. The sweet early morning high of a new marriage bed, waking up with sweet smelling breath and filled with an agenda of pleasing each other becomes mornings filled with rushing off to some outside responsibility like the gym, job, carpool or walking the dog. Suddenly this person we promised to cherish is just another item on our agenda to check off in our daily routine. Some folks keep their routines fresh and alive while so many others just slowly die on the vine inching each day further away from their partner.

Because I have failed at so many marriages I have watched with the precision of a love starved stalker how marriages survive and even more amazing how husband and wives continue to delight in each other. What I have learned from digging through numerous bedside tables, breaking into personal e-mail accounts and crashing countless anniversary parties is that these happy couples continue to honor the promise of their wedding vows made many years before. The promise to love is the foundation but it is the cherishing of one another that raises the cream to the top. Cherish seems to be about as close to unconditional acceptance that two people can gift to each other. This promise to cherish keeps marriages solid because they know despite the $20,000 Visa Bill or the socks strewn all over the bathroom floor that this family unit is special, precious and deserves to be protected like an infant child.

I have promised to cherish on three different occasions and have failed each time. Serial adultery and being chased through your neighborhood by a drunk spouse wielding a crow bar can tarnish those promises and at the time I felt and still feel that divorce was the best option for me. This decision does not come without a price tag the size of one found on a haute couture Donatella Versace Hog-tying Gown. Breaking those promises that were made to another person, to family and to what ever higher power was ordaining the wedding service just strips away little pieces of the crucial self. I will forever carry a sense of "what if" in my ever growing emotional luggage set and a bit of failure in my matching hatbox. For me it was hard to cherish when there was a strange woman wearing a corset and garters drinking my Coca-cola in my bedroom or from behind dark wet shrubbery because I didn't want to find the prying end of a crowbar.

If you are one of the lucky ones still married then do yourself a favor by putting the kids to bed early, turning off the internet, letting the kitchen stay dirty overnight and go cherish that person who held your hand on your wedding day and promised to love you. Chances are you will find that you still delight in that person and that the dirty little bits of life have just temporarily clouded your marital vision. Cherish it is a beautiful word that we should use more often than the overworked love.

As for me, I am going to rummage through my emotional Gucci baggage put on my Versace gown, stick my head in my dear Joe's desk drawer and see if we can use the crowbar to dislodge me and then cherish him for being my savior. Put on your crazy eyes cause maybe there will be a number four, yes, four!

This isn't MY bucket list it's just a bucket of shit

Note: This is the first post for my new blog. Old blog posts have been imported to this site and are denoted as Re-Post

In November 2006, I started a blog about being a southerner living in the far north on the shores of Lake Superior. Since that time, I have:

• Moved to Fresno, California
• Discovered my husband was dating
• was sexually harassed and subsequently fired
• got a divorce
  
• received joint custody of my only child
• earned elite status on an airline
• spent 2 days in a mental ward
• moved to Mississippi
• worked for a suck-ass not for profit
• had all of my worldly belongings stolen during the move from California
• lost luggage on flights that has never been recovered
• had job offers in Oklahoma and Buffalo
• worked at a horse race track
• moved to Baton Rouge
• testified as a federal witness against my boss who fired me
• read that he was arrested
• became the primary caretaker for my physically and mentally ill father
• fell in love with an amazing wonderful man
• got a weimaraner
• eulogized and buried my 26 year old brother
• decided I don't want to be an LSU fan any longer
• gained, lost and gained again around my waist
• moved to Jackson so my wonderful man could attend law school
• got a Mexican chihuahua

Somewhere along the way I lost my blog password and address and really, my desire to blog. Hopefully I have finished my travel through the belly of the whale and will float on peaceful waters for the next three years. Peace and stability sound so wonderful that I am going to dare to write again. After all, I have some pretty good material, wouldn't you agree. Plus it has to be a lot less painful to exorcise these demons through words than the years of electroshock other's may recommend.

Gentle reader at least at sometime I hope someone will read me again. Fasten your shoulder straps and put on your hazmat suit because it will be one crazy toxic ride.

The Jingled Belle is finding peace in Jackson.

Re-Post on Cocktail Playdates

Friday, February 2, 2007

Meredith Vieira drink with me! Our Kids are busting out the Barbies!

More and more I wonder have I become an anachronism. Cocktails and dishing with my friends both mommy and non-mommy are the only things that actually get me through the endless winter whining days of my precariously unbalanced life.

This method of coping with mommy madness has been passed down within the mothering genes of my family. Both of my grandmothers* mothered all of their children with a dark colored liquor in hand. These women were smart well-educated and living in a time when you had to face girdles and white gloves everyday prior to passing through the front door of your home. Hell, I would have to have at least two good shots of Jaeger and maybe a valium (from my dead dog’s stash which I have saved specifically for uterine induced mental breakdowns) prior to squeezing my fat baby producing ass into an elastic vice grip. At that time society knew the value of the cocktail hour and quite frankly so many of today’s “right wing, anti-alcohol” mommies and daddies proudly tout that our society needs to get back to those “Leave it to Beaver Family Values.” Hey, I’m all for having a couple highballs with June and Walt, especially if I can flirt with that young good-looking Wally,

My own Mother, who raised all of us to be good contributing citizens, was often photographed in a bikini with a baby on one hip and a big bottle of vino in the other hand. There have been many times that I have wished to be half the mother she was to all of us. She was the Mommy who would load up her 1979 Navy Blue Land yacht Buick with a dozen kids (who needs seatbelts when you’re surrounded with luxurious plush velour seating!?!) and set-out for educational field trips most every weekend. On many of these excursions the mommies would monitor our learning adventure with bloody mary in hand. (by the way a Bloody Mary is only 1 point on Weight Watchers and really helped me get that last 20 pounds off)

Now me, I had a baby late in life, struggle with marriage, work full-time, volunteer in the community, and my husband wants me to look like a friggin’ Skipper Doll (he likes the petite perfect toys) so I really really need some time to unwind with a glass of wine. If the non-drinking mommies frown on this, well I would like a chance to visit their medicine cabinets to find their secret little helpers. My stepmother, who is a Southern Baptist (drinkin’ and dancin’ pave the highway to hell) never, drank in front of her two sons – fast forward 18 years to 2005 when they each receive personalized Holiday cards from Hazelden for their extended time in the treatment centers.

Don’t we have enough to worry about these days from global warming to school shootings – I mean REALLY, is the 1-2 glasses of wine at a cocktail play date newsworthy enough that Meredith needs to segment it on the Today Show. I’ve taped it (another anachronism) so that I can invite my friends over to watch it while we listen to the sounds of our children pummeling each other with Barbies and Legos upstairs and we sip our Shiraz in a very temporary mommy moment of bliss.

Sidenote: *My maternal grandmother is former flapper, college student in 1929 and manager of Auto Parts and Tools business was the mother of three: oldest is a lesbian and dance costume designer, middle son petroleum engineer with the Peter Pan complex, and the youngest is a psychometrist who I am proud to call Mama. Paternal grandmother a deep south socialite who also had three children: oldest ass-kicking fun aunt who is paid to throw parties at country clubs, middle son (my dad) former member of the LA State Senate who was impeached for sexual misconduct in 2004 and the youngest, very beautiful but always slightly stoned on who knows what drug well-heeled dilettante.