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When I’m soaking in the bathtub, I’m longing for a little peace and serenity.  The message I feel like I’m clearly sending when I’m in the tub is: I am off-the-clock, not “on call,” and completely unavailable.  I’m not sure why my husband thinks that’s an ideal time to find me a job to do.  It’s like he doesn’t remember that popular Calgon commercial from when we were kids…

To put it as nicely as possible, Jimmy is one of those people who, when there is nothing to do, will manufacture something to do. He looks for problems to solve. I think I actually saw him break something on purpose once, so that he could spend all day fixing it. When you are trying to relax, this type of person is a real  challenge to be married to, because they try to suck you into their way of life. Take this past Tuesday for example- I was lying in the bathtub sipping my coffee, when he came bursting into the bathroom frantically waving several official-looking documents (I didn’t know it at the time, but they were the titles to our vehicles.)

“We are missing the title to your car!  I have all of them, except yours!” he said panic-stricken.

Judging from his state of urgency, my immediate thought was, “Oh my God! Is the Gestapo banging at the door?”

(Jimmy has been after me for years to organize the file cabinet, as if he knew this dire day was coming. The Officials would be at the door and the Blanchards would fail to produce all requisite documentation, in a timely fashion, and our entire family will be hauled off to work camps.)

But, I was over-reaching.   It was just randomly, TITLE SEARCH TUESDAY, a day that, for no apparent reason,  my anal-retentive spouse arbitrarily decided to inventory the contents of our file cabinet to ensure that we had all of our “affairs in order.” He urged me to drain the tub, towel off and assist him in locating the missing document as quickly as possible.

I thought my next question was pretty obvious,

“Is one of us dying?”

It would be just like my family to withhold that sort of information, so as not to upset me. But, getting prematurely expelled from the bathtub was equally upsetting, so let’s just have the bad news – spill it…

“Which one of us is it? Me or you?”  I asked, not entirely certain what answer I was hoping for.

Turns out – neither one of us was dying.   He literally just wanted to put his hands on the titles to every vehicle we own. And, he wanted to do it right then. On that seemingly peaceful Tuesday morning. At 8 am. Before I’d had my first full cup of coffee.

Eventually, I found the missing title in the glove compartment of my car. In the interest of personal defense, I  insisted that we once resided in a state that required vehicle owners to carry their title in their cars and, with all our moving around, I’ve gotten confused through the years.

He reminded me that:

A. We’ve lived in Oklahoma for 13 years; any confusion should have long since been cleared up and,
B. We’ve NEVER lived in a state that required you to carry your title in your vehicle. That’s just dumb.

 

Whenever we disagree, I immediately turn to the MEDIATOR OF ALL MARITAL DISPUTES, our Marriage Counselor, GOOGLE.  Google quickly and effectively arbitrates most of our disputes. Unfortunately, after several minutes of thorough research, I could find no evidence of any state in the Union, that requires an owner to carry their title in their vehicle. In fact, I found several websites cautioning the prudent vehicle owner against such folly.

Needless to say, when Google doesn’t provide sufficient evidence to bolster my position, I don’t run straight to Jimmy with the proof that he was right and I was wrong. (That’s dumber than riding around with your title in your car.) So, I just got back in the tub to soak it off and sulk it off.

But, by then, I was super annoyed. I could still hear him rummaging around in the file cabinet. I wonder what he is looking for now? Our Marriage License?

Surely, if anyone knocks on the door demanding proof that we are legally bound, he will say, “I have no documents on this woman, Comrades! You must take her away immediately!”

In the meantime, I need Calgon to take me away…

 

Those guys down at United Parcel Service are a bunch of trouble-making tattle-tales. Apparently, every time I order something online, they send MY HUSBAND an email notification. Not me, mind you, my husband.

Seriously UPS?  Why do you do this?  I assure you, there’s no need to involve him.  I am a full grown woman.  I literally own 1/2 of this house you’re delivering to.  A whole 1/2!  Citibank Visa obviously approved the purchase; all you have to do is deliver the package.  What’s more, have you dudes ever heard of a little blip in our nation’s history called THE WOMAN’S MOVEMENT ?  As long as we’re Tossing notifications around,  here’s a little notification from me for You:  Women IN THE UNITED STATES can order crap these days without permission from our husbands.

Why can’t y’all just drop my packages off on my porch discreetly, like those cool guys at Fed Ex do, without causing a ruckus in my marriage?

I realized what a bunch of trouble-making snitches those UPS guys were, when Jimmy came busting into the kitchen after checking his email this morning all excited, and said,

“Hey Babe, You’re getting a package tomorrow from Nordstroms!”
(Not information he would ordinarily have, nor be especially enthused over….)

Then he clicks on a link, waves his iPad screen under my face excitedly and asks,

“Which one of these did you order?”

I’m confused for a second, as I stare at a picture of some Nordstrom models wearing various Valentines-themed lingerie that Jimmy clearly approves of.  It’s early and I’m trying to connect the dots, as I’m only on my second cup of coffee. Just as I’m wondering what these ladies might possibly have to do with me and the actual item that I ordered, Jimmy shows me that the ad is attached to an email from his “fraternity brothers” down at UPS Headquarters, located somewhere in We-Can’t-Mind-Our-Own-Business, USA. He went on to explain that UPS always gives him a “heads up” via email whenever his wife has a purchase being delivered. (the unmitigated gall) And, that’s when I start to piece it all together…

…Jimmy thinks that the Nordstrom link that was embedded in the UPS notification was a picture of the goodies that I ordered last week, bless his heart. He doesn’t understand the sophisticated, opportunistic world of online marketing. (What I actually ordered last week were some cute white jeans for an upcoming trip – Valentine’s Day Fashions are never High Priority Status) The savvy marketing gurus down at Nordstrom simply added the link to the UPS DELIVERY NOTIFICATION reasoning that any customer who would order a pair of white Ankle-zips would probably want a red Valentines Day teddy! 

It was all a simple misunderstanding caused by UPS and their commitment to meddling.

So, listen up UPS, and listen good – stop emailing “JAMES” every time I buy something online…
(First Clue: no one who is really his friend calls him “JAMES”)
You got his hopes up for absolutely no good reason. And, once again, you make me look like the Bad Guy. I’m sure you think it’s cool that you “have his back” when you email him every time I make an online purchase, but he’s not your “bro,” your “buddy,” or your long lost fraternity brother.

He wasn’t even in a fraternity in college,  but if he had been, he’d have been a Fed Ex, not a UPS. They are so much cooler.

 

I have a huge problem with January and I know I’m not the only one. I have zero motivation. It might be because most of us go 90-to-nothing starting around October and we are just exhausted about now.  By January, my usual alphabet soup of OCD and ADHD, which annoys my husband and intimidates my children, is replaced by post-holiday PTSD and SADD, which I think mostly just alarms them.

The other day I was lolling about scrolling through Facebook when I happened upon a short video one of my friends had posted. Naturally I was curious, because it appeared to be about one of my sole interests, Food;  I clicked on the watch arrow. It was a short instructive video on how to make “Apple Roses” out of puff pastry, apples and apricot preserves. They were gorgeous and looked moronically simple and wildly impressive. I evaluate all recipes in this manner – the PITA (pain-in-the-arse) Factor vs impressiveness. The ratios looked positive here, still it might be a bit challenging, considering I hadn’t done anything impressive since I took down our Christmas tree in late December.

I insisted that Jimmy (who could not have been less interested at the moment) take a look at the video. It was accompanied by some spunky banjo music so it captured his attention immediately. After we watched it, I meandered cautiously into the kitchen. I was feeling something that seemed to resemble motivation, but it had been so long since I’d felt inspired, I just couldn’t be sure.

Reasoning that it might not hurt to at least check to see if I had the necessary ingredients on hand, and was surprised to find that I was in possession of a few forlorn apples, one leftover sheet of frozen puff pastry and a jar of apricot preserves. When he heard me rustling around in the kitchen, Jimmy shouted out from the den all animated and hopeful,

“Are you gonna make those apple things?” I don’t know if he so much had a hankering for an apple pastry or if he was just excited and encouraged to finally see me doing something this month, as it was already the 26th or 27th…

“I don’t know!” I responded, as I pulled the puff pastry out of the freezer to either thaw or throw away.  I was not about to get strong-armed by his high pressure tactics.

Unsolicited Pearl of Marital Wisdom: One thing I’ve learned after 30 years of marriage is you always want to “under-promise and over-deliver.” Don’t get committed too early to anything you might end up regretting. You don’t want to find yourself in too deep. Especially with something as complicated as Puff Pastry Apple Roses.

‘I may as well slice the apples, they are about to go bad anyway,’ I thought to myself.  Just as I suspected, when Jimmy heard the unmistakable sound of knife making contact with cutting board, he couldn’t resist coming into the kitchen to micro-manage me.

“You’re cutting those apples way too thick,” he said, nudging me aside gently, as I am, after all, a middle-aged woman with a knife in my hand. I pretended to pout, as if I was actually upset that he was taking over.

“Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and locate the cinnamon,” he ordered, as though I were a common sous chef.  (Can do. Just as soon as I locate a bottle of Chardonnay*.)

45 mins later we were enjoying the buttery goodness of these beauties. They were absolutely effortless, on so many levels.

*This recipe does not call for Chardonnay, but it pairs nicely with the pastry!

 

 

It’s no secret that my boys eat me out of house and home. I’ve never been able to keep enough food in the house for them. This became apparent to me years ago, when James was about 7. I was chatting on the phone with the mother of his best friend, when she chanced to mention what she had fed the boys for dinner that night, which was odd, as James had busted through the door only minutes earlier asking what we were having for dinner because he, “was starving!”  That’s when I realized that James had been eating dinner with them every evening and then coming home to eat dinner here. When I asked him why he was doing so, he patiently explained, “Because, Mom, that’s how I can have 2 dinners!”

For that and a few other reasons, I was excited this week when James got his very first job at an upscale pizza restaurant that happens to be one of my personal favorites. I’m sure I came across a little over-eager when he asked me to help him study for his first menu test, but it has been years since I’ve had an opportunity (read: been qualified) to help him with his homework. I fetched my glasses and curled up on the couch with his study materials and started quizzing away, silently priding myself that ‘I may not know Calculus or Trig, but I sure as Hell know my Hummus and Figs.’

That’s when I discovered that I had actually managed to raise an AP Scholar, who powers his brain by eating 24/7, constantly and non-stop, yet is, ironically, a complete Culinary Illiterate.

In all fairness, I understand that a mere boy of 18 would not know how to pronounce “Aioli” but he also could not pronounce, “Arugula” or “Gorgonzola.” He claims he is not familiar with any of those delicacies. I was particularly dismayed when we hit another snag at the “Texas Goat Cheese,” as it is one of my favorite items on their menu. James simply couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that anyone would bake cheese over Fig Preserves. He scripted it as, “Fig Preservatives.” When I corrected him, he asked what “preserves” even are (jelly!) and then, exasperatedly queried,

“What’s a *%!# ing Fig?”

I admit that in the interest of simplicity and convenience, I fed the boys at Little Caesers and Sonic, bought our jelly in those convenient little squeezy bottles, and opted to buy Oreos over Fig Newtons, but I had no idea the extent to which I had handicapped my own son. On a positive note, he breezed right through the “Buffalo Wings” “Meatball Sub” and “Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie,”descriptions, maintaining that those were foods that just “made sense” to him.

By 8 pm, I needed a glass of wine…
By 9 pm, I needed my jammies
By 10 pm, I had dissolved into tears and we had only covered appetizers, salads and desserts.

IF he passes the test tonight, we get to move on to the PIZZAS tomorrow. There’s no question we are in more familiar territory with pizza, but this restaurant takes pizza toppings way past pepperoni and mozzarella – they serve National Merit Pizzas. At this point, I’m really wishing I could just help him with his Calculus.

My household is starting off the New Year without coffee or toilet paper. I was going to run to the store, but then I saw a blog in it. When my husband wakes up in a few minutes, I may have to reprioritize, as he will undoubtedly dust off his “Staples of Life” speech.

The “Staples of Life” speech is all about the things which, in his estimation, are essential to living, and as such, no Decent American Home should be without them. We have several friends and family members who have had the pleasure of listening to his views on this topic.

In fact, if I weren’t the target of said rant, I would probably find it as amusingly entertaining as everyone else does.

In my defense, “The Staples Of Life” speech contains a ‘floating list’ that is subject to change based on my spouse’s current unmet need. In the early days of our marriage, it was fairly succinct. As time marched on however, it morphed and grew. Suffice it to say, coffee and toilet paper will occupy premium real estate at the very top of today’s list.

Things The Hubs thinks are “The Staples of Life,” include, but are not limited to the following:

-Coffee
-Toilet paper (and it’s personal hygiene cousins – soap, toothpaste and deodorant)
-Bread
-Milk
-Eggs
-Lunch meat
-Diet Coke
-Anything else I am out of

I see this as more of a semantics issue. Sometimes, when I’ve been too busy to swing by the grocery store, I embrace a looser definition of the word NEED. As in, do we really NEED coffee or toilet paper?

There are several alternate sources of caffeine in our home. One can always brew oneself a nice soothing cup of tea or guzzle down an energizing can of Coke! As for the toilet paper- it’s a proven fact that women use it more often than men, so if I can make-do with a box of Kleenex, then he can too.

With that said, I can’t deny that there are flaws in my SYSTEM of procuring goods from the marketplace. I have stubbornly refused to adopt the method that Jimmy has endorsed through the years, which involves “inventory ” using a “Master Build-To Sheet,” and “Par Levels” to aid in re-stocking with organized efficiency.

I acknowledge that, while this model works in the restaurant business, it sounds way too complicated for Yours Truly. I opt for the ever-popular BROWSING METHOD which entails meandering through the grocery store, sans list, searching for cues and/or inspiration from the shelves.

This system is far from foolproof, which prompted this rather glib text from Jimmy the other day (being the bastion of peace and love that I am, I overlooked the sarcasm and thanked him for the heads-up):

It’s true – I can’t always remember if we are “stocked-up” on an item, so I just buy it again. That is why we have 5 bottles of mayonnaise, 3 bottles of Karo syrup, 8 cans of Refried Beans, 6 boxes of Captain Crunch (all opened) a staggering amount of Ramen noodles.

And no coffee or toilet paper.

By the way, one of those bottles is “Miracle Whip,” which everyone knows is technically not mayonnaise.

I will probably swing by Walmart if I have time tomorrow. But, I also think if we are truly entering 2016 resolving to be better people, we should begin by acknowledging that what we really NEED in life can’t be purchased at a grocery store, all we really need is LOVE.

(sniff)…Pass the Kleenex.

Dearest friends and family,

I decided not to write a Christmas letter this year, because I really feel that, for better or worse, Facebook has killed the oft-dreaded Christmas Letter, as we know it. Our friends and family and everyone else on the planet is fully aware what we’ve been up to this year, as few families have saturated social media like The Blanchards in 2015. However, like the proverbial tree that fell in the forest, my family feels like the year didn’t happen if I don’t write a Christmas letter..

If you are living under a rock (ie: not on Facebook) you may not know that Emilie, 29, got married in October. The Newlywedmans are now nestled into their first home, working non-stop to build their future. Occasionally, she tries to garner a little sympathy, by telling me and Jimmy how much they both work (24/7, Christmas Day, blah, blah, blah) but, when we were their age, we trod shoeless, over snow-covered hills to work on weekends and holidays, so her pleas fall upon deaf ears. On a positive note, she astutely pointed out the other day that she has noticed her “favored child status” with her Dad has soared ever since she ‘went off his books.’

Not to be outdone in the approval rating polls, a couple of weeks after Emilie’s wedding, Mollie, 26, was surprised with an engagement ring from her boyfriend-gone-fiancé, Jace. We secretly arranged to fly up there to meet them to celebrate, just hours after he popped the question. Fortunately, she said “yes,” or it would’ve been an awkward 3 days. They are both in their second year of law school in Manhattan, she at Fordham and he at Columbia. As if New York weren’t far enough away, they plan to study a semester in Amsterdam this Fall. They both graduate in May 2017 and will marry shortly after.

Gracie, 20, is studying Journalism at the University of Arkansas. Out of our 5, she is, without question, the most interesting blend of me and Jimmy. And, I’m not talking about facial features. After being, ‘Home for the Holidays’ for all of 24 hours, she had her fill of family and decided to dash down to Dallas for a night on the town with friends. I received an SOS text before she left, saying she was in my closet and needed assistance putting an outfit together. I received highest praises from her after the ensemble was cobbled together from:
-some pants of mine that I bought and haven’t worn yet
– a top she hadn’t yet seen that was supposed to be a Christmas present
-my cheetah boots
-finished off with 2 necklaces and a bracelet (all mine)
As she admired herself in the mirror, she said, “Thanks Les, you’re Clutch!” Could any mother ask for more than being “clutch” in a fashion crisis? I’ll take it.

James is in his Senior year at Bishop McGuinness Catholic High School. He divided his time this year between school, friends, football and his adorable girlfriend Annie. I went upstairs to clean his bathroom the other day, and all 6 light bulbs in both sections of the bathroom were burnt out. I couldn’t see any grime, mold or mildew for the darkness, and really wanted to pretend it was sparkly clean, but the scent contraindicated. As I clambered up onto the counter top with fresh bulbs, I wondered to myself,

“How does he manage to see himself in the mirror when he gets ready for school in the mornings?”

But then, I realized, when you’re a young manly buck of 18, you don’t need a few watts of light, or a mirror to affirm what you already know to be true.

Sometimes Jimmy and I look at one another and wonder if we were foolish or just plain crazy to have 5 children. It’s tremendously validating that Tommy is our favorite. It’s really hard not to not feel like “practice makes perfect!” I casually remarked to Gracie the other day how great he is – smart, and kind, with an unparalleled work ethic, all topped off with red hair. She responded, “He’s only 15, give him some time! He may disappoint you yet.”

He did actually try my patience a bit today. After weeks of me asking him what he wanted for Christmas and him insisting that he, “didn’t need a thing,” I went ahead and spent the per-person Christmas gift money on some school clothes for him. He notified me by text TODAY that he needs an X-Box. Apparently, it can put one behind the 8-ball socially, if you don’t have the same gaming system as your friends. Of course I’m going to make sure he gets it. Gingers don’t let Gingers get in a bind socially; we have each other’s backs. It’s a thing.

Jimmy and I went out for dinner last night to celebrate our 31st anniversary. We sat at the bar at Mahogany and gently debated who has had the harder job (greater “Ministry”) being married to the other. We never really settled it. We may never. But, we definitely agreed that if we ever allowed a camera in our “colorful” home to watch us co-parent, settle financial issues, navigate key marital moments and discuss world events, we would take the entire Kardashian Empire down. No one would find them interesting up against us.

We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Colorful New Year,
Jimmy, Leslie and (not) too many kids

When my children head back to their various schools and universities, after the Thanksgiving Holiday, I just need a few things to get my life back on track: a maid, a diet, and a budget.

Truth be told, I’m sure I’m exaggerating about the maid.  When they stuff all their piles of junk back into their cars, and I can actually see my counter tops and floors again, I will probably realize that I don’t really need a maid. I cleaned before they arrived, so technically, nothing got dirty; I just need to unload and reload the dishwasher a few hundred times, and do a few mountains of laundry, that I couldn’t do while I was busy doing theirs. I know you’re probably thinking I shouldn’t do their laundry, but when I did Gracie’s laundry the other day, I found tons of things that were mine. BONUS! I felt rich-It was like being paid, albeit with things I already own, like leggings, jeans, my favorite running socks. Still, it was oddly rewarding.

I guess it isn’t really my kids’ fault that I need a serious diet and a Personal Trainer after they visit. But, it kind’ve is. Adult children fall into a weirdly ambiguous category when they come home for the holidays. They’re your kids, but they’re also your guests. I feel compelled to entertain them when they are home, even more than I did when I was raising them. And, like everyone else, I tend to entertain best around food. Whether we prepare it at home or dine out, eating is our chief source of entertainment. I’m sure right about now you’re wanting to tell me how, in your family, you play board games and charades. We do that too, we just do it with baked goods, creamy martinis, Baileys poured into hot cocoa. Jimmy and I have found that we enjoy our adult children infinitely more when we share a cocktail with them.

When Gracie and I weren’t laying around eating, drinking, stalking pictures of her friends on Instagram or watching documentaries on Netflix, we were shopping. I was really motivated to have her help me buy toys for the two precious children we “adopted” for Christmas. I think it’s good to have one’s offspring participate in this activity. It builds character. The first day we went out, we never got within a mile of a toy (or character, for that matter) Before we knew it, it was getting dark, we were exhausted and it was time to go home and shake up some martinis. We did better the next day, Target was our first store and we managed to get every item checked off the list before we beat a hasty path to the boutiques. We squeezed in some regular Christmas shopping for our own family as well. Gracie likes to shop one-on-one with me, due to the “Shopping Principle of 1:1,” which simply states that, “Mom will buy one thing for us, for every one thing she buys for others!”

We managed to blow through all the money I had allocated for Christmas before the Thanksgiving turkey was even thawed.

I really think all I need is about 6-8 weeks to get my life back to normal. With minimal effort, I should be able to get caught up around the house, drop 5 lbs and restore positive fiscal relations with Jimmy and Citibank Visa.

The only glitch is that I don’t have that much time. My kids will be back in less than 3 weeks for Christmas. And Christmas vacation lasts way longer than Thanksgiving. In fact, sometimes Thanksgiving feels like a practice holiday, to remind me what it’s going to be like having everyone home for a month!

To keep my spirits bright, as she packs to leave this morning, Gracie is humming a Christmas Carol – And I am inserting my own lyrics:

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
Please have dough,
so we can go
on a shopping spree…

Christmas Eve will find us
Sharing an alcoholic drink
I’ll be home for Christmas…

…Sooner than you think!

Marriage is hard work. We’ve all heard people say this and typically, every adult within earshot nods their heads in vigorous unified agreement. But, there must be at least a few compensatory upsides, otherwise the institution wouldn’t have thrived throughout modern civilization as such an enduring sociological trend. I think possibly one of the most sought-after benefits of marriage, is the sense of security we derive from sharing our lives with a partner that we know inside-and-out. Familiarity in an ever-changing, stressful world is obviously something that most of us seem to crave.

That’s why the flicker of marital discord we experienced on our trip to New York City last weekend was so particularly unsettling…

We were in a restaurant, surrounded by friends and family. There was a lot going on and my Self-Diagnosed Social ADD (acronym =SDSADD) was in full tilt. I was chatting up a blue streak and I’m sure I was in the middle of telling a riveting story to our dinner companions, when the waitress started taking our food order. When she got around to me, with nary a thought to how my actions might adversely affect others, I rattled off,

“I’ll have the Pasta Special!”

I vaguely remembered her earlier description of a couple of the Featured Entrees and I recalled that the ‘Ravioli Special’ sounded appetizing – Ravioli, filled with puréed sweet potato, covered in CREAM SAUCE, topped with chopped BACON and Caramelized pecans!

To fully understand what happened next, requires a morsel* of information about my husband: When dining out, Jimmy believes it his God-Given inalienable right as a Restauranteur/Foodie to sample everyone’s meal; he writes off his bad manners to “work-related R&D.” So, no matter what the occasion, if you are in a restaurant with Jimmy, YOU may simply be dining, but HE  is actually “working.” Several years ago, we were in a restaurant and a waiter delivered something unique and interesting to the table beside us. Ever the food stalker, Jimmy leaned over and asked our fellow diners about the dish, and before I could say,
“O-M-G!” they were urging him to sample their appetizer…
God’s Honest – True Story- eating off the plate of Complete and Total Strangers!!!

So, needless to say, the second our food hit the table, at this fairly swanky restaurant in NYC, Jimmy swoops in, with his Omni-present fork and snags the first bite off of my plate. All of a sudden, he gets a look of shock and bewilderment on his face and says,

“Are there sweet potatoes in that Ravioli?”

Somewhat affirming, I explained that they weren’t exactly Sweet Potatoes per se, but rather a sweet potato FILLING.

“But, we don’t like sweet potatoes, he reminded me, “we agreed 30 years ago that we Jointly hate sweet potatoes!”

I do recall that we have been in perfect accord for several decades regarding our mutual disdain for yams, and have sustained this pretty consistently through the years. (Now that I think about it, we never even fed our babies Gerber Sweet Potatoes from a jar.) I guess I just failed to recognize this was akin to a sacred covenantal agreement. They’ve come a really long way since our grandmothers’ sweet potatoes (ditto their beets and their Brussels sprouts.) Did I mention these were slathered in cream sauce, and topped with bacon and Carmelized pecans? Nonetheless, my logic did nothing to dissuade his sense of betrayal.

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head: It’s like you think you know someone after 35 years, and then “WHAM,” they go pull a stunt like that right under your very nose!! What’s next? Who even are you?

One of my closest friends had a similarly disturbing situation with her husband recently. They’ve known each other since their first date in college over 30 years ago, and have been more or less joined-at-the-hip ever since. The other day, a song came on the radio and he enthusiastically announced,

“I love Judas Priest!”

“No you don’t!” She responds.

“Yes I do -always have…”

“You do not. You’ve never had an album, an 8-track, a cassette or a CD of theirs! They aren’t even on your iPod,” she says settling the matter once and for all.

And yet, he persisted, maintaining that, regardless of any evidence to the contrary, he “Did, in fact, know his own musical tastes and does, in fact, love Judas Priest!”

She went on to tell me that they, “share a cloud” and if any Judas Priest music mysteriously shows up on their iTunes account in the next few days, she would be deleting it immediately. (We both agreed that must’ve been what Mick Jagger was referring to when he sang, “Hey You, get off of my cloud!” What a modern day prophet he turned out to be.)

When I asked her why she hated Judas Priest so much, she said she didn’t hate Judas Priest. She actually wasn’t familiar with their music at all, but was quite familiar with her own damn husband.

I can personally attest that my friend is a devout Catholic and probably does not hate Judas Priest or any other Priest. Rather, she, like Jimmy and the rest of humanity, counts on a modicum of stability and consistency from her primary relationships.

I totally get that. Makes perfect sense. I guess as we enter this week of Thankfulness, I am grateful that I never cheated on Jimmy, since he barely survived me committing Spudultery**

* Puns in this blog are always intentional.
**Spudultery – A married people’s version of the game ‘Hot Potato!’

It goes without saying – it was imperative that I go on several preliminary shopping trips in THE METRO last week, to procure a few smart outfits to wear on my actual shopping trip to New York City. I wasn’t going to just show up at the Fashion-Mecca-Of-The-Free-World representing Fly-Over Country, looking frumpy…

One afternoon, laden down with purchases, I beat the hastiest path available through the mall, to my car, which necessitated cutting straight through the Ladies Lingerie Department in a well known department store. Due to my finely honed shopping-intellect, it did not escape my attention that they were indeed selling lingerie to ladies there.

Now, I’m no stranger to lingerie. In fact, I used to own some in the 80s. I actually may still own some. I haven’t really dug that deep into the back of my pajama drawer lately to take inventory. Suddenly, I had something of a MARITAL EPIPHANY – What if I bought some lingerie to take along on our romantic weekend getaway?

That seemed like a really grand gesture on my part, and an idea my hubby was sure to be keen on.

The last time I shopped for lingerie, I was at a well-known “lingerie-specific” store in the mall. I confess that I get extremely overwhelmed and disoriented in that place. I’ve never been particularly brilliant at math, but I do think I’ve figured out their big “SECRET.”  It’s quite simple really: if marketed correctly, they can sell a bra for about 20 times it’s Fair Market Value to gullible women and also to EVERY MAN ALIVE.

I hate to always make it about money, but I’m still pretty uplifted by a bra I bought 10 years ago at Target that cost me $14.99. That’s approximately .75 cents per boob, per year.

I paused just long enough to encounter, Veronica, a Sales Associate. She asked if she could be of assistance. I mentioned that I was going on a trip over the weekend with my husband and might be interested in purchasing something “a tiny bit sexy.” She must’ve thought I said, “something tiny, and a bit sexy…”

 

As she began to peddle her wares, I blushed,  “I’m a bunch of people’s Mother, Veronica.

I gazed wistfully over at the flannel selection: There sat the cutest pair of PJs I’ve ever seen in my life- a soothing turquoise blue background with creamy white sheep grazing on them. They were so adorable I almost cried.

“Those are not sexy Gurrrrl!,” Veronica crooned, waving them off dismissively.

“But I heard it gets chilly in Manhattan this time of year. I think I’m going to need something with more material,” I whined sheepishly.

“They have heaters in the hotel rooms,” she said. (Like she’s some kind of New York City Travel Expert.)

Reluctantly, I took my search back over to The Happy Hooker rack, and started looking at the selections and their accompanying price tags.

“Veronica, Gurrrl, if I’m going to spend $100 for 1/8th of an ounce of anything, it’s going to be something flashy that EVERYONE can see me wearing in public – like something from the Fine Jewelry Department. When it comes to nightwear, I like my dollars-to-fabric ratios to be more in line.”

Clearly getting weary of me she offered, “We have a 65% off rack in the storage room I can roll out, you’re welcome to browse through it…”

She escorted me to the back of the department, to a make-shift rack and left me to peruse to my heart’s content. I, in turn, released her to go assist full-priced customers.

As luck would have it, I found just what I was looking for back there. And, while it’s true that there’s not much fabric to it, (sigh) at 35% of Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail, I can afford for it to get lost in the back of the drawer behind the sheep pajamas.

…Of course I bought that pair too.   I am a Material Gurl, and I like to sleep in a Material world.

There seem to be two kinds of families in the world. The kind that call their members by their given Christian names, and another kind of family that names you something adequate enough for the purpose of the Birth Certificate and then proceeds to call you by a myriad of random names that may or may not have any relevance to who and/or what you are.

Our family falls into the latter category.  In fact, we have nicknames for our nicknames.

The name Emilie morphed over time to “Millie,” then “Lillie” and eventually, “Lillie Pad.” There was the occasional leap from the “Lillie Pad” to “Zillie” (for “Bridezilla”) once or twice this year. She didn’t really deserve it, but we couldn’t resist.

Mollie became “Yaya” when the boys starting jabbering around the turn-of-the-century. Apparently, it’s Greek for Grandmother – Mollie is neither Greek nor a Grandmother, but somehow her little brothers saw her that way and it stuck.

Gracie became “Pooshka Lou” as a baby, which was shortened to just “Lou” as a little girl and then lengthened to “Lou-cifer” during a few rough patches in her teens.

James is “June Bug” and Tommy is also “June Bug.” Eventually, in the interest of clarification, Jimmy started to call Tommy, “June Bug, Jr.” Now, he simply calls both boys “June,” which is short for both “Junior” and “June Bug” and we remain as confused as ever.

Jimmy calls me “Tiny Red” which I tolerate, but just as often calls me “Patricia” which is not my middle name, a family name, the name of an ex-girlfriend, or even a name that I’m particularly fond of…

So, it was understandable when Emilie first started dating Matt, that she asked him what his family called him. He answered, “They call me Matt.” She said, “Well, of course, but what’s your nickname?” He answered, “I guess it’s Matt!” She persisted, “Surely they call you something else?” At which point, he lit up and said, “Yes! Sometimes they call me Matthew!”

Shortly thereafter, per family custom, we combined the only two things we actually knew about the guy – that he grew up on a farm and was also a doctor – into the most obvious moniker, “Dr. Farmer.”

Mortified, Emilie beseeched us repeatedly to only refer to him as “Matt.” She went so far as to issue the dictum that if anyone in our family (siblings OR parents) ever refers to him as, “Dr. Farmer” in his presence or within earshot, we would never lay eyes on the two of them again.

Less than two years later, Emilie and Dr. Farmer were engaged and we got down to the business of planning our Dream Wedding. When Gracie mentioned that she would like to make a toast at the wedding, I didn’t think too much about it. My initial feeling was that the Father-of-The-Bride, is a man of few words, so it couldn’t hurt to subsidize his remarks with a few loving thoughts from the Bride’s baby sister. And, quite frankly, who better than Lou to take the microphone? She and the limelight are well-aquainted.

It didn’t occur to me to be overly invested or concerned about the theme or content of her proposed speech. A day or two before the wedding, bogged down in last minute wedding details, I asked her if she had jotted down some notes for her toast. She responded, “I’m having a busy week at school, so I’ll probably just wing it!” And “wing it” she did.

Much to the amusement of our guests that evening, Gracie commandeered the mic and launched into an expose’ of our family’s penchant for nicknaming, not just one-another, but all of our daughters’ boyfriends. She then proceeded to provide a few examples, such as “Dot-Dot-Dot Boy” a young man who followed all his texts with “…” as though his every thought was utterly profound. And, “Coffee Shop Boy,” who couldn’t seem to make it through a simple date with my daughter without a strong jolt of caffeine.

As I sat listening to Gracie’s toast, perhaps basking a tad prematurely in the afterglow of my flawlessly planned event, panic enveloped me. I suddenly realized one major wedding detail I had overlooked. I had neglected to exercise editorial censorship over the “toasts.” In all of my effort at Bridal-ing Emilie, I had failed to Bridle Gracie. As my youngest daughter played to the crowd, charming her audience with her unscripted humor, I suddenly knew exactly where this speech was headed. With what I hoped was an adoring maternal smile pasted on my face, I waited anxiously for Gracie to drop the proverbial hammer. And then she did exactly what I suspected she was going to do… She shared with 200 friends and loved ones, and another 200 Prospective friends and loved ones, including our Groom himself, that he may be “Matt” to all of them, but, to us, “He will always be our Dr. Farmer!”

As Gracie wrapped up her speech, I noticed the wedding guests, particularly our brand new in-laws, howling with laughter, and began to relax. After all, it really was quite an accomplishment that we managed to restrain ourselves for the full two years of their courtship, making it all the way to the other side of the alter without a slip-up.

There’s really nothing left for us to do now, but sit around and wait on Baby Doctors and Baby Farmers, pondering what we may be inspired to call them. You know we will never call those Darlins by their names…