Project Vacation

Darling Hubby got the opportunity to attend a conference in Las Vegas this week. Since Las Vegas is one of our very favorite spots, we decided that at some point this week, I would join him and we would bask in the seediness of Sin City. So why am I totally stressed out?

Problem One: Junior. Needs a sitter. Number 1 Favorite Sitter is away at college. Number 2 Favorite Sitter (who happens to be #1's sister) is still in high school and would not be a good choice for camping at our house while we are gone. Gramma/Grampa are on a cruise....dammit!
Solution: Get unsuspecting volunteers! A couple of friends that have no kids (but one dog) will do it. Celebrate! Curse Gramma/Grampa for being gone during same week of conference.

Problem Two: Said friends are extremely busy at work and have not had time to "bond" with Junior by babysitting him. Will he freak out when they attempt to pick him up at daycare? You are not my mommy...you are not my daddy. What have you done with them? Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Solution: Schedule a dinner out with said couple and Junior and us. Have them interact with him and see how 'easy' he is. Junior somehow figures out plan and acts like crazy freakish mutant boy.

Problem Three: Since said friends have not actually babysat for Junior, they do not know his routines, food preferences, strange behaviors, etc. As any mom/dad will tell you, THE SCHEDULE is Golden. You break with THE SCHEDULE, you pay the price. I would like to keep them from running, screaming from our house, if possible.
Solution: Take several hours to write a 4-page document, entitled "Care and Feeding of Junior" that details his eating, drinking, pooping, playing preferences in excrutiating detail. Hope that they read it.

Problem Four: Actually leaving. On day of departure, must get up, get dressed, get Junior dressed and fed, feed two faithful dogs, feed self. Take Junior to daycare. Convince self that this is normal day and will see him again at 5:30pm. Probably not succeed. Return home to load up dogs in different car (Hubbie's truck). Take them to kennel. Convince self that I will not miss dogs either. Return home. Use multiple sheets of lint brush to remove dog hair from self. Realize that I have to pack some of those things called 'clothes' that one wears on vacation. Run around grabbing items that probably will not match upon further inspection. Throw suitcase into trunk of car. Drive like bat from hell to get to airport on time. Worry the entire flight about what I've forgotten to do.

God, I love vacations!

Bring Back my Beefcake!

I watch Survivor...religiously. I've watched it since the first season, and haven't missed a show yet. I've recently come to a harsh realization. One of the reasons I watch Survivor is to see scantily-clan, hot young men on a tropical island. First, I was shocked to realize this about myself. Second, I'm pissed, because the beefcake is disappearing right before my eyes!

This season, the older, more round-y men on the Lopevi tribe have decided to start voting off the young hotties. They figure that team-be-damned, they are going to eliminate the threat of competing against these younger guys that actually remove their ass from the couch periodically to do something more aerobic than opening the fridge. First Brook got their vote (no big loss - he was extremely annoying), then John P. bit the dust (he was hot, but in a serial killer kinda way). But this week, they crossed the line. Brady, the buff FBI Agent got the boot. Picture a cuter Fox Mulder with a mean six pack and 5:00 shadow... Is it getting hot in here?

So now there's only one young hottie left - John K. It's unfortunate, because John seems like a smart, nice guy (not to mention a model/mechanical bull operator...according to the CBS website). So it bugs me even more, since I like smart, nice guys. Especially when they are young and hot.

So I'm not a happy tribe member. I have to endure about 8 more weeks of Sarge and Bubba. Even if you don't watch Survivor, you can guess from their names that these guys are not young NOR hot. And in fairness, if they were at least entertaining to watch, that would help. They are not. I suppose I could watch The Apprentice, but beefcake in suits is just not the same.

Big, Big Winner...Maybe

I got the mail today. I opened up a letter that looked like an ad, pretending to be a personal letter. It wasn't an ad. It was a notification that I was a winner. Okay, yah, I'm a big winner, I thought. Now what do I have to buy? Hmmm... No, I really was a winner.

The letter was from a burger 'n custard restaurant that I had stopped at on the way to my husband's family reunion in Iowa. I actually remember filling out the sweepstakes coupon with one eye, while watching my son running away with the other.

As I remember, I entered because the grand prize was a Harley-Davison motorcycle. A 2005 Electra Glide® Ultra Classic® Harley-Davidson® motorcycle to be exact. (why do I feel like Ralphie in A Christmas Story? Would I shoot my eye out with a Harley?) Another prize was a mountain bike. A Trek® moutain bike to be exact (that's about $400 mountain bike for you pedestrian-types). Way cool stuff, huh?

My letter described my winnings. Ohboyohboyohboyohboy. I was a "Second Prize Winner". OHBOYOHBOYOHBOYOHBOY... What was it? What did I win?

Wanna know what I won?

Custard. 1 quart of custard. Not even a frickin' gallon...just a measley quart of custard. Retail price...about $3.00.

Oh, wait, I get a jar of fudge topping too. And a jar of carmel topping. And I get 4 glass custard cups featuring the restaurant's 20th Anniversary logo on it. Oh boy. Yippee.

No bike (varoom-varoom). No bike (pedal-pedal). Custard.

Am I a winner or not? I'm still trying to decide...

I Must Confess...

I did it. I'm not proud, but I did it. I cheated on my hairdresser.

I was having a bad day in general and also hair-wise. I left for lunch, which included the obligatory bad-day-Lamar's donut. Right next to Lamar's was the salon. A crazy thought struck me: Just walk in...just do it...no one has to know...

No. I pushed the thought away. I have to eat lunch and get back to work. But the thought lingered. I went away and ate my lunch. Then in a moment of weakness, I went back. I walked through the doors and was greeted with warm smiles. Certainly they could fit me in. Have a seat. Want a magazine? How about a beverage? Ahhhhhh.

Do I have regrets? Unfortunately no. The smell of my hairdresser-mistress P.'s shampoo was intoxicating. Her tools and techniques were new and exciting. I found myself smiling with satisfaction.

As I drove back to work, the consequences of my actions hit me. Oh no! What if K. (my regular hairdresser) sees me? She will know immediately that I've strayed. I've cheated! This dilemna is compounded by the fact that K. is not only my hairdresser, but also a good friend and a somewhat of a business partner for my jewelry business. She is leaving for an out-of-the-country trip. Could I avoid her until she came back? Could I pretend that the new hairstyle was my doing? Surely not. She would never buy that. She'd seen my hacker's work with the scissors before.

What if I was tempted to go back? Surely this was a one time thing...meaningless. But damn, the hairstyle was good. And the next day I was able to replicate it. Somewhat. I can never do that with K.'s cut. Oh, the guilt... Is vanity worth the price? Hmmmm....hell yes!

Obsessive/Compulsive Eating 101

I signed up for a "Eat Well, Cook Less" class at the library a few weeks ago. I arrived early, so I had time to browse a bit before the class. Since I was going to a food-related class, I was hungry, so I ended up in the food/cooking/recipe section of the stacks. There I found a neat book called Top Secret Restaurant Recipes by Todd Wilbur. This author of this book has dissected popular dishes at several popular chain restaurants and provided recipes for them. What originally caught my eye was a recipe for the stuffed mushrooms at Houlihan's, which I have loved for years. I can make these at home now? Very cool.

I sat through my class, which was very good, and learned about how to make home-made granola, how to read nutrition labels and pick the healthiest ingredients, etc. Actually a very good class, but I was itching to get home and look at the "Top Secret" book some more.

When I looked closer, I found a recipe for Chi Chi's Fried Ice Cream. My husband and I absolutely LOVE fried ice cream. We also always thought it was actually fried. Not so! The bottom tortilla that the ice cream sits on is fried, but the actual ball of ice cream is simply rolled in crushed Corn Flakes, cinnamon and sugar. Well, there now...you pretty much have the recipe too.

As an aside, the Chi Chi's restaurant chain was named after the founder's wife. Chi Chi was her nickname, which is also a slang term in Spanish for...er...let's just say hooters. Makes you think twice about taking the fam to Chi Chi's now, doesn't it?

Anyway, the following day I stopped by the store, bought the ingredients and made fried ice cream for dessert. Yummy! So yummy that the following night, I made fried ice cream again. And again on the night following that, too. We were in fried ice cream heaven.

The next night, my husband cried "Uncle", but I was on a roll. Fried ice cream for one, please. This stuff was kick-ass good! The next night we both took a break...I think we went out to eat or something.

The following night, I was short on time, so skipped the rolling of the ice cream ball in the Corn Flake mixture and simply fried the bottom tortilla, sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar and put a naked ball of ice cream on top. I was pretty proud of myself. I shaved a few minutes off the prep time and still maintained the gist of the dessert. Still yummy!

After about 7 nights in a row, the newness wore off. The obsession was done. But those Corn Flakes are still in my pantry. They will call to me one day soon. And I will answer.

Thongs are a Pain in the Rear

Let's just get this out of the way first. I'm a girl. I hate to shop. Hate it. H-A-T-E. Hate is not even a strong enough word for how I feel when I walk into a mall, knowing that I need to buy something before leaving.

My husband, on the other hand, loves to shop. Loves it. Lives for it. He's a clothes horse of the highest breed. During college, he worked at several men's clothing stores, and I'm not talkin' The Gap, I'm talkin' stores where the shoes are 400 bucks. So when it comes to clothes, he's got very high standards and knows what he's doing.

So, he decides that he's had it with my pilled Kohl's trousers and my four-year old Steinmart blouses and my Payless shoes. He offers to take me to lunch and shopping on the Friday before July 4th. Shopping? On a day off? Grrr... What sealed the deal is that he offered to take me to lunch (I'm so easily bribable with food) and then, if I still felt okay with it, we would shop. He would hold my hand, offer advice and basically help me get through it. Sounds like tight-rope walking, right?

So, the Friday came. We ate lunch. I couldn't muster up an excuse, so shopping we went.

The first store was The Limited. He was determined to get me into those trendy blank tight-ish pants that basically ever woman in North America owns but me. Funny when you think about it...most guys want to get into your pants, not get you into pants. But I digress...

So I try on these crazy pants...and I like them. And they don't look half bad. And (this is way cool) I wear a size smaller than what I thought. I like this place! I remember thinking.

Here's the rub...these pants don't quite get along with my underwear. I don't wear Granny-panties, I wear fairly standard french-cut underwear, but these pants are having none of that. They demand a THONG! Oh man...

So he drags me down to Victoria's Secret, which I discovered later, is suspiciously owned by the same company as The Limited. Hmmm...I smell a conspiracy. I look at all the thongs. Good God - how many types/colors/styles can there be? I select a pair and guess at the size, since I didn't know if it was social acceptable to try on underwear or not.

The following Monday, I excitedly got ready for work and put my new outfit on, thong included. It's not too bad, I remember thinking. Much more comfortable than the thongs I'd had run-ins with in the past. Then I walked down the stairs to get some coffee. Ouch! It kind of pinched. I stood in front of our hall mirror, stuck my hands down my pants and adjusted things. Then checked out my ass. No panty lines. Cool! I walked in to get coffee. Grr... Something was not where it was supposed to be. Actually, let me correct that. Something was where it was not supposed to be. I had a gigantic swatch of cloth between my butt cheeks! What an annoying feeling! Did I buy the wrong size? How do women wear these things? What sacrifices are necessary to be panty-line free? Is this all worth it? Arg!

I calmed myself down and got some coffee. I went to work.

Sometime during the day I realized that I'd forgotten about the self-inflicted wedgie in my nether-region! I could do it. I could wear a thong and be fashionable. Of course, when I got home that night, I immediately took the damn thing off and threw it across the room. And it felt wonderful.

Supermodel I'm not, but I've at last made peace with the dreaded thong.