Look Who's Forty

Dallas celebrated a milestone birthday this month and unlike me, he didn't run out and buy something shiny, fast and dangerous to herald in his midlife crisis.

Oh no. He was very sensible and mature. He and a friend flew out to the east coast for a weekend filled with Nascar, Crown Royal and hobnobbing it with racing royalty. I am ashamed to admit that I was green with envy.

Not to be outdone by said Nascar experience, I had a small group of our peeps over for BBQ and some adult beverages the following weekend to celebrate. It was a very low key, relaxed affair. This past summer, friends of ours introduced us to their recipe for the best ribs that I have ever tasted. EVER. They are unreal. I have never been a big fan of ribs because they eat like a bowlful of spaghetti minus utensils. The sauce gets everywhere and you end up a sticky, smeared mess. These ribs are worth the loss in dignity, though. Seriously, if you want people to bow down at your feet and worship your culinary abilities, try this recipe.

THE BEST RIBS EVER MADE (à la Suzy and Ron)
Cut pork baby back ribs into 3 or 4’s.
Season liberally with Head Country All Purpose Seasoning
Cover and Bake in oven 350 degrees for 2.5 - 3 hours
Pour on Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce and grill low to med just until the sauce has caramelized.

(If you have trouble finding either the seasoning or the sauce, send me an email and I'll try to help you out because we all can't be fortunate enough to live in the south.)



Some of us stare 40 in the face and lose our minds while others are more accepting and slip into middle age gracefully. Dallas falls into the latter group. He has recently begun to grow a and goatee but only because I've asked him to and not because he is trying to be uber hip or anything. He is a man who is quite comfortable in his skin. He's the one who suggests the beach stairs while I am making a run for the cliff.

So I knew this wouldn't rattle his chain....much.



Happy Birthday, love.

Ode To My Washer

By Sunday, I had been without a washing machine for nearly three days. The dirty clothes basket was full and I was agitated every time I merely glanced in the general direction of the laundry room or saw a detergent commercial on television. All over America the WORLD, people were folding fresh, crisp clothes while I was relegated to periodically spraying my room with "Clean Linen" scented air freshener.

I was in complete withdrawal.

And mildly desperate.

Early afternoon, I couldn't stand it a second longer and announced to Dallas that I was off to the laundromat. He looked at me as though I was vaguely alien.

"Can't it keep until the new washer arrives?"

"No."

(Quick moment of silence and rapid blinking)

"Okay, baby. Want me to load the car?"

One of the things that I absolutely adore about my husband is that he has a finely tuned sense of crazy. Additionally, he is very secure and doesn't feel the need to be right all of the time. There can only be one anal-retentive nutter in any healthy relationship and he is quite content to let that be me.

So, off I went to the laundromat.

I pulled up, muscled the basket out of the back and dragged it into the building. There were four people in the place and for the second time that day, I wondered if I had a rogue booger or something on my face because they were staring. Granted, I had taken the time to do my hair and put on make up, which was in deep, deep contrast to my fellow launderers but still, I didn't think that I looked THAT much out of place.

Then, somewhere between the door and the first washing machine, my brain dribbled out of my ears and the whole process became enormously confusing. I loaded one machine and looked all over it for the place to add the soap, even running my hands over the front to see if I'd missed a compartment when I noticed that one of the settings said "High heat".

Dryer.

I looked up to see all four people staring, again, and this time, I could have sworn that I saw pity in their eyes. I smiled, died a little inside, and tried to be casual as I scanned the room for a machine that might be a washer. Two minutes later, after wrenching my head from my ass, I had commandeered FIVE of them and proceeded to separate the basket into darks, whites with bleach, whites without bleach, towels and colours. Everything was going as planned until it I tried to pay. I had come with five dollars in quarters, which would have been perfect if I was somehow able to beam myself back to 1988. Being that Prince and the rest of the world rang in the 21st century nearly nine years ago, my five bucks bought me two measly washes and a gumball. As inconspicuously as possible, I consolidated the clothes into three machines and rummaged through my wallet for more quarters. I didn't even bother to raise my head and see who was watching this time because I could hear someone tsk tsking and my self control was beating a path to the door.

Instead, I plugged in the iPod, stuck my nose in a book and comforted myself with the knowledge that in a short 72 hours, I would no longer be forced to fold my panties in public.

Dirty Laundry

In our house, laundry is done every day. It's the only thing besides basic personal hygiene that merits daily attention. Six people generate an amazing amount of dirty clothing.

I have been content with my Maytag top loader since it was purchased back in the Stone Age. It has served me well. Until recently.

Back in July, when we had a house full of guests, we noticed that increasingly, we would find dark spots on our clothing. At the beginning, I thought it was a burn problem with the dryer. So we changed dryers. But still the marks. Then one day, after a particularly heavy load of jeans, I noticed dark residue at the bottom of the wash tub. I ran my fingers through and sniffed.

Grease.

Sticky, thick, smelly grease. My first thought was that one of the children had something in a pocket that I'd missed. To be perfectly truthful, my track record with first instincts is not especially stellar. For instance, on September 11th, I thought that there was an issue with air traffic control. Yeah, so...

I researched the problem (what did we ever do before Google?) and learned that our transmission seal was likely failing. How hard could that possibly be to fix? Dallas, slightly panicked, suggested that it might be wiser to purchase a new machine. Well, after the expense of a wedding, Christmas on the way and feeling the pinch of the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, I figured that we needed to be more like our grandparents and fix things instead of trotting down to the nearest Sears.

I took apart the inside of the washing machine, which sounds really impressive but in actuality, you lift up a thingy and expose a bolt. I wiped out the inside of the agitator which was saturated in transmission oil, cleaned and tightened the exposed bolt, replaced the thingy and ran a load. No grease spots to be found. I was feeling mighty proud of myself in spite of the fact that I got nowhere near the transmission seal. It's not like I would have known a transmission seal from a doughnut but no matter, the little voice inside my head that warns me when the sky is falling was silent. In celebration, I did a second load. And then a third. The thing is, I didn't account for the water factor. If oil was able to seep into the wash basket, logic would dictate that water was equally able to drip into the transmission.

Yeah.

Crap.

On Thursday, I ran a load of jersey sheets. Everything was normal until the agitator began to turn. The noise was magnificent. It sounded like a freight train coming to a screeching halt on a rusty track. Grinding, screaming, metal on metal. I peeked into the laundry room and since there wasn't any smoke, I let the washer do its thing because although not a particularly bright one, I am a practical woman. I could bear the racket as long as I got clean clothes.

After the second load, there was a distinct smell of hot metal in the laundry room and I finally gave in to the inevitable. We would have to purchase another washing machine or I was likely to set the house on fire. Friday, we reluctantly slogged into Sears and bought one of those front load machines. And the truth is that I'm pretty excited about it. Apparently, it cleans better while using less energy, water and detergent.

The very best feature of the new washing machine is that the controls are complicated enough that teenage daughter probably won't try to figure them out. And this way, I will no longer open the dryer to find my carefully nurtured whites in with her blue jeans.

And THAT makes me very, very happy.

Marching On Into Middle Age

A few weeks ago, I went to the doctor for my annual. I absolutely despise going to the doctor for a couple of reasons.

First, my gynecologist looks to be about ten years old and while she is obscenely smart, it is evident that she is still quite newly off the medical establishment nipple. She can barely contain her sigh when I ask if we can explore more holistic options before reverting to the pharmacy. I tolerate her superiority complex because she is attentive and thorough and I just know that one day, once she has some years on her, she will soften in her scorn of anything alternative. Besides, she is quick with her prescription pad and this is sometimes very useful.

The other reason is that having a pap smear today is no less uncomfortable than it was twenty years ago and frankly, that chaps my ass. I cannot understand how it is that we have unlocked the genetic code but I still have to sling my feet up into a set of stirrups. How can technology exist whereby one can witness the growth of a baby in utero, in 3D no less, and I'm expected to get excited about KY Jelly that has been warmed for my comfort? You see? I'm not feeling the love from the scientific community. There must not be any money in speculums.

Anyway, this year I was pretty serious about the exam. I'd been experiencing a few medical issues which concerned me and I was slightly terrified as to what they might find. My brain ran through every possible scenario, except the obvious, apparently.

Doc: Everything looks great.
Me: Oh that's a relief. So why is this happening?
Doc: For the same reason that you wear bifocals.
Me: Huh?
Doc: Because you're getting older. Period. The average age for the onset of menopause is 51 but women can be peri-menopausal for up to five years before that.

(Which means there are times when you're batshit crazy but without the estrogen replacement therapy)

Me: But I'm 41, not 46.
Doc: Yes, that is true but you smoked for twenty five years and women who smoke tend to slip into menopause about five years ahead of their non smoking counterparts. So, you are right on time with your symptoms.

Excellent. The first stirrings of menopause.

The bad news is that, at nearly forty two years of age, my doctor is going to put me back on the birth control pill (whose package instructions I CAN NO LONGER SEE TO READ) to help regulate my rogue menstrual cycle.

The good news is that apparently, there are THOUSANDS of women in their forties who are experiencing the same things as I am and getting some relief from the pill. The strange thing is that I don't feel middle aged most days. Sure, I don't see well close up anymore but that works for me because in addition to the fine print being unreadable, my cellulite and wrinkles have also softened to a blur.

I came away from my annual exam thrilled to be healthy but uncomfortable with the thought that one day, sooner rather than later, I would no longer be able to bear children. It's not that I want any more babies (HELL NO) but I'm sad that the ability to do so is coming to an end.

Menopause firmly draws the line in the sand between a woman's youth and the beginning of her mature years.

I wonder if there is a support group.

And if they serve alcohol and chocolate at the meetings.

Sucker For A Rainbow

Last week was like walking directly through the middle of a thorn bush.

Naked.

Blindfolded.

And without Bandaids.

Professionally, I could have committed Hari Kari on any one of the five days. My home life left me with a facial tic and a sour belly. Something had to go right or my head was going to explode. I had nattered on and on about parenting and the job and blah de blah blah but seriously, the good news fairy needed to be spreading some freaking happy dust. Last week was not fun.

I'm not sure exactly what day it was but in the disaster of last week, there was this:


It was breathtaking and quite possibly the largest rainbow I have ever seen. EVER. It wouldn't fit into a single frame on the camera. I was grateful just to stare, take a deep breath and forget about everything else for a few minutes.

Goethe would have appreciated the apparent sturm and drang. Me? Well, I figured that it was a sign of better things to come. Because I'm a salt-throwing, wood-knocking, evil eye-avoiding, superstitious nut job.

Dinosaurs, Jesus and Pecan Pie

Olivia's interest in writing and drawing has recently escalated. She's at it all of the time. At any given moment, I can walk into her room and find her hunched over her desk contentedly doodling away. She is very serious.

It's precious.

And hilarious.

I am probably a rotten mother but I laughed myself blind this weekend when she handed me one of her latest masterpieces.

"It's about dinosaurs," she said.

"I see that," I replied after observing her title, "Graveyards of the Dinosaurs". And then, I read her accompanying text:

I liket the purt weyru the dinosaur and it's beb dinosaur soll the huooting stor.

Although I was able to discern what she wanted to say, I couldn't understand why she was so far off on the spelling. Seriously, some of the letter combinations just didn't make sense although she was smart enough to copy hard words like "dinosaur" from one of her books. For instance, look at the word, "weyru". She meant "where" but it was spelled in a multi-syllabic fashion as if an evangelical preacher had taught her the word.

Kids learn to spell phonetically, right? And then it hit me....she WAS writing phonetically. My baby girl is a southern belle. She has an accent, which is so weird for me because in spite of her environment, I sort of expected her to talk like a Canadian. I know that this is whacked, especially since even I don't sound much like a Canadian anymore unless I get around my family. Still, to hear the word "mama" roll off her tongue makes me think about magnolia trees, cotton plantations and pecan pie. I suppose there was a part of me that thought Olivia would outgrow her southern roots and slip into a more neutral way of speaking but clearly, I was wrong. Just the other day, she gave me a very informative lecture on God.



She handed me this picture and shyly said, "This is for you, Mama." I thanked her, gave her a kiss and asked her to tell me about her drawing.

"Oh... that's you, Mama (pointing to the large figure with excellent teeth, long eyelashes and inexplicable barrettes) and that's me (small bean in my arms). It's lightning outside and raining but we're okay because THE SWEET BABY JESUS said so."

Well now.