peevish mama

Hope you all got down with your bad selves, on what is, arguably, the BEST night of the whole year.

“I just can’t dance in another man’s garage.”

For starters, I could have sworn it was Eddie Murphy in Flubber, not Robin Williams. Shows how much I know. Secondly, I’ve been sort of obsessed with the idea of Flubber lately, and I know no better way to expunge absurdities from my head than to write about them in a public forum. Also, as you may have noticed, I haven’t been writing much lately. Have you noticed? So why not just wow you, and woo you with some seriously shitty shit. Writing about Flubber, after a long absence, over a critical juncture (das right, homeys – I turned 40!) is not exactly the equivalent of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, but kind of. Or hoisting myself on my own petard, but sort of. Or throwing good money after bad, or making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Whatever it is, it’s sort of lame, I admit. But here we are. I’m busy, I’m stuck, I’m distracted and I can’t get flubber outta my brain.

We had a little fest in celebration of our birthdays and somehow managed to lure all our best MPLS peeps along with an ALL-STAR cast of out-of-town college buds to our house on a steamy night in late August. I suppose it’s the nature of the beast that fun things vanish in the blink of an eye. You plot and plan, you spiff and shine, you make everything just so, and then your brothers jump out of nowhere wearing Lucha Libre masks ten minutes before the party, sending you into an elated tizzy from which you don’t manage to climb down until after four a.m. And the thing about a tizzy is that although tizzies are a blast, it’s hard to focus in a tizzy. After the party, through that woozy, satisfied, hungover, happy haze, I was haunted by all the people I didn’t get to dig in with, all the people I didn’t get to fully love up. I wondered about all the funny exchanges I missed, all the random connections that were unearthed or newly forged. I looked through pictures for clues, seeing a bunch of really happy people, looking damn good, but I wanted a do-over.

And I wanted to be Flubber. I wanted to be Flubber so I could boing-a-boing-boing into a hundred tiny pieces and spread myself around the party and not miss a thing. I would perch on shoulders, hoop earrings, watches and rims of glasses. I would hang out in guys’ breast pockets, ladies’ cleavage, on cocktail tables and cigarrette packs (which, by the way, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many non-smokers, smoke so much. It pleases me, I’m not going to lie, because the implication is drunken, decadent abandon and that was, for sure, what we were going for), and I would miss nothing, laugh at everything, and DO! IT! UP!

OH FLUBBBAAAHHHH!!!!! TOGETHER WE WOULD BE UNSTOPPABLE!!! FLUBBBAAAAHHHH!!!! Alas, Flubber is not meant to be and so I have to be happy with my foggy memories, some great pictures, the random tidbits my friends are willing to share, and faith in the party process – once you set everything up, bring everyone together and the magic starting time ticks past, the party swells and takes on a life of its own, following its own course, its own rhythm, and if you’ve brought the right people together, it’ll be fun – no matter what. Even if I didn’t hear it or see it with my own two eyes, I’m pretty sure fun was had. And that’s what it’s all about. Setting aside my own grabby, selfish, Flubber fantasies, fun was had.

But if you think the Flubber obsession ends there, you’d be wrong. A couple days after the party, Doctor Dash and I got on a plane headed to British Columbia. My parents stayed with the kids so that we could take our first extended, grown-up, sans brood vacation in ten years. Before we knew it, we had hopped in a sexy black convertible and were on the road to Whistler, hair flying, wind on our teeth, laughter trailing behind us like streamers. We were giddy. We were Thelma and Louise. Well, maybe not Thelma and Louise, exactly, but you get the gist. It was awesome. For the next three days we gorged on the Pacific Range – we hiked our faces off, took a million pictures, set up self timers on boulders like we used to when we were in our twenties. We rented a canoe and checked it all out from way down low, portaging, paddling, picking our way around sharp turns, disentangling ourselves from the poky, gropy foliage lining the banks. It was AWESOME. It was everything we used to do before kids but couldn’t possibly do now because of the short legs factor. And the whine factor. At night we ventured out and drank beers with tourists and youngsters, wondering where we fit on the spectrum between tourists and youngsters. Actually, I doubt Dash wondered anything of the kind, but despite all evidence to the contrary, I think we still got a little youngster in us. I do. In Vancouver we stayed at the super chicLoden Hotel and ate and walked our way around that beautiful city for two more days. Every day was different. Every day was a blast. And yet, through it all, I missed our guys. Not every minute, not even very much – just when I saw something they would like and my thoughts strayed to them. And at night. And in the morning. And, not surprisingly, the Flubber returned to me. If only I could have left a little piece of myself at home with them. Just enough for them to clutch in their warm little fists as they drifted off to sleep. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Oh, it would be so perfect. Oh, boohoo, FLUBBBEEEERRRRR!!!

So there you have it. Flubber. Genius. Sigh. Who knew?

It hardly seems possible. It hardly seems possible that today Saint James turns ten and in a few days I turn ten times four. Always the good boy, he was born just in time to distract me from the (relative) angst of turning 30. It seems incredible that I even batted an eyelash about stepping out of my twenties into my thirties, but I suppose milestones are milestones and you feel what you feel.

Now I have a boy in double digits with long arms and legs, flopped against me on the couch with his book as I type, ready, once again, to soften the brunt of crossing into another decade. We’re having a big party to celebrate Dash and my birthdays because to turn 40 is actually a really good thing. Perhaps the last really good thing, but good nevertheless. But the real celebration, my heart’s celebration, is today, right now, for my boy. He’s requested bacon for breakfast, Chinese food for dinner, new soccer cleats and a couple of African Dwarf Frogs – such small requests when I take into account all he gives to me, day to day, every day: peace, quiet companionship, near constant physical contact, and pure, simple, unfiltered and abundant little boy love. A true blue mama’s boy and friend.

Happy Birthday, Saint James. Happy Birthday to us. May our next decade be as wondrous as this past one, and may it pass as slowly and sweetly as honey poured from a jar. I love you, buddy.

Nanook of the North has a pet phrase about a person’s love language, meaning, in short, the things that make us feel loved or the things we do to show love. Every one has a different love language and the dialects vary infinitely depending on the subject and object. When Doctor Dash empties the dishwasher, he’s speaking my love language. When I cook for friends, I’m speaking my love language. When eight of my rowdiest loveliest chicas pick me up at my house in a giant white limo stocked to the rafters with champagne and hip hop and take me to my favorite restaurant (Bar la Grassa) and then my favorite dance hole (Bunkers) and love me up and give me funny cards and a tiara and the cooooolest leather and gold necklace and jump in/dive in/cannonball in and fully revel with me, all because I’m turning 40 in a few weeks, then those girls are speaking my love language – yelling my love language.

They thought about what I love, they plotted and planned and then busted it out like NOBODY’S business. At one point, sitting at the head of this table of smart hilarious beauties, I truly felt like my head was going to pop off and roll across the floor until stopped by the foot of a waiter, still grinning and cackling. I could melt and swoon and cry. These women, beautiful mothers and party girls both, taking life by the scruff of the neck and singing Give it to Me, Baby! (who doesn’t love a little Rick James?)

Lady Homeslice, Naughty Cop, Lunchlady Rocker Chic, Hot Breeches, Pretty Young Thing, Birdy and sniff, sniff, Nanook and Crackerjack, you get me – you got me – you took me to the moon and back. Thank you, sisters. Thank you for partying me up like ganstahs, like rock stars, like FULL ON RIOTOUS MAMAS. My heart is full, my hangover is gone, and I feel loved. I hear you. I hear you loud and clear!

And let it be written: As of the July 9, 2010 WE STILL GOT IT!

Can I just say, there is nothing more enchanting than fireworks to me. Out of all human endeavors, has there ever been anything invented that is so purely and solely for the purpose of delight and pleasure? Maybe ice cream. Sequins. Disco balls. On a blanket patchwork island with my friends and a gaggle of kids, on a liquid humid night, Devil Baby tucked in between legs and all eyes to the sky, we were wowed by the Edina fireworks. It was Devil Baby’s first big fireworks show and she kept repeating, with each new spray of fire in the sky, “0h, I love dat one!” I kept thinking: frivolity for frivolity’s sake. There is something beautiful and hopeful in the fact that we all gather all around our country and look up to our collective sky, the ultimate blank canvas, with the wonder of children.

I can’t let June slip through my fingers without bloggishly wishing Devil Baby a happy fourth birthday. Her birthday on June 11th came and went in the midst of my laptop catastrophe and a trip to Michigan to celebrate El Maestro de Bife’s graduation from his surgical residency and Golden’s graduation from med school (well done, lads!). I’m not sure there’s ever been such a hotly anticipated birthday on my part. Her threes were, uh, challenging to say the least and I’m hoping her fours will yield a new era of peace. Yes, fourteen year old Devil Baby who may be reading this someday, you pretty much bossed me around and kicked my ass almost every day of your third year. Now, go clean your room. Just kidding. I love you. No, let me rephrase that: I love you, but you still need to clean your room.

Back to present, my little lass couldn’t have been sweeter. She reveled in all the attention and I saw this sort of sweet, shy, girlie side of her I hadn’t seen before. She got mermaid barbies, sparkly hair clips and pretty sundresses all of which she opened while beaming, coyly. Folks, I think we’ve got a girly girl and we are ready to run with it. My sweet little devil, my headstrong, willful, and now girly girl: if you keep working both of those angles, you, my dear, will be unfreakingstoppable!

I love you. I love you. Here’s to being four years old and fabulous!

I can’t believe I’m married to a 40 year old man. Never mind that he’s more smokin’ now than he was at the age of 20 when we met. Sigh. Damn these men and their flattering aging and crinkly eyed distinguished good looks. Happy Birthday Doctor Dash! Happy happy happy! This little family we’ve created – this little family loves and adores you. This little family is lucky to call you their Papa Bear. And me? Well, I’m damn lucky too.

Besos, mi amor.

We’re just galloping towards the end of school and this most kick ass time of year is flying by. If you took a venn diagram with one circle being school and one circle being summer, we’re in the intersecting area that is defined by sunshine, staring out the window, sweatiness, rowdiness, popsicles, field day, and a general slide-on-into-home attitude. I love it. I’ve always loved it. I never went to a school with air conditioning and neither do my kids. Somehow their damp brows and flushed faces at the end of the school day are all part of the charm. You can practically hear the drum beats: Sum-mer! Sum-mer! Sum-mer!

In the midst of all of this, I got to fly off on a secret mission last week: Operation Babe-o-matic, Part II, to be specific. Sunny turned 40 and her hilarious husband, Tax Man Italiano, managed to plan a giant surprise party without her knowing. Of course, the Babe-os shimmyied and shammyied and sashayed in the door about 40 minutes after Sunny’s first heart attack of the evening, sending her into a second surprised near-swoon. It was tremendously fun and a comforting reminder that somethings never change. When Sunny’s 180 friends had cleared out, the five of us were still standing, dancing around with beers, feeling like we were 20 again. (Actually, I should say 6 of us because Meester Panqueques was an honorary Babe-o for the night, kindly fetching Dolly and me at the airport, driving us to the party in amused near-silence while Tartare, Dolly and I shrieked and chatted and dove right in in that way that friends do when there is very little time.) I’m only including a small photo because . . . how can I put this delicately? There would be no reason to subject you to our shiny happy late-night-good-time faces. No reason at all. It was a lightening quick trip – less than 24 hours, but so much fun, so very very good for my soul. My only regret is that I’m always left feeling bereft that these soul sisters of mine scattered like seeds in the wind after college, and not a one of them managed to land near me.

And speaking of seeds, yesterday time slowed down twice for me, and both times, it was in a garden. First, Doctor Dash and I had a really juicy hour with a “garden coach” from Bachmans Nursery named Suzanne. She showed up at our house and she didn’t waste any time in plunging into our perennial garden to give us the lay of the land. We found out all sorts of stuff. Now we know we have two horrid invasive buckthorn trees that need to be removed asap (actually, it’s already done – Doctor Dash could also aptly be renamed Doctor Bushwhacker). We also now know that we should be fawning over a beautiful lacy drapey Pagoda Dogwood because we are “lucky to have such a specimen.” We know where to move the hydrangea that is languishing in the shade and the bleeding heart that is getting the shit kicked out of it over in soccer terrain. We know which hostas are next for being divided and recolonized and what to do with the crazy rose bush that’s turned aggressive, hanging its thorny branches into the yard in the hopes of catching some tender child flesh. We now know what is weed and what is hearty native growth. We even know what to put in Melancholy Corner and that, my friends, is something that has eluded us since we moved into this house. Suzanne was knowledgeable, witty, and best of all, pragmatic. I feel like we can do this now. We can make our garden even more beautiful, piece by piece, plant by plant, season by season.

As soon as I was finished with Suzanne, I raced off to school to drive Supergirl and a few of her friends to Waite House, the food shelf that our school collects food for all year long. The first graders were going to deliver and plant the vegetables they had grown from seed in the Waite House garden. The garden will be tended by the Waite House volunteers and the families who utilize the services. There were enough kids to do most of the planting so I mostly got to watch and listen and I have to say, it was lovely. We didn’t need “one more thing” to go do, but I’m so glad we did this. Not only did they plant tons of tomatoes, beans, peppers and herbs, they pretty much lined the perimeter of the chain link fence with sunflowers and other ornamentals. I am so grateful to their teachers for realizing that there is no end to the good that can come of this – the planting, the waiting, the giving, the digging, the beautifying. It’s all so good for our guys and hopefully there will be many families eating delicious tomatoes later this summer; tomatoes that started out as seeds in cups on an elementary school floor.

Happy belated Mother’s Day to all you sweet mamas out there, including my very own sweet mama, Chuchi. I don’t know about you, but I love Mother’s Day – more than my birthday, more than Christmas, more than Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. Being a mother is something I cherish (despite periodic appearances to the contrary) and it feels good to be fêted for something I’ve earned. I didn’t have much to do with being born and although I suppose we deserve to be congratulated for having survived another year, I don’t feel as comfortable wallowing in all the attention surrounding my birthday. But Mother’s Day is another story altogether. All those unseen and unappreciated things we do to keep our families healthy and happy and together, to keep our homes warm and bright and joyful, to keep ourselves sane and healthy and open, it all does deserve some recognition. We deserve to step out from behind the camera, stove and steering wheel for a day. I say, bring it on, lovies. Bring on the homemade breakfasts (delicious, Doctor Dash). Bring on the flowers and cards and little clay bowls and necklaces and paintings and all the dear dear things that little kids make for their mamas for Mother’s Day. I love it all. I even love the short story penned by Supergirl called “The Butt.” Last year, Saint James wrote me a song on the piano. This year, I get “The Butt.” It’s not about my butt, mind you, but riveting nonetheless.

And although I haven’t been able to spend Mother’s Day with my own mom for years, I think she knows, hope she knows, how much she means to me and how much my parenting mirrors hers. My house isn’t nearly as clean as hers, but in so many other ways, in ways that I can’t help, in ways that I don’t even notice, my mother colors the way I go through my days with my kids. I’m not a mirror image of her, but rather, of the same ilk. As if a painter did a series of paintings, variations on a theme, with obvious, superficial differences, but with a common thread – but what is the thread? Soul? Disposition? Habits? I’m not sure I can put a finger on it, but it’s there.

I’m not a mother who hides her emotions from the kids. For better or worse, they hear about the dark and the light. I’m a mother who thinks sitting down together for home cooked meals every single day that it’s remotely possible matters a lot. I’m a mother who’s indulgent, who believes in treats and pleasures and the beauty of saying yes some of the time. I’m impatient in so many ways, but I try, mostly unsuccessfully, to quell that in myself. I like plants and sun and watching my kids play sports. I don’t say the rosary in the car like my mom did for my brother’s nail biter tennis matches, but I gasp and eek and cover my eyes with the best of them. I don’t put a premium on my own perfection, but I do value solidity, reliability, warmth. I don’t let them touch my sunglasses, but I do let them play with my shoes. I’m not very subtle about trying to influence my kids to love the things I love: music, books, food. I leave sports to Doctor Dash. And technology. I’m bad at making my kids do chores; bad at taking money from them when they promise to pay me back. I’m a distracted mother a lot of the time, until those moments when I’m not. Be present is my mantra and my greatest seemingly insurmountable challenge.

I don’t like labels like “good” and “bad” as applied to mothering because I can be both within a span of moments. Motherhood is nuanced and complex and nothing short of a million words will do to describe any one particular mother. A million words. Or maybe just one.

Love.

Happy Mother’s Day to Chuchi and to all you other mamas in the trenches with me.

One of my all time favorite things about this city is the May Day parade and festival at Powderhorn park. Even though the weather is usually cold, gusty, rainy and generally nasty, Minneapolitans give the final word to the date on the calendar and turn out in droves to frolic on the newly greened hills of the park. The Heart of the Beast puppet theater shows up with their giant freaky puppets and all the fringey, unwashed, dreadlocked, young, old, and in-betweens don their most sparkly, tattered, peculiar get-ups and come out to mill around, eat fair food, and watch the epic Tree of Life Ceremony from a riotous patchwork of quilts thrown up on the hills. It’s like a big roving carnival, with jugglers, stilt walkers, plumed ladies, fire breathers and musicians. As drumbeats, clapping and yelling grow in intensity, the Sun Flotilla gets paddled across the pond until it reaches the shore to wake the Tree of Life. It’s awesome. It’s colorful, pagean, freaky, and optimistic. It’s an excuse to collect in one spot with people from all walks of life. It’s a celebration. It’s a collective sigh of relief. It’s SPRING!

Last night as I shampooed Devil Baby’s hair, my thoughts kept straying to my weekend away with the book club ladies. Mere hours before, I had been sitting in one of the various roving sloppy circles of the weekend (in front of the windows with the view of the lake, in front of the fire place, around the wooden farm table, on two benches in the sun at the tip of Stout’s Island) surrounded by a near constant flow of words and laughter, maybe a few tears and quiet moments. Devil Baby didn’t want me to wash her hair and as she whined and resisted, I thought about the women who let me say what I needed to say, without judgment, with nods and murmurs of understanding, with stories of their own. I felt physically exhausted (more on that in a second), but mentally alert – almost limber. The way you’d feel after one of those rare classes in college where you felt like you cracked through to some greater truths, some deeper understanding of whatever topic you were discussing.

I’ve said it before, but these book club ladies are super analytical. They are processors and thinkers. They’re also highly verbal people. So you sit in enough circles with them and you’re going to hear really nuanced and insightful explanations or theories about the stuff that’s on their minds. They are also lyrical and romantic and curious. Lady Shutterbug has this completely endearing habit of saying “O.K., I’ve got a question for you guys . . .” and throwing out some juicy dilemma or a giant octopus of a topic. The word soulful came up a few times over the weekend – it’s what we look for in a yoga teacher, in a book, in a song, in a friend. But to be soulful, I think you must be honest. And to be honest, you must be brave. And the ladies are brave. (Not that you’d know it, judging by our mini frights over the course of the weekend: country folk on snowmobiles with night vision goggles, cat burglars, cracking ice, grandpa poltergeists). I think my take-away from the weekend, the reason I feel so clear in my head (despite all the wine, etcetera) is that I got to speak and hear the truth for hours and hours and hours. A mother’s truth. A wife’s truth. A woman’s truth. 

I wasn’t privvy to every single conversation, but as we meandered through the thicket of our lives right now – motherhood, sex, food, balance, friendship, botox (just talking, just talking), work, non-work, house work, clothes, husbands, art, faith, bras, meditation, moods, yoga, books – I felt like there was so much disclosure, so much sharing, but equally as much listening and mental note taking. We are not old, but we are not young. As such, I think we’re aware that we’re learning a few things along the way. The tricks, tips, and shortcuts. The surefire cures, the hit recipes, the best this or that, the worse this or that. I’m a huge fan of a “hot tip” and I feel like I was scurrying around, gathering the ladies’ hot tips like falling leaves. On the topic of food alone, I can’t wait to make Lady Pretty Twigs’ green goddess dressing, Lady Doctah K’s oven ribs and mushroom barley soup, Lady Tabouli’s kugel, Lady Shutterbug’s eggbake, Lady Homeslice’s chocolate mousse cake, and Lady Peace’s salad with stir fried veggies. And Lady Doctah Poodle, her fruit was fab, but what I really can’t stop thinking about is something she said right before I left: that perhaps it’s not a question of being a good mother or a bad mother, but of being an authentic mother. This is a really beautiful way to look at this job we have now and will have for the rest of our lives. It allows for imperfections and yet the standard is lofty, one worth calling to mind again and again, like a mantra.

But the weekend wasn’t all talk. There might have been a little drinking. There might have been a little dancing. There might have been a little singing. And there might have been some shrieking and laughing. And some of that might have happened indoors. But it all might have happened out on the white expanse of the frozen lake under a full moon, too. I must say, the ladies went a little crazy. A little really crazy. They cut loose. Soooooper loose. They even indulged me and my ridiculous notions and took turns with my cushy headphones and did a little tiny dancing. OH, TINY DANCING, HOW I LOVE AND ADORE YOU! We gave those country folk in their icehouses an eyeful and an earful, I’m afraid.  The image of my friends, running, spinning, swaying, singing, falling onto their backs and gaping up at the moon is something I’ll not soon forget. And I suspect the same goes for the country folk cowering in those ice houses.

It’s lucky number seven for my girl, my Supergirl – the girl who rocks Christmas every year and rocks my world every day. She is the perfect antidote for my grumpiness, my cynicism. She’s intrepid, optimistic, irrepressible and happy. But she’s no Pollyanna, my Supergirl. She’s funny and mischievious and wise beyond her years. She is high energy, low maintenance, creative and busy. If you need someone to pull you out of a funk, she’s the man for the job.

For me, December was kind of gross this year. I’m not sure why, but I wasn’t feeling it. I clomped around like a grinch and a scrooge and a bitch all wrapped up in one tawdry package. The cloying smell of cloves, cinnamon and allspice wafting around the stores was enough to make me wretch. Scented candles – barf. Potpourri – double barf. Christmas carols set my teeth on edge. Every gift I bought for the kids had me mentally calculating what was going to have to go in order to keep us from overcrowding and mahem. Every line I stood it, I’d sullenly survey the others wondering whether they needed all that stuff, whether they could afford all that stuff. And I wondered the same about myself. The excess, the forced merriment, the consumption, the waste – it was looming large for me and I knew I had but one choice – beat it down, overcome my angst, and get my game face on because of the four other cats in this house who happen to love Christmas and who happen to deserve Christmas.

As it turns out, this was the best Christmas in memory. We had tons of snow, tons of time together as a family, some delicious meals, and the best reason of all to celebrate on Christmas Day: Supergirl. Oh pishposh, I know Jesus was born too, but you know what? Right now, Jesus isn’t the one tagging every paper surface in the house with increasingly peculiar and witty drawings. He’s not the one who takes everything in stride in a family of moody bastards. He’s not the one who skips to do me favors. He’s not the one who makes me laugh every day. Supergirl is. 

Happy birthday, girl. Keep on doing all the things you do, exactly as you’re doing them. Keep on shining that light, baby. I love you.

Lady Doctah K and Doctor Mister Lady Doctah K throw a lovely holiday party every year. It is elegant and pretty, warm and inviting. There are beautiful flower arrangements, delicious food, lovely wines and a well stocked bar. And. And there is always a gaggle of loud rowdy women from book club who storm in lookin’ all fancy with bemused partners in tow, get their hands on a cocktail within seconds and start to surf the waves of shrieks and cackles that crash through the house for the duration of the fest. I describe this as if I am nothing more than a detached observer to the phenomenon, a curious sociologist scribbling notes, when truth be told I may actually, kind of, sort of be in the midst of the ruckus. This year Doctor Dash was on-call and Lady Shutterbug was also stag, which I think upped the ante a little bit. Without the calming influences of our well behaved hubbies, we went in fast and hard on the gin and tonics and ended up staying until two a.m. Although this hardly explains Lady Homeslice’s behavior, as Mister Lady Homeslice was in da house and she still managed to titillate a group of innocent fireside sitters with her silver panted gyrations. Twice! Oh, it was beautiful. By the end of the night my bookish sisters were screaming and dancing to Tom Petty, getting their sequins all tangled up and laughing. Laughing and laughing. 

I can’t even figure out why we laugh so much. Half the time no one has even said anything and there we are, eyes locked on one another, horse faces in full neigh (OK, maybe that’s just me), the hysterics bubbling forth like a shaken bottle of champagne. There’s a piece of it that’s purely and joyfully auditory. Every one in the book club has an uh, umm, uhhh, robust laugh. So if one person starts, it’s hard not to follow. This month we’re reading Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates who describes Goldie, one of the members of the girl gang, as follows: “(she was) famous for her hyena laugh which had the unnerving power to draw your laughter with it whether it was your wish to laugh or not or whether there was logic to such laughter or not . . . ”  So there’s a bit of that, except everyone’s a Goddamn Goldie, so you can imagine. Also, I think that because month after month we delve into all sorts of difficult issues through our books, the emotional barriers between us are gauzy, stretched almost to the point of transparency. When you talk about books, you’re really talking about yourself a lot of the time. I feel like I’m always right there at the surface with these guys, hence the hair trigger tipping into laughter. And finally, but most simply, there’s the obvious fact that being as smart as they are, these ladies are funny – plain and simple. They just say and do funny things. They crack my ass up. Alas, Lady Doctah Poodle and Lady Peace had left by the time Lady Shutterbug unearthed her camera and some of the other ladies were MIA, but, hey, there’s always next year (or next month).

In the post mortem flurry of emails, Lady Tabouli wrote something to the effect of: Did you ever think you’d meet women who would make you laugh like this in your late thirties and forties? The answer for me is a resounding no. I never thought I would. But I have. And I thank my lucky stars for the giggly gift of them.

I haven’t had time to write because I’m in the balls out planning stages for a Chilean Argentine Feast that we’re hosting with La Chilenita and her hubby, Sporty Scrivener, this Friday night. This whole week has been a flurry of emails, menu tweaking, ingredients sourcing, linen ironing, tomato fondling and taste testing. I test drove the skirt steak from Clancey’s, prepared it a couple different ways, Dash scribbled notes on graph paper, we looked at each other while we chewed. Yes. Good. I have literally purchased tomatoes from three different places and tried them all in search of something that approaches tasty. Alas, this is not the time of year for delicious tomatoes, so I picked the most flavorful, albeit unripe variety from the Linden Hills Coop and stashed them on my windowsill. Every day I examine them to determine their ripening progress: I gingerly probe them, take their temperature, listen to them with a stethoscope, eyeball them, sniff them and probe them some more. I have an elaborate plan should they lag behind. They need to be perfect by Friday and it is a delicate dance to coax them to perfection. Don’t make me do it, I whisper, knowing no one will be happy if I have to stuff them into a paper bag with an apple. I’m not even sure this works with tomatoes like it does with avocados and bananas, but desperate times call for desperate measures. La Chilenita is running around town doing much the same because this feast needs to be GOOD.

This dinner was part of our parish’s live auction and proof positive that chivalry is not dead. Last spring found me at the annual gala, on crutches and stag (Dash was on-call). I wasn’t going to go, but I got a few calls, and you know me, I HATE to miss a party. My Little Springroll and her hubby Runner Laddie kindly gave me a ride, carried my clutch, signed me up for stuff, got me wine and generally clucked over me and made sure I was fine, which I was, if a little pathetic. I was, however, fretting that our dinner would be allowed to blow through the room like a giant tumbleweed. When the auctioneer started to talk about it, La Chilenita was no where to be found, I had no way to escape and so I went into full cringe-hide-under-the-tablecloth-mode. And this is when my two heros of the night swaggered into town. Yes, maybe they wanted the dinner for 8 that much, maybe they did it for a good cause, or maybe they did it for the gimp in the feather headband nervously pretending not to pay attention to the proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, they did it for friendship. Ten Gallon and Runner Laddie had a blazin’ showdown and all of the sudden the dinner was sky high, higher than anything else and I went from full cringe to full swoon because NOW WHAT THE HELL WERE WE GONNA DO? La Chilenita and I are just little ol’ us! We’re home cooks, not fancy cooks!  And that last slew of bids had firmly pushed us into fancy terrain! Holy shit! La Chilenita and I looked at each other agog when we found each other. No worries, we’ll make it great, it’s gonna be great, it’ll be fun, it’ll be great, great, it’ll be great! we assured ourselves, knowing we had months to plan. Nothing like the balm of time. Until you run out of time. We pictured ourselves leisurely perusing cookbooks in her backyard with glasses of wine on warm summer evenings. Instead we met at Sebastian Joe’s, leaves on the ground and our hair on end.

In the end, my two gunslingers realized they were bidding against friend, not foe, split the dinner and each invited one couple, all of whom are dear friends. So all our fretting and planning and cooking and tasting is a total and complete joy. We’ve got a sexy, candlelit room planned, a festive and sultry playlist, beautiful wines and a menu that we’re proud of. La Chilenita and I decided we would cook for our friends as if they were in a South American home. We’ll cook with time, we’ll cook with care and most importantly, we’ll cook with love. And if if turns out a little bit fancy? Well, tanto mejor!