At the rate I’m going, I’ll be ready for Christmas by February December 15, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: As we enter the 10-day countdown to Christmas, I say treat yourself to a good bottle of port wine, and each night, to reward yourself for a full day of accomplishments, pour a small amount in your most multi-faceted wine glass and sip it while appreciating the lights reflecting on the glass. An excellent and therapeutic waste of time. The Wall Street Journal’s Tastings column reviewed a number of ports recently and I am going to try Quinta do Crasto, which they described as “Best value. Absolutely lovely wine, with remarkable drinkability. Soulful and satisfying.” Sounds like the price ranges quite a bit, but averages around $50. Remember, with port, a small sip goes a long way.

Has the stress of the holidays gotten to you yet?

You would know if it had — you would have screamed at the cat, withheld dinner from the dog until his manners improved, or gritted your teeth and growled at your teenager. Luckily (for him) my husband has been out of town for a couple days. Unluckily (for him) it was a high of like 7 degrees where he went, while we had 64 degrees yesterday. But it wasn’t like I could lounge by the pool.

Christmas is a wonderful time of year, don’t get me wrong. I just seem to handle it poorly.

I’ve decided that I am the single most inefficient person on Earth. I’ve been observing my friends — especially my friends who work — and they accomplish SO much more in a given day than I do.

Who am I kidding? People in retirement homes accomplish more than I do in a day.

So this morning, I spent valuable time evaluating the way that I waste time. The irony of this inefficient use of time is not lost on me. I learned it from observing our government at work.

Let’s look at the last 24 hours.

I needed to mail one more package to out-of-town people. This was going to Connecticut; I had mailed one to Florida and one to Atlanta last Friday. Because there was no line when I went on Friday, I decided to go to the same UPS store on Monday. So I loaded it in the car and drove 8 miles to the “tried-and-true” UPS, passing not one but TWO other UPS stores on the way.

The young guy who had waited on me, very efficiently, on Friday, was busy, so a crusty man who smelled like an ashtray came out of the back. He had a glob of yellow mustard by his mouth and it was 10 a.m. I don’t know what he eats for breakfast but none of the options I thought of sounded very good.

So he measured the box, whipping his tape measure faster than my eyes could register, put it on the scale and pronounced that it was gonna cost me $32 to send it to Connecticut.

“Huh?” I said, “I don’t want any insurance or anything.”

“None on it,” stinky man said, grabbing the debit card I was holding.

“Hold on. I mailed two boxes to Florida and Atlanta on Friday and they were $12 and $13. And one of them had an iron candleholder in it. This weighs four pounds less.”

“Huh,” he said. “Oh, yeah. This place is really off the beaten path.”

“WHAT?” I was getting bitchy and it felt good. “It’s not going to freakin’ GUAM. Every town in Connecticut is just behind a stand of trees off of either I-95 or the Merritt Parkway.”

“Let me measure it again,” he said, whipping the measure around like a rodeo cowboy.

“It’s the same box as the others. I bought them all at once.”

So he gives me this crap about how he’ll round down the measurements and a quarter inch can make a huge difference. And the whole time, he’s got one of the ends at least an inch past the end of the box. Bottom line is, it cost $7.80 … and I know why there were no lines there.

What should have taken five minutes took 25 minutes. Not my fault.

Then I needed ONE thing at the mall. I hate the mall. But I found a good spot, parking next to a car with a giant Grinch sticking out of its sunroof (not in any way related to this story, except to illustrate how easily sidetracked I am). I found the item immediately. Then I decided to check out a store halfway across the mall, looking for something for my niece. Well, two and a half hours  later, juggling packages, I was cutting through a store on the way to my car.

I spotted something that looked great for my daughter. After careful deliberation, I finally just decided to go for it. I put down the one that I’d been looking at, thinking that because it was in the front it was probably worn out from people’s eyes (like how you never buy the front magazine in the checkout line, duh) and grabbed the one behind it.

Except when I got home, the one behind it was a large and she needs a small.

To be smart, I called the store and had them put the small behind the counter and headed back to the mall. Excellent. Rush hour. It took me a full hour to get to the mall. Now I was pissed at glared at stupid Santa on my way past.

On the way home, I stopped at the grocery to get all the non-perishables I’d need for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners! Aren’t you impressed? But it took me an hour and a half to get about 25 items. And if I hadn’t found my friend Molly there, I would’ve looked for the water chestnuts for another 15 minutes. Now that I think about it, I hate water chestnuts. Texture like cartilage and they squeak on your teeth. Ick.

Then this morning, I was determined to recover the seat on my daughter’s desk chair because the pink, lime and orange stripe looked like crap in her green-and-black bedroom. I’ve been meaning to do for two months.

Should just take a minute.

I went downstairs, out to the garage, got the staple gun, cut through the kitchen for the scissors, upstairs to the chair, oops, forgot a screwdriver to get the seat off, back to the garage, grab the Phillips, back upstairs, damn, need a flat screwdriver to get the old staples out, downstairs, step on something really squishy in the garage, chant “not a spleen, not a spleen, not a spleen,” while limping to the laundry room, put socks in the washer, start it, back to garage in shoes now, get the screwdriver, upstairs, remove staples, except a bunch just straightened and I couldn’t pull ‘em out, garage,  needle nose pliers, upstairs, successfully change the cover. Return all materials to the garage (in one trip!) … total time elapsed: 55 minutes.

See what I’m saying? And my legs are so freakin’ sore, between my little jaunt to the mall and the treks up and down the stairs, that it’s no wonder I snapped at the dog’s bad manners.

And there are still 10 days of this madness ahead.

Random musings from an overcaffeinated, underutilized brain December 11, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: On our recent girls’ night out, my friend Tippi tried and loved a glass of Zolo Malbec (2006). It is described as, “an attractive and intense violet color, with black fruits, berries and raspberries flavors and finish complexity and elegance.” It, like many Malbecs, is from Argentina and is very reasonably priced. Have a glass while decorating the Christmas tree … fewer calories and much prettier than eggnog!

WOW! I don’t know if it is the 50-mile-per-hour winds, the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping or the scads of coffee that I’ve consumed lately, but for the past few days, my mind has been moving a mile a minute. I can’t keep up. Some of the thoughts were so deep and Thoreau-esque that I just HAD to write them on the back of a receipt at stop lights, after I was done texting.

Here are some of the random thoughts that have been BEGGING TO BE LET OUT:

I am going to blow right off the road and into the holler and then a lonely hunter will happen by and either shoot me or have his way with me. Never again – no more high-profile vehicles. I thought they meant it would make ME high profile.

OMG, the lights flickered while I was in the bookstore. Damn it! If our power goes off again, before we get the generator, I will cut my husband into tiny pieces and burn him in the fireplace for warmth.

Look at me, eating an orange for lunch when there’s a whole new box of PopTarts in the pantry. I promise to eat one every day to boost my vitamin C and  fend off any chance of the flu. Oh, shit. Did I wash my hands before I started eating this? How many stores was I in today?

Holy cow! Look how far the wind threw that rocking chair. I wonder whose newspaper that is? Oh, no … where’s the bag of disgusting smelling cat poop that we put on the side of the shed for distant storage until trash day?

I wonder if people in the Junior League crave Easy Mac.

Ack! They said the S-word on the radio. THE word. If I get snowed in with only one bottle of wine in the house, I’ll blow my head off. Well, I could drink the pink wine that my friends Jan and Sue didn’t finish last time they were here …

Janet Napolitano has a man’s voice.

Great. The wind is blowing toward the Big House street. Is that our trash bag?

A gelding is a castrated horse or mule; is there a word for a castrated Tiger?

What am I thinking? Pink wine? Oh my, what’s happening to me? Is this a manifestation of menopause? I wonder if anyone goes to an AA meeting and says, “My name is Ashley and I must be an alcoholic because I thought about drinking pink wine.” Maybe it’s more suitable for confession.

I think I may be developing a crush on the guy with the long, dirty hair on the FreeCreditReport.com commercials. I even like him in his tights at the Renaissance Faire.

If I just passed up the mini Snickers and bought ribbon candy and spice drops for the Santa candy dish, does that mean that I’m a Mimi? OhmyGod, how old AM I?

I wonder if Fox News is hiring any mature news babes? I have to find a new career.

How can dogs have such fast tongues and why do they only lick you inside your mouth right after they gnaw on their butts?

OK, that is the VERY last item I buy for myself while Christmas shopping.

Here’s a great tip I should pass on to my twelderly friends: If you have to go out front to plug in or unplug your festive, glittery lights and you cuss a blue streak about getting too cold when you do it, wait until you’re having a hot flash and kill two birds with one stone.

If you’re friends with someone on Facebook, can you cut them off your Christmas card list? I mean, really, they know about every move you’ve made in the last year. Do you really need to send them the blah-blah-blah-graduating-blah-blah-blah-new dog-blah-blah-blah-salvaged the job-blah-blah? I vote gone. If they know the date of your last trip to Target, they’re off.

Isn’t using a snow blower like vacuuming and then dumping the contents of the vacuum cleaner bag on the periphery of the room?

Today is colder than a witch’s titty. I learned that cute little phrase from my Mimi. Oh, no, the spice drops and now this.

The chia cat planter is hideously ugly. The only way it’ll look worse is when the cat eats all the grass and pukes all over the hideously ugly planter.

I wonder what percentage of my rapidly selected gifts are returned by 2 p.m. the day after Christmas?

I think I’ve given the Salvation Army at least two hundred dollars, one bill at a time. And there’s still sixteen more days. I wonder if the little ringer people have tax receipts?

Along those same lines, I wonder if the Salvation Army people know that the bell ringer at Hobby Lobby was singing rap music the other day?

These tidbits were stimulated by too much talk radio:

Some man in Japan got married to a Nintendo character in a real-live wedding with a roomful of real-life fellow psychotics. I suppose he didn’t like the Wii girl because she kept beating him at tennis. I’ve met some people who look like PacMan, but no one that’s the exact shade of yellow. I’ve never considered marrying them.

I actually just learned a religious fact from a guy from Mannheim Steamroller. Wow. Maybe I am headed for the pink wine.

And finally, a recurring thought and one that I will have to resolve:

I wonder if Rick Springfield still has a shag.

People. We need to find me a job.

Low expectations and a gentle buzz make holiday shopping a pleasure December 8, 2009

Suggested wine for today’s entry: Here’s one of my notes from girl’s night out last Friday — we all enjoyed the Banfi Le Rime, a blend of chardonnay and pinot grigio, from Tuscany. It was described as “light, dry, crisp with some pear, apple and peach,” and we found it to have a nice touch of acidity. Very inexpensive and perfect for toasting to a successful shopping day!

I have never liked browsing in stores. I also don’t like crowds, parking lots, traffic or carrying things. Oh, and the sound of bells. I’m starting to hate those too.

At the risk of sounding like Scrooge, I will stipulate right up front that I love Christmas. I just hate Christmas shopping.

The problem is, I am used to running into a store, grabbing exactly what I need, which is generally a replacement pair of jeans in the same style and size that I bought in the same store six months ago. Or a black sweater. Or a jacket — any jacket. So, as you can see, I generally go to one store, one department, one time. If they don’t have exactly what I’m looking for, I just buy something else. Done.

But when you’re buying a gift, you have to get something that they either 1)asked for; 2)are seriously lacking; or 3)can return easily.

Thank goodness that I have embraced the value of option number 3.

Otherwise, I’d be one of those people who you see standing there with shopping bags lined up their arms, their purse dumping out on the floor, holding up an ugly lavender sweater in one hand and an ugly brown sweater in the other.

They’ll hold one higher for a second, tilt their head, stare at it, then lower it and raise the other one, tilt head the other way, squint, bite their lip …

Really? It’s that hard? What are you thinking about? Well, she looks lovely in lavender and it’s oh-so-feminine and she could probably wear it well into the spring, what with it being a pastel and all, and if it’s $30 and I have the 20% off coupon, which would make it, ummm… let’s see, if 10% is, uh, … yeah, if 10% is … Oh, I don’t know. The brown one will look better with those manly khakis she always wears. And the color matches her roots when she waits too long between appointments. It’s also built a little bigger, just in case that weight comes creeping back. But it’s $40 and my coupon doesn’t work on this brand, well, wait, maybe it does, but I can’t get it out right now because I have all these damn bags hanging off my arms and oh, crap, I just dropped a tampon out of my purse. Did anyone see? I can’t feel my left hand. This stuff is heavy. You know, screw it. She’s gonna just have to keep her stupid weight off — I’m getting the $30 one. Wait! Which one was the $30 one? If I can j-u-s-t turn the tag around with my mouth, there … no, no, don’t flip back around til I read you, you stupid tag…

Why do they do that to themselves? And do they do it with every gift? Yikes.

Here are my shopping tips:

1) If you have to mail it, it must be smaller than a pack of cards. Actually, a pack of cards makes an excellent gift. They travel exceptionally well, and who doesn’t like cards? I mean, you can play poker, blackjack, Go Fish …

2) If someone asks for a sweater, get a really obscure color. That way they probably don’t already have it. Like get a guy a pink sweater. It’ll drive him crazy, wondering what made you think to get him a pink sweater.  It’ll give him warmth and mental stimulation for the whole day. Or if someone is say, fair complexioned and looks washed out in yellow, give them a yellow sweater and a tube of self-tanner. Theme gift.

3) Never buy anything that doesn’t come in a box. Wrapping presents sucks enough without trying to wedge an unwieldly candleabra into a too-small gift bag.

4) Shop with a friend. Share a little pre-game festivity before shopping (like tailgating in the mall parking lot); it makes the whole process more pleasant. It does, however, make it more difficult to calculate anticipated coupon savings, but you tend to care less about the final cost. Also, it gives you a goal of finishing before your buzz wears off. Reward yourself with a little refresher at the hot dog place that serves beer in the food court. N-i-c-e. Now there’s the spirit!

5) If someone butts in front of you, you are allowed to retaliate. Say you’re in the line at Macy’s — and, trust me, during their one-day sale that I happened to stumble into yesterday, someone will most certainly butt in front of you — you are allowed to retaliate. I just looked the other way and kicked the wheel of her walker and she trotted off a little to the left, and while she was recovering her balance I reclaimed my rightful place in the queue. Some people have a lot of nerve!

6) Never shop hungry. I don’t know why they put stupid Godiva chocolates by the checkout in the sock department; except for the soft “o” sound, the two hardly seem related. But there they are, and I figure if they can lure me, they can lure anybody. I hate chocolate.

7) If you don’t want to juggle all your bags while digging through your purse for the necessities, put these items in your pocket: Your keys, your phone and about twenty one-dollar bills, folded into skinny wedges that will fit into the red bucket. That is, unless you want those bells to haunt you all day.

8) If you find yourself getting tired and despondent, mess with someone’s head. It’s a sure pick-me-up. My favorite is to go out into the packed parking lot, start up one aisle with your keys out and wait until someone starts to follow you slowly because they want to get your spot. Then immediately cut across to another aisle. Wait for them to whip around the corner, way too fast, lest they lose their claim on you. Then drop your keys, pick ‘em up slowly, stop and answer your phone, … then cut through to the aisle where your car really is. Listen for them to screech around the corner, then open your trunk and, one by one, put your bags in. Then stride purposefully back into the store. This is important: Remember to re-lock your car.

I hope I’ve been helpful. Happy shopping!

Ye Gods, I’m becoming a twelderly! December 4, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Since I’m going out with the girls tonight, I looked over the menu for our destination to see what I might be in the mood for … and now I’m very excited to announce that I plan to try a totally new wine. It’s called Luna Freakout and it’s a blend of 41% Chardonnay, 38% Sauvignon Blanc, 13% Pinot Grigio, and 8% Ribolla Gialla. It is described as “a complex wine with multiple layers of exotic fruit, soft citrus, honey and spice … intense aromas of tropical fruit and orange peel combine with rich flavors of dried apricot, spice and toasted nuts to create a lush texture and brisk mouthwatering finish.” It sounds really good! And I’ll enjoy ordering the “Freakout.”

I am afraid that I am becoming a twelderly and it is just as awful and awkward as it was being a tween.

Well, nothing will ever be as bad as being the only one who didn’t wear a bra when it was time to change into those hideous gym suits. But, as it is with a tween, being a twelderly is like having two different people living in one body.

I mean, on one hand, I’m still as hip and happening as I ever was … which wasn’t exactly avant-garde, as evidenced by my use of the phrase “hip and happening.”

On the other hand, I’m doing very disturbing things that can only mean one thing: I’m on that slippery slope toward being decrepit. (Isn’t that an awesome word? My friend Becky is the only other person who uses it in everyday conversation.)

Since it’s hard to explain, I’ll just give you some examples:

Yesterday I went shopping at the Gap (hip and happening)

While I was there, my phone, which was on the loudest setting, rang enough times (like two full phone calls) that finally an exasperated employee tapped me on the shoulder , maybe a little harder than she needed to, and said really loudly and slowly like I used to talk to my Mimi, “YOUR PHONE IS RINGING.” (decrepit) She even pointed to my butt, just in case I was so feeble I wouldn’t be able to find it.

When I went to pull it out of my Banana Republic jeans (hip and happening)…

I dropped it on the floor and the battery skittered under a rack of clothes. (decrepit)

When I got on my hands and knees, all the crap in my purse poured out. There were like 13 Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, a pencil sharpener, about 5 used pull-tab lottery tickets and a wallet, which of course wasn’t zipped, so I think around 13 dollars in change rolled to every corner of the store. (amazingly decrepit)

Luckily, I’d bought new undies the day before, so when I crawled on my hands and knees through the store, at least I didn’t have granny panties halfway up my back. (hip and happening … at least for today)

Then I found some super cool black skinny jeans on the sale rack and I got them to wear tucked into my trendy boots, so that I can look just like my daughters (hip and happening) …

…except for my face, neck, and saggy places. (decrepit)

I didn’t want the people at the Gap to know my name, for obvious reasons, so I dusted off my knees and paid cash, pulling a crumpled twenty out of my pocket and counting out a dollar twenty from the recently reclaimed coins I had clutched in my hand. Then I composed myself and headed to the car. I was very pleasantly surprised that, for once, I didn’t set the stupid alarm off when I went through the door. (Well, if I did, I didn’t hear it — which is COMPLETELY feasible, given that I don’t hear my phone from my back pocket.) At any rate, I wasn’t detained by a mall cop. (hip and happening)

But I couldn’t find my car for about five minutes. (decrepit)

Once in the car, I slid open my cool green slide phone and called my daughter. (hip and happening)

…but I meant to call my mother. (decrepit)

And when I realized what I’d done, I called myself a dodo bird. Really. I said dodo bird. Aloud. (c’mon, don’t do this to me. I’m not ready for the home).

But since the phone was already ringing, I went ahead and told my daughter about the cool pants I’d scored for $19.99 and she was TOTALLY impressed. (ok, this seems hip and happening, but is actually a glimpse of the delusional qualities that are manifesting themselves recently. In reality, she was probably more horrified of the visual of me in skinny jeans than she was impressed with my shopping prowess.)

Then I stopped and vacuumed out my rugged SUV because tonight is girls’ night out! (hip and happening)

But I forgot to wash the masses of dog snot off the back window. At least it’s in a cool ribbon-candy design where he leaned left and right with each turn and sunk lower and lower in the seat until he finally put his head down and let his nose drain on the grocery bag filled with canned goods for charity. (that’s just yucky)

But now I’m thinking that I’ve gotten all my decrepitness out of my system for the week.

So today, we’ll head to my friend Cebette’s – who lives in an uber-cool part of town, perhaps purchase some of her handmade jewelry, then have a glass of wine at a cutting-edge establishment, then peruse the wares of upscale vendors in a new shopping village … and I will make a concerted effort to stay hip and happening the whole evening!

I’ll just have to be a little more, uh, alert. Let’s see, Jody can listen for my phone, Beth can remember where the car is, and I’ll zip my purse AND wallet. Yeah, baby, time to put on my skinny jeans and boots — lookout!

Oh, and I just wrote this on my hand in Sharpie: ”DO NOT SAY DODO BIRD.”

Now I’m ready.

Redeemer and travel agent all in one … can it work? December 2, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Thinking about becoming a travel agent (in my 4 Runner) with California as a destination led my synapses to a favorite chardonnay from a wonderful winery: Grgich Hills Estate chardonnay is, according to their site, ”a wine that is alive with delicious acidity. This aromatic wine is rich with aromas of ripe peach, mango and tropical flowers, plus a note of minerality. Showcase this Chardonnay’s elegance with fresh seafood, roasted chicken, grilled pork, or creamy cheeses.” At around $40, this is a GREAT gift wine or special bottle to take to a Christmas hostess!

My loyal readers know that I am carefully considering re-entering the work force when my youngest daughter, who hasn’t needed me for about six years, goes away to college and leaves me stranded with no child to hide behind.

But I’m not one to just jump at a new career. I already gave careful consideration to being a school crossing guard, but that analysis not only ended in an unequivocal “NO,” it also resulted in about five nasty nightmares over the past few months. Now I realize that the black Escalade that barrels toward me in the dreams is being driven by Tiger Woods. Yikes.

Anyway, I’ve been mulling over an entrepreneurial endeavor for which I feel I may be ideally suited. With no children at home, I would have freedom to do a little traveling. But because I am a real go-getter, I’m thinking of a double-dipping career. Check this out:

After doing careful research, I found that some states still offer money for the return of empty bottles. Well, I kinda stumbled on this information, as I pulled out a four-bottle-pack of Kahlua Mudslides that I think I bought in about 2002. They sounded good then; now I believe they contain curdled milk so I’m afraid to open them.

But here’s the plan: I will be a professional bottle redeemer. I am thinking of spending the first three weeks of each month at area bars, where I will either drink oodles of beers and slip the empty bottles into a large designer tote (business expense) or I will drink wine and sweet talk the bartenders into giving me the empty bottles.

I will take a lot of friends with me and we will all amass a huge quantity of bottles just begging to be redeemed for anywhere from 5 cents to 10 cents!

Exciting prospects, I know … but there’s more!

The last week of each month, I will lead private tour groups to the states that will allow me to cash in my collection. From what I’m gathering, (again, from my research on the Mudslide bottle), I will show excited Kentuckians a great time in either Michigan, Iowa or Maine. Those will be my summer offerings and I’m not sure exactly what the trip will entail, but you will certainly want to sign up early, because I’ll be taking the group in my Toyota 4Runner, and since the way back will be filled with clinking beer bottles, there will only be room for four tourists in the vehicle.

I’ve only been to Michigan twice — I remember little from the first trip, where I apparently went skiing in Boyne Mountain. I have a vague memory of barrelling rapidly down a hill with limbs askimbo and a bunch of people with annoying accents screaming W-A-A-T-C-H O-U-U-U-T as they scrambled from the lift line. (Watching people scramble in cumbersome skis is funny unless you’re about to hit a building.)

I can’t, in good conscience, offer to take my happy travelers there, because I inflict too much pain on innocents when I ski.

I also went to Lansing once, and I will probably include a tour of the gym where my daughter attended gymnastics camp as well as the Holiday Inn with the cloud of chlorine encircling it, much the same as Pig Pen’s dirt cloud embraces him.

I’ll have to do some research on Iowa and Maine, but you can trust me to only offer the best.

Now, as for the winter trips … hold on to your hats! If my Mudslide bottle is correct, we’ll be taking the 4Runner to California and … since I THINK the HI code stands for Hawaii … you got it! Sign up NOW!

I have been to California, and I’ll be happy to drive clients past the Rose Bowl (where the NY Giants defeated the Denver Broncos in 1987) and I’ll also be happy to show you a restaurant I liked in La Jolla. I managed to get on the wrong side of the tracks while by myself in San Diego and I don’t guess I should take paying customers there. I don’t want to be messing with stuff like liability insurance and all.

As for Hawaii, again — I feel good that I have some expertise as a travel agent here as well. I will take my four lucky passengers to the big island, where I squeamishly gagged during the traditional luau. This time I’ll know to divert my vegetarian eyes before they unveil the poor dead pig that looks like it just experienced spontaneous combustion.

In order to keep profits high and expenses low, I will pose as a stupid 15-year-old with the word “sex” in my e-mail address. This will certainly lure in a lonely whack-o in each state, from whom I’ll extract a description of his house (to make sure it’s suitable) and an address. Then the 4-Runner will pull up and I’ll get out first, dressed as a cop. After he runs out the back door, we’ll set up shop. Done.

I’m thinking that I’ll be able to charge a pretty penny for these exclusive tours/bottle redemption jaunts. You’re gonna want to sign up early.

Oh, and if anyone wants to assist with the three-week bottle emptying tasks, come on! I’m considering having polo shirts made for all my employees. Can you say “super perk”?

If anyone has a friend with a boat big enough to get the 4Runner to Hawaii a couple times each winter, let me know. That’s a bit of a sticky wicket.

I miss its quirky little spin cycle November 30, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: As the weather is finally getting cool, I’m going to recommend a glass of Peppoli Chianti and a cozy warm fire for tonight. Here’s a funny coincidence: this wine was the next of my in-laws’ recommendations from their trip to Italy that I was planning to use. And when I saw my sister this weekend, she brought me my birthday present that she’d had festively wrapped at her house since HER trip to Italy last summer. And it was the same wine! Research describes it as “ripe blackberry and raspberry, with pronounced floral and mineral notes…medium- to full-bodied.” Ahh…light the fire, turn on One Tree Hill and pour me a big one!

“You’ll miss me when I’m dead.”

That’s what my washing machine used to say to me when I kicked it to make it restart or I slammed the top real hard to get the spin cycle revved up.

And it was right. I really miss it.

If only I’d recognized the symptoms, it might not have happened. At least not the way that it did.

It tried to hold out for the holidays, but, as luck may have it, it chose to bid me adieu about 30 minutes before guests were expected over the Thanksgiving weekend. One minute there was a full load churning away, then POOF! With a decisive thud and a plume of acrid smoke, it was gone.

“What’s on fire?” My husband yelled from three rooms away as soon as he turned off the shower.

“Check the oven!” my daughter screamed from upstairs. “You’re burning something AGAIN!”

Always calm in those moments just before guests arrive and excellent in an emergency, I ran shrieking and half-naked into the laundry room to unplug the machine before there was a heinous explosion. “SHUT UP EVERYONE!! I DIDN’T BURN ANYTHING!! IT WAS THE WASHING MACHINE AND THIS TIME THE BASTARD ISN’T COMING BACK!”

So that is why when people got to our house I had wet hair and a pesky twitch in my left eye.

I calmed myself down with a little trick that I have involving a little visualization, a little meditation and a lot of chardonnay.

But as each new person came into the house, they sniffed and said, “Something’s on fire.” Well, I was sweet at first. “Oh, no,” I explained patiently. “The washer just burned up. But it’s out now. Here, drink this and it won’t smell as much.”

After the fourth person said it though, I was getting testy. So when someone said, “Ewww. Your house stinks of smoke,” I gritted my teeth, poured them some wine and said, quietly so that I didn’t freak anyone out, “Here. How about a nice glass of SHUT THE HELL UP?”

Anyway, we made it through the evening without anyone getting hurt. The next day, my husband went out to hunt and gather and bring me back a new washer. That should be easy, because at least 20 of the Thanksgiving Day circulars had pictures of gleaming new washers and dryers. I mean, the hard part would be deciding what I wanted: front or top load, cherry red or stainless steel, … oh, my, it reminded me of the old pre-Christmas days with the Sears catalog.

Off he went, armed with our choices and the accompanying ads. First stop, bait-and-switch. Yes, they had them, but not in stock, and unless we each had 28-35 pairs of underwear in our drawers, we were gonna need something a little sooner. Second stop, same scenerio. Third stop, basically he said, “What do you have IN STOCK?” And so now we’re getting a washer and dryer on Friday. I think they are made in Slovakia, which, as the knowledgable and helpful salesman explained to my husband, is apparently known for their excellent electronics.

At that point, we’ll have been without a washer for about a week. There is already, um, not counting my college daughter’s laundry, which she hauled all the way home and all the way back, still dirty, umm…probably 6 loads already accumulated. I’m figuring I’ll have close to 20 loads waiting for the new guy.

For now, I’m going to collect all the wet towels off the floors and hang them up. My daughter will actually have to use the same towel twice — not sure how that’ll go over. Then I have to go buy underwear, because I’m already down to just granny panties. They’re fine as long as I don’t need to bend over. But if you wear granny panties and low-rise jeans, bending over can lead to an ugly and humiliating sight. Once my phone rang while I was getting my hair cut and I leaned over to get it from my purse that was on the floor. My hairdresser, Susan, actually gasped out loud. We laugh about it now but it was mortifying at the time.

Ironically, I almost bought some undies the other day, but the ones I picked up turned out to be a thong. Well, I’m not quite hip enough for that action. In fact, I felt my face turn blood red when I saw what I’d picked up and I actually did the whole frantic head-swivel thing to make sure no one saw me, then I flung it down with a disgusted look on my face. Good Lord, you would’ve thought I’d gotten caught by my minister in the sex toy shop.

So I’m understandably nervous about my underwear shopping. But you know what they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

RIP my little Whirlpool friend. It’s been a nice 12 years.

You won’t find ME trampled in the TV department November 28, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Here’s another Italian wine suggested by my in-laws: the Salcheto 2004 Chianti Colli Senesi. The Web site describes it as “lightly sweet in terms of fruit aromas, with a touch of juniper and, thanks to the American oak, a touch of vanilla. Medium bodied and fruity on the palate.” They suggest pairing it with a burger or pizza … sounds like a good combo to wean you off the turkey leftover diet!

Are you one of those Black Friday people? I think you’re either born able to tolerate it or you’re not. I’m not, for a number of reasons that include my high blood pressure, hatred of morning, dislike of shopping and phobia of crowds.

Oh, and I have never, ever had a good experience with being trampled.

I do like to watch video clips of the shoppers on the noon news while I’m having my cereal on the Friday after Thanksgiving.

I know it’s not like being there … how could it be? On TV, we only are able to discern two of the five senses.

From what I can see, it’s a lot like people waiting to run a marathon, except these people have all the cash they could gather at one time shoved into a gaping open purse, begging the guy next to them to dip his grubby little hand in and pull it out. But because people are swarming and writhing like a bucket of nightcrawlers, I don’t think you’d know you’d been robbed until you had secured the very last Wii system and stood in line, fending off scary large men who tried to wrestle it away from you, and you finally got to the cashier. THEN you’d discover that you’d been robbed. And then, as I understand it, I think the crowd is allowed to stone you.

And from what I can hear, there’s a lot of “ooof” “pow” and “kaboom” noises, as people elbow their way to prime position by the J C Penney doors. I know there are Door Buster Specials … what do they have, like three of each item on sale? But how do these people all know that every person there is vying for the same treasure that they are? There are thousands of items in those stores. What makes everyone think that the chick next to them is the enemy?

And besides, I guarantee that in those last five minutes before the doors open, sales associates are scurrying around the store hiding all the hot items in a place that only their mother knows exists. Duh.

And even if you do get a $79 microwave for $59, it’s not such a great deal after you pay the co-pay at the Immediate Care Center.

I have to use my imagination to fill in the rest of the senses. Here’s what I’ve conjured:

Smell: I think it smells yucky. Like a blend of stale beer breath, stale coffee breath, sweat, cheap perfume trying to cover sweat, turkey-and-stuffing gas, exhaust fumes (it is a parking lot, after all) and that iron-like smell of blood. And fear. I think you can smell the fear from the poor part-time holiday help who finished training on Wednesday and this is their first day on the job.

Taste: I imagine if I were there, in the bucket of nightcrawlers, I would taste acid and/or full-fledged vomit. The older I get, the more claustrophobic I get. I mean, I freaked out when the cats had me trapped in my bed yesterday. I’d be the one who barfed on everyone and then got pummelled for barfing.

Feel: I can just about guarantee that there’s a whole lotta gropin’ goin’ on in the frenzy. I mean, if you were a creepy sick-o, why wouldn’t you plant yourself squarely in the middle of a group of people — primarily women — who 1) won’t be able to tell which person just grabbed them; 2) couldn’t get a good swing at you to retaliate; and 3) wouldn’t give up their place in line to chase you and/or prosecute you?

I spent yesterday trying to think of something, ANYTHING that would make me stand in 30-something degree weather, in the dark, with smelly people, waiting for doors to open. Nothing.

Then I thought, what if it I REALLY needed a TV and I was really poor? Then maybe I’d stand with the nightcrawlers. Nope. Because I thought back to a time when I WAS really poor and I DID need a TV (this is the way sociologists form their theories on human behavior, in case you’re interested) … it was that 6-week period between graduation and my first real job. Well, that’s not true, it was actually the 6-week period between when my parents cut me off financially (because I’d been watching Kramer Versus Kramer over and over on HBO instead of looking for a job) … between that and my first job.

I lived in a house with about eight other recent graduates and three of us were waitressing. Well, they were waitressing and I was spilling things, snapping at the manager and whining to customers. Needless to say, I wasn’t making much money. But I could have used a TV of my own. My Just-Say-No-To-Kramer-Versus-Kramer support group leader told me I needed to get out of the cycle … find new friends who didn’t bring me down like that.

THEN would I have stood outside at 3 a.m., drawn to J C Penney like a moth to a light?

No. THEN I would have led on one of the yucky old decrepit men that said lewd things to me and touched my fanny while I sloshed the soup across the restaurant.

C’mon people, big picture: Who ended up with better electronics — the chick that narrowly escaped a trampling at the mall yesterday or Anna Nicole Smith?

I hope I don’t see you on the noon news next Black Friday.

Hosting a vegetarian this Thanksgiving? No sweat! November 24, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: With the rapid approach of Thanksgiving, I returned to Dorothy Gaiter and John Brecher’s column in a recent Wall Street Journal for advice on a good wine to take to a dinner party. One of their recommendations is a 2009 Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, Chile or South Africa. A little online research led me to Stellar Organics Colombard/Sauvignon Blanc, which is described as “fruity, crisp and light.” Perfect for a meal where the food will be incredibly filling. Not only will its organic designation impress your vegetarian, but it’s also a Fair Trade wine.

The other day I reached in my mailbox and pulled out a half-dead wasp, a free maxi pad, three bills for things that we’ve already lost or broken, and this letter:

Dear Abby (or Ashley),

Help! I just found out that I am having a vegetarian for Thanksgiving dinner and I don’t know what to do! Does turkey count as meat? How do I accomodate a vegetarian? Will she be upset if I wear my leather shoes? Please help — I’m a bit high strung.

Sincerely,

Baffled Boston Baster

Well, I thought you all might be interested in my reply. As a 30-year vegetarian, (please note that the word “old” was not placed in between “year” and “vegetarian” in that sentence … unfortunately) I thought many of you might find yourselves in a similar dilemma and I am happy to shed some light on entertaining a vegetarian.

Dear Baster:

Not to be nit-picky, but I am assuming that your first sentence meant that you are having a vegetarian AS A GUEST for Thanksgiving dinner, not the meaning I initially garnered, which involved an unpleasant conjuring of cannibalism next to the horn o’ plenty.

Now, if I’m correct and you’ll be hosting a vegetarian, take a deep breath. Your shoes are likely fine — unless of course, your vegetarian is one of the 1960’s versions. If she arrives in a VW Van and there’s a really … um … sweet smell about her, leave the shoes in the bedroom. Barefoot will work fine for her anyway.

Most modern-day vegetarians are fine with leather goods. Unless you launch into tales of slaying and skinning. That’s not usually too well received. While I’m on that subject, if your husband is a hunter, you may want to hide the deer heads. I know that is not as easy as it sounds, so here’s an idea: hang a clothesline across the room and clothespin your sheets right in front of anything deceased. Oh, and in case you planned to put sunglasses and funny hats on the deer heads, drop the idea. It is not going to delude the average vegetarian.

As for the menu, I have made some suggestions into an acronym for you. It is NO SWEAT. Very simple.

N - NIX the idea of a tofurkey. Vegetarians are not looking for a substitute for the shape of the turkey. I mean, in 30 years, I don’t recall ever sitting at the Thanksgiving table and thinking, “durn, I hate that I don’t get to eat anything  with its legs tucked under it.” And besides, tofu tastes good if it’s soaked in soy sauce, and ONLY if it’s soaked in soy sauce.

O- Omit the recipes for “vegetarian entrees” you’ll find in your local newspaper. These concoctions, which generally consist of every single item in the grocery store except meat are, well, disgusting. Just because someone doesn’t eat meat, it doesn’t mean that they are craving a loaf made of squash/beans/cranberries/eggplant/Craisins/rice/ground nuts/Oreos. Oh, and gelatin to help mold it. It’s a lot of work, it’s certainly not going to appeal to the rest of the guests, and, quite frankly, it’s revolting. There was a recipe in our local paper that described it as a paste before baking. Eeks. I’d rather eat real  paste. I would be a test pilot before I’d be the first to taste that crap.

S-  Stop with the gravy. Before you ladle gravy all over the potatoes, serve the vegetarian. If one doesn’t eat meat, they rarely are open to tiny bits of gizzards or giblets or whatever is boiled down in that stuff. Turkey is a meat; all items derived from its entity are meat. Yes, even feathers.

W- Wine is the universal Thanksgiving staple. Even the Native Americans and Pilgrims shared a toast. Well, that might not be true, but had the Pilgrims not been Puritans, they would have. Fill your vegetarian’s glass extra full and she won’t miss the turkey.

E- Everyone loves green bean casserole. People who say they don’t love it are closet casserolers. Smell their breath … french fried onions? Right. They are just trying to sound classy. Double the recipe.

A- Avoid terminology and actions that conjure up visions of the turkey in its previous state. No, I don’t mean frozen; I mean alive. This includes, but is not limited to, doing a waltz with it prior to cooking (don’t laugh, my brother did this once) or even calling it “the bird.” Now I know that calling it “the bird” is quite commonplace, but you don’t cut up your kids’ steak and tell them to eat their moo cow, do you? Avoid. Along the same lines, no calling it Tom. No one wants to know his name.

T- Tricks. You may think that green beans sauteed in bacon grease or stuffing made with chicken broth don’t count as meat … but they do. Flavor derived from meat is a meat product. See S above. Better to let your vegetarian know about the trick foods. It is much nicer to allow them to avoid them than to spew them out on the fine china.

And so, Baster, remember NO SWEAT. As long as you don’t force her to watch you stuff  ”the cavity” or let your brother lead a waltz, the turkey is fine. She’ll just skip it. Ninety percent of the time, your vegetarian guest will be pleased to eat the side dishes, enjoy the conversation and maybe have a glass of celebratory wine or two.

Unless they arrive in a VW Van or carrying a bucket of red paint. Then you turn off all the lights and don’t answer the door.

Watching TV sports leaves me with advertising-induced aggression November 21, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: I just read an article in the Wall Street Journal about a type of wine that I wasn’t familiar with: a Chilean red called Carmenere. They described them as warming and peppery. After a blind tasting, they designated Terra Andina ‘Reserva’ 2007 as the best; Cono Sur 2008 was the best value. You can find more at WSJ.com/Tastings.

I spent most of today watching sports on TV, and I have a few observations about the advertising.

1. Apparently only stupid people have car wrecks.

Otherwise, personal injury lawyer advertising would have phased itself out. I call this the Natural Selection Theory of Advertising. These God-awful ads must actually be bringing in clients, or else the lawyers would have all filed bankruptcy.

I just saw one I hadn’t seen before. A distraught man (who should be more distraught about having to stand in the road in his ugly-as-shit little knit vest than he is about the wreck) is standing next to his smooshed car, which is pouring smoke from the hood, and he’s talking on the phone, asking someone, probably his parole officer, for advice.

Luckily, a talking border collie stumbles upon the unfortunate scene and guides him to the Heavy Hitter. Which brings to light a couple other credibility issues: 1) if you have 30 seconds to tell me why you are an excellent, smart, aggressive attorney, why do you have a slug line that leaves me with the message, “I’m fat”? and 2) If you are supposed to be so agressive, why do you have to have a dog do your dirty work and make the sale while you’re standing behind a hedge? Are you too fat to cross the road?

But he’s not the only personal injury lawyer with terrible advertising. There was a firm whose commercials left me with only the image of a blond bombshell turning into a tiger. I can’t even tell you the woman’s name.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a wreck. I have — of course, never my fault — but my first thought was rarely never “Gee, if I had a lawyer who could turn into a cartoon tiger, I think I could turn this unfortunate incident into a real cash cow for me.”

I haven’t seen those commercials in awhile. I think either she got to be too old to pull off the blond bombshell part of it anymore or people who were interested in that whole human-transformation-to-animal thing switched over to the Twilight series and she knew she was a has-been.

2. They need to do a truth-in-advertising test on ads for sex chat lines.

I mean, the girls that they show on the commercials are drop-dead gorgeous and, at least from what I gather, are willing to talk about current events, sports, whatever a guy wants.

So if this chick is so beautiful, smart and in tune with a guy’s every desire, why isn’t she spending her time at an upscale bar, where she will maybe lose $15 an hour in income but is likely to come away with a rich husband?

I’ll tell you why. Because they don’t look like that at all.

But first, I have an issue with the whole industry. I mean, really, buddy, are you that freaking horny and lonely? You are willing to go to work all day just to make money to spend talking to an anonymous voice on the phone? I think this is why they invented saltpeter.)

Besides, and I base this assertion on absolutely nothing, the women are probably either 68-year-old former strippers who just couldn’t give the business up completely or 300-pound school bus drivers wearing a headset and talking softly so that the kids can’t hear. Or maybe it’s really a chick who’s doing her laundry and reading the paper while she’s mindlessly babbling to this guy.

It most certainly is not the 24-year-old model who’s curled up in a chair by a roaring fire, engrossed in the conversation and seductively twirling her hair around her finger.

3. Dairy Queen needs to take a good look at the creepy floating mouth that some genius decided would be an excellent spokesmodel for their products.

They either need to lose the lipstick or replace the large man who is currently doing the voice-over with a woman. I don’t even know what a great deal I could get if I went there; I’m too dumbfounded by the floating lips’ gender issues.

4. There are no more hateable people than the couple on the Extenze commercials.

I hope one day I have the opportunity to meet the charming duo. You know, the ones who say, “Hey, I thought, that could be fun,” (at turns speaking of, apparently, a marathon sex experience and a sudden and temporary growth spurt). If I do meet them, I promise that I will slap them both, with a significant backswing first, across their faces. And I promise to swat their smug little smirks to Syracuse. Ick.

Now I’m not stupid. I know that the border collie can’t really talk; desperate, horny men don’t really care what the sex-talking chick looks like; those talking lips are just a cartoon and not a gender-conflicted person at all; and the smug sex addicts are actors, not real-life sex addicts.

But that doesn’t keep me from wanting to slap someone.

This getting-dark-at-5:30 crap isn’t working for me November 18, 2009

Recommended wine for today’s entry: I just this minute opened a bottle of a new chardonnay to try … 3 Blind Moose, from California. And I (hold on a minute, sipping …) I like it! I know, it sounds like the old Life cereal commercial with Mikey. Well, Mikey likes it. It’s quite inexpensive and maybe a bit lighter than my usual winter chardonnay. I generally move toward either a buttery or an oaky chardonnay in the cold months. But it’s been pretty warm here, so this will do fine. As the label says, “apple, citrus and subtle oak.” Cute label, too.

Is anyone else out of whack since Daylight Savings Time started or ended or whatever the hell just happened when one day it was light out ’til like 8:00 and the next day it got dark at 5:30?

My dogs have turned into idiots, because they’re apparently not sure when they’re supposed to start their incessant nagging for their dinners. The black Lab starts that high-pitched whine that I actually think she is able to throw, because it sounds like it’s coming from an empty leather chair across the room, but when I make eye contact with her, she gives a hopeful wag, then, seeing that I’m really pissed off, she averts her eyes and it stops.

That’s how I spend 5:30 to 6:00 nowadays.

After that, because I’m trying to keep them on their 7:00 feeding schedule, I start pretending to feed them and then getting something else from the pantry. It’s actually become quite a sport and they fall for it every time. Also, I’m having a lot of tasty little appetizers before my own dinner.

I do that for awhile, because if I’m not messing with the minds of two dogs, I find that I REALLY either want to start cocktail hour or … and, believe it or not, this urge is stronger … put on my jammies and go to bed.

I think it’s called one’s circadian rhythms and if I have it, it’s the only kind of rhythm I do have. If only I had it when I was in the sorority and couldn’t clap to the beat of the songs, I wouldn’t have had to be Toto in the stupid rush skit. But that’s beside the point.

You’ll like this: I just went to ask.reference.com and entered circadian rhythm, because I know how many of you look to my blog as a source for information and scientific learning, so I wanted to validate my theory … and there’s a link to some guy’s blog that says this: August is always such a crap month in my life. August and January never fail to be the lowest They are my mild depression days when I come as close to hating myself as I ever do and everything absolutely infuriates me without reason so that I walk around all the time with my teeth clenched. … On an equally positive note… Oh, my! It even has a cuss word in the title.

Just to be clear … I am not as messed up by the early darkness as this gentleman apparently is.

But the truth is, since we changed the clocks, I just want to sleep.

Or drink. And so, in an effort to be productive and not take to my bed, I think I’ve decided to just give in to my body and start chugging at 5 o’clock. My mom has cocktail hour at 5 and she’s doing great. She can be out on a boat in the middle of the lake without her watch and with no view of the sun, and she can tell you when it’s 5 o’clock dead up.

Sometimes, after a power outage, when I need to reset my clocks, I call her and wait to hear the sound of her icemaker spitting ice into her bourbon and water. There we go, 5 o’clock, thank you very much, ma’am.

Granted, she goes to bed at like 9:30, because if she drank from 5 to midnight, she’d be sorority material herself. But when it’s this dark … and there’s not a good college hoops game on TV, I could go to bed at 9:30.

There’s like nothing else on TV that I like. Wait, I take that back. I like Glee a lot. That woman that coaches the Cheerios is hysterical. I like her … directness. And I like Wheels and the poor pregnant cheerleader who totally needs to tell that mean bonehead with the mohawk that he’s the father and let the poor guy who really wants to be a Glee clubber and not a football player off the hook. So OK, I do like that show.

But otherwise, no TV will keep me awake. Well, I like Cougartown, but only to get fashion tips from Courtney Cox. I am thinking that if I grow my hair out and get a Wonder Bra (do they make those in AA?) and lift weights for about seven hours a day, I could be like Courtney Cox and be a cougar, too.

Wait. I just went by a mirror and that’s out. Now I don’t want to watch that show anymore because it totally depresses me, making me want to take to my bed.

I have no problem sleeping for 9, 10, even 11 hours at a time. And it works out OK, except no one told the decrepit cross-eyed cat who can neither see, hear nor think anymore, about the time change. She wakes up as soon as the sun comes up, or at least as far as she knows it’s up, and she stands mere centimeters from my face until my intuition tells me there’s either a murderer or an almost-dead cat invading my room.

So if I ask the vet to drug her, I’ll be able to follow my new winter routine. It’s going to require some conditioning before I start — liver exercises and such, so that I don’t pull anything. But I think come January, when it’s cold and yucky and dark outside, you’ll be wanting to follow my lead.

I can DVR American Idol and cut right to the chase the next morning. You can watch the worthwhile parts of that show in 13 minutes.

Alright, it’s decided. Cocktails at 5, sandwich at 7, drug the cat at 9, bed at 9:30. Until they fix whatever they did to my circadian rhythm.