Go See This Movie

Every Oscar season there is one movie I get really wound up about. Last year it was “Little Miss Sunshine,” the year before it was “Brokeback Mountain, ” and about 20 minutes into “Once,” I knew that this was my movie of the year.

It’s a lovely, lovely little film, and the chemistry between the two lead actors is so intense that I was very surprised to learn that they aren’t actors at all, they’re really musicians. Which explains why the songs in this film, mostly written by the two of them, were in my head all weekend long. After listening to me rave about the movie and the music in my head for days, My Ho, being the kind of guy he is, smuggled a surprise copy of the soundtrack CD onto the driver’s seat of my car. I found it when I left for work on Monday morning.

“Falling Slowly” breaks my heart every single time (you can hear it here). And I’m humming “If You Want Me” while I’m typing this very post. If you don’t see another movie this year, seriously, go see this one.

Very Much Keeping the Doctor Away

The return of Honeycrisp apple season has become one of my very favorite things about fall. It’s an especially welcome event this autumn, during which there will be no joy of post-season play for the Twins, and no, I really don’t want to talk about that, thanks.

I bought our first Honeycrisps of the year on Monday night, and while I remembered them being delicious, the reality of these apples is sooooooo much better than I even remembered. They are so delicious that I had to lay down an allocation as soon as I brought them into the house—one per Goddess/DemiGoddess per day—because last year the Demis demolished five pounds of them in two days.

(Eat the cookies! Snack on chips! Walk up to the McDonald’s and buy yourselves a couple of Big Macs! But stay away from the Honeycrisps, you fresh-fruit gluttons!)

They're big apples. One per day is not unreasonable.

The Demis were not happy about the rationing, but clever Demi the Younger has found a way to prolong enjoyment of her daily allotment by cutting her apple in half in the morning. One half goes into her lunch, and the other half she stashes in the refrigerator for after school. She even sprinkles the after-school half with a little lemon juice so it doesn't turn brown before she gets home.

They are exactly THAT good.

But these morsels of September heaven also present a problem. The crisp, the juicy, the crunching and lip-smacking and “mmmmm-mmmmmm-mmmmm…” noises are impossible to stifle here in cubicle-land. So this morning when I arrived at work I apologized in advance to the co-worker in the next cube over. Because Honeycrisp apples are cannot be eaten quietly, and I don't think I can wait until lunch.

Seriously.

Is there anything better than driving around on a sunny day with the windows rolled down and the music turned up loud enough to annoy all the neighbors?

Make way for the funk-tastic Nano-licious Goddess mobile, Bitch-ez.

Last Christmas My Ho's Youngster made me a mix CD as a gift, which I thanked him for sincerely and then didn't listen to until, like, February. Because I was afraid.

The Youngster is a member of a high-school garage band named "Ocelot Slaughterhouse." I have never seen them perform in person, but one time My Ho played a CD for me, which Ocelot Slaughterhouse had recorded in one band members' parents' basement or something, and while their enthusiasm was admirable, I found the music to be a smidge heavy on the screaming for my taste. I was pretty sure that this mix disk probably contained a lot of the same.

In fact, there is a little of the screamy stuff on it, but a lot of it is really not all that bad. In fact, some of it is really pretty good, and by bands I probably never would have heard of if not for his gift.

I became so obsessed with one song in particular, "Certified," by Diverse, that when my Nano finally arrived, I went straight to iTunes and downloaded the whole album. I'm sure I look very cutting edge, a thirty-something mother of two driving around in an aged white Honda Civic, blasting the hip-hop music through her iPod. You can call me G-mom. The Original Goddess.

It is, as the kids say, tight.

I Have an iPod!

I have an iPod!
I have an iPod!
I have an iPod!

I pretended for a really long time that I didn't want one at all, because I didn't WANT to want one. But really I DID. And now I have one of my very own, and it is all silvery and awesome and full of This American Life podcasts and music that is inapproproate for children.

Joy.

Maybe With a Squeeze of Fresh Lime

It’s been a few days since I posted, so I thought that today I’d share the e-mail I wrote this morning in response to my lovely sister’s inquiry as to how I’m doing:

Well, yesterday I took the morning off of work to try and fix a pipe that was leaking water all over my basement. I thought I had fixed it, and it IS better, but it's still dripping. I think I put a part on wrong, which means I have to take it all apart again. Just about every six months, it seems, some random bit of my house starts dripping/leaking/spurting water. It's awesome.

Last night I busted a DemiGoddess (who shall remain nameless) in the middle of chatting online in Facebook. I've told the Demis that they're not allowed to do online chat rooms, and My Space is forbidden. I never mentioned Facebook specifically, but given that it wasn't until my third inquiry that she finally admitted what she was doing, I'm pretty sure she knew I would not be okay with it. The cable modem is in my purse until further notice.

Yesterday after a visit to her friend's house, the other DemiGoddess (who shall also remain nameless) walked in the door and said to me, "This is going in my memoir, and you are NOT going to look good." My offense? Making her walk home from her friend’s house, which is half a mile away (the same distance as the coffee shop that she walks to at least once a week). With gas at $3.40 a gallon, I will not be driving her a half mile to anywhere.

I didn’t bother to mention that the only reason she got to go to her friend's house after school at all was because I was so distracted by the dripping pipe yesterday morning that I forgot to tell her I had changed my mind about letting her go based on the latest grade update on the school website. Specifically, her grade in Chorus, which was a letter that a person would basically have to be sleeping through Chorus class to receive.

After fighting unsuccessfully with our CD-R drive and ending up listening to the playlists on the Demis' iPods in the car on the way to the lake for Mother’s Day weekend, last week I finally broke down and ordered a refurbished 4 GB Nano for myself. I'm simultaneously wracked with guilt over spending money on such a frivolity and obsessively checking the "Order Status" link on the Apple website to see when it’s coming and where it is today (Sacramento).

Other than that I've pretty much been driving the Demis around (to places that are more than half a mile away) and watching crappy-ass baseball on TV.

Except for last night's game, which was magnificent.

I bought a bottle of cherry lambic at Trader Joe's last week and I'm thinking seriously about drinking the entire thing tonight while I watch the "Lost" season finale.

Aren't you glad you asked?

Neither Pampered, Nor a Chef

Last night my lovely next-door-neighbor, Leah, had a Pampered Chef® party. I am not a huge fan of these in-home shopping parties, mainly because every day is a struggle for me to contain my impulse-shopping tendencies, and that’s just at Target. I go into these gatherings with the firmest of intentions, but the sad truth is that it never takes long for the peer pressure and implied sense of obligation (I have to buy something, she made a cake!) to entirely dispossess me of my senses, and the next thing I know I’m whipping out my checkbook to purchase a Crinkle Cutter that I simply must have, so that it can sit, nestled in its protective plastic sleeve, unused in a drawer in my kitchen for years and years because, hello! I DON’T COOK!

But Leah is lovely, and I hadn’t seen her since the last time it was possible to leave the house without dying from hypothermia within seconds. Besides which, I had just finished doing my taxes, and had very recently learned that all those upgrades I made to my home computer last year are totally tax deductible “education expenses.” So I was in an optimistic mood.

I really, really wanted to order a Food Chopper, especially after Rita, the sales representative, demonstrated right there on Leah's dining room table how just a few quick presses of the knob will rotate the durable blades to perfectly chop all manner of nuts and vegetables and chocolate chips as coarsely or as finely as I might like. Nevertheless, through a goddess-like display of super-human fortitude—in spite of the fact that the Food Chopper is also top-rack dishwasher safe—I managed to limit my order to what I’m pretty sure are the five least expensive things in the entire catalog. And I can’t wait to use my new Quikut paring knife.

You know, to cut open the wrapper on a frozen pizza. Or something.

Speaking of Smack...

How much do Wednesday nights suck now that Lost is on hiatus?

Seriously. Taye Diggs is cute and all, and I even watched his show once because it came on the TV while I was in the middle of something and my hands were full and I couldn't reach the remote, so I just left it on, even though I vowed that I would never ever watch that stupid show simply on principle. And it was actually kind of interesting, in a non-Lost kind of way. But no. Just no.


The other night My Ho and I took the DemiGoddesses to see "We Are Marshall" (bring tissues, kids, it's a weeper), and the movie was okay, but every once in a while I couldn't help leaning over and whispering in My Ho's ear, "Live together, die alone..." Because, duh, that was totally Jack up there coaching the football.

And then last weekend they went and re-ran the Saturday Night Live show that Matthew Fox hosted, and I'll tell you, it was fun while it lasted, but when it was over, the emptiness was hard to bear.

If I think too much about how ABC has enslaved me with that TV show, how cruelly they teased me last fall with those six episodes, just letting me get good and settled in for a full season before--oops!--killing off Mr. Echo and then YANKING IT ALL AWAY AGAIN until February...

If I think too much about that, I start to get really, really angry.

I’d Do Much Better on the Amazing Race

My Dad’s birthday was last weekend, and my sisters all pitched in to buy him an “American Girl” Barnes & Noble gift card, because darned if they weren't all out of the ones with the assault rifles and the NRA logo on them. But I went my own way and gave him a Watersmeet Nimrods T-shirt to wear the next time he visits Upper Michigan. Because I am by far the coolest.

While we were at my parents’ house for the birthday festivities, somebody found a drawer full of old photos of the DemiGoddesses from back when they were all little and cuddly and adorable (sniffle), and from the family trip we all took to England and France in the spring of 1999. I found one of those so particularly horrifying that I had to ask out loud, “Who’s the cow on the left? MOOOOOOOO!”

Of course, the cow was ME.

And that photo was taken three years before my Great Weight Loss of ’03, when one of the inspiration tools I relied on to keep me motivated was another photo, a black and white shot taken by my cousin Tiffany at Christmas 2002, of me sitting on a couch with some other family members. Or, more accurately, me taking up waaaaaaaay more than my fair share of the real estate on that couch. Ouch.

Remembering that photo reminded me that it’s Christmas time once again, and how nice it is to be so very toned and HEALTHY these days. Except for, um, those cookies with the pound and a half of butter in them that are all over my dining room table. The ones that I nibble on every time I pass through that room (many, many times a day). And except that my exercise bike has pretty much served as a coat rack for the past several weeks, and my hand weights are buried somewhere behind the gifts under the Christmas tree.

If I don’t get my act together, by next year I’ll be right back in bovine-land, so I resolved that as soon as the holidays are over, I will consume nothing but water and the occasional cup of hot tea for the entire month of January.

Later that night, we all gathered ‘round the TV to watch the Survivor finale, which reminded me that there is no way I will ever hold to my resolution, because unlike Yul and Ozzie and Becky, I am not a Goddess who can function for any length of time without food. And while Yul without a shirt makes excellent eye candy:


(Yummy.)

...one cannot live on washboard abs alone. In fact, as my children will tell you, when my blood sugar starts to get low, I become one ornery Goddess.

My sister Meghan is exactly the same way, and we agreed that neither one of us would ever last a day on Survivor, unless they changed the ultimate goal of the game from being the last one voted out to being the first person to hack all the other contestants to bits with a machete. Then we would totally win.

I've Shaken Them All

A bunch of gifts mysteriously appeared under my tree today. A happy surprise, yes, but not a single one of those packages is TiVo or Wii or Johan Santana shaped, which means that there had damn well better be a pony hidden in the garage somewhere.

Just sayin'.

My gifts have all been bought and wrapped, the cookies are baked, and snow is finally in the forecast. Enough with the prep work already. Bring on the Christmas.

The first of the sister-cousins, Shanna, arrived home yesterday. Tiffany, who thankfully was not blown away or crushed by falling trees during the recent killer windstorm in Seattle (she also assures me that Cupcake Royale is safe, and thank heaven for that), is due in on Saturday, and preparations for the second-annual flirtini party are well underway. This year's theme is "Little House on the Prairie Meets Sex and the City."

The invitation pointed out that there were four Ingalls daughters, there were four girlfriends who regularly met at that coffee shop in Manhattan, and there are four sister cousins in each of our two families. And that cannot be mere concidence.

We have been instructed to wear our best sunbonnets and Manolos, and I'm told the menu will include salt pork, corn bread, and Chinese takeout.

I'm sure it will all make perfect sense once we've had a flirtini or two.

P.S. For those of you who have been up nights wondering if the Goddess is a real or artificial tree person, please note the needles on the carpet.

Black Friday

The doorbuster deals at Toys R Us used to have me shivering in a parking lot at 5:00 a.m. every year on the morning after Thanksgiving, back when $5 Furbys and buy-one-get-one-free Polly Pocket sets could still make the Demis' Christmas dreams come true. I still get a special thrill from combing through the stacks of glossy Thanksgiving day newspaper ads while I watch the Macy’s parade TV. But for the past couple of years, I’ve opted to skip the Black Friday insanity and just sleep in.

I was planning to do just that last week, but then my friend Daniel, the one who so kindly brought my PC into the 21st century for me, found out from an advance online advertisement that Micro Center stores would be offering 160 GB hard drives for a deep, deep discount on Friday morning. He was very excited until he realized that the discounted hard drives would only be available to the first 25 customers through the door when it opened at 6:00 a.m., and the only Micro Center location in the state is a good 45-minute drive from his house.

As it happens, that very same Micro Center location is about 2.5 minutes from my house. So, since I have some experience with day after Thanksgiving shopping, and since I have a lot more time than money with which to repay the kindness he bestowed on my home computer, I told him I’d go to Micro Center for him.

When my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. that morning, I threw on the clothes I had laid out the night before, grabbed the Micro Center ad and a protein bar and ran out the door, thinking that I would wait in my car if no other customers had arrived yet. Moments later I found the entrance to the parking lot blocked by a police car with its lights flashing. It appeared to be preventing a block-long line of people from extending into the street.

Alrighty then.

Since I was up already, I decided to try my luck at a couple of other stores instead, which actually went pretty well except that somebody stole my shopping cart in Menard’s. The mass of bargain-hungry humanity that stood between me and the $3 hand-crank LED flashlights forced me to temporarily abandon it, along with the throw rug, the slippers and the various other items it contained. When I returned, my cart had disappeared and there was no trace of my hard-won merchandise. Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy eternity in your special place in HELL, you cart-stealing bastard.

The checkout line at Kohl’s was freaking ridiculous, but it moved along pretty steadily, and was worth enduring because I picked up skirts and sweaters for both the DemiGoddesses to wear on Christmas, as well as a new pair of gloves for a certain Goddess who seems to have a terminal case of glove/mitten dropsy, all for less than I spend on an average trip to Trader Joe's.

I found out later that my sister Meghan had been out shopping that morning, too. She did Herberger’s, immediately earning my respect because another customer in line at Menard's had told me she had tried to go there but left after being unable to find a parking spot, and then had to fight her way out of the lot. And Meghan was there with a toddler in tow, no less.

Now that’s plain crazy.

Items I Am Thankful For

The new roof on my house, which appears to have fixed my leaky sunroom problem.

Palm’s Bakery. May it never, ever close its doors again.

Flogging Molly’s “Drunken Lullabies” CD.

The third lane on Highway 100 that opened a few months ago, reducing my daily commute from 25 minutes to 12.

My new digital camera, the awesomest of birthday gifts, which took fantastic photos of DemiGoddess the Elder during her final performance of the school musical last weekend.

Justin Morneau’s bat. (Congratulations to the new American League MVP! )

Flirtinis.

CO Bigelow Mentha Lip Tint, Bath and Body Works Warm Vanilla Sugar hand cream, Mac Fluidline eyeliner, and Bare Escentuals Mineral Veil. Also the hair dye that I do not need yet, but am nevertheless comforted by the existence of. And, for the time being, tweezers.

The Caribou Coffee that finally opened a few weeks ago, three blocks from my house.

My Honda Civic, which just passed the 100,000 mile mark and still runs like a champ.

The lunch buffet at Surabhi Indian Cuisine.

Circular knitting needles.

The wreath my dad brought me back from his trip to the lake last week.

12-Hour Sudafed.

Alpaca wool mittens.

Lilacs, apple blossoms, pansies, and the roses that appear on my dining room table on every fifth of the month.

And, last but far from least, I am thankful for the hand written notes I received a couple of months ago from two little girls in South Africa, thanking me for the bears I made. (Even though they made me cry.)

Alcohol and Kitchen Appliances Do Not Mix

From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: The Sister Cousins

Can we have another flirtini party this Christmas?

---

From: Sister Betsy
To: The Sister Cousins

Molly and I have briefly discussed another flirtini party at our house this year, though we may do something besides flirtinis (but equally as delicious).

---

From: Cousin Tiffany
To: The Sister Cousins

I read this great financial planning tip last year--put away a bit of money away every month to spend at the end of the year on Christmas presents. I thought it was a good idea but was more inclined to put $ away for the family's Christmas liquor store bill.

I like champagne drinks best!

---

From: Sister Betsy
To: The Sister Cousins

I think we can safely assume that the drinks at our party will include champagne in some form. I got the impression that a few people had enough vodka last time to last them quite a while, so vodka will probably be off the menu.

---

From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: The Sister Cousins

No no no no no! I LIKE the vodka!!!

---

From: Cousin Tiffany
To: EverydaySuperGoddess

Sylvia Plath has a lovely description of vodka in The Bell Jar. It made me love vodka forever.

Of course, she ended with her head in the oven.

---

From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: Cousin Tiffany

Maybe she was looking for the vodka.

In the FREEZER, Sylvia! The FREEZER!

I’m Not Dead

But I did attend a Dio de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) party last weekend at the Fabulous Miss Amy’s beautiful (and, in spite of what she says, very CLEAN) home last weekend. Attendees had two assignments: 1) To knit up one of these:

and 2) to bring a food to share that would honor a loved one who has died.

I didn’t knit a day of the dead doll, because all I ever knit any more is Mother Bear Project bears, but my Grandma used to knit for charity all the time, so I figured my latest bear could represent her efforts. And anyway, I never could have topped Connie's creation:


The food would pose an even greater challenge. My Grandma was a legendary cook. She was a home economics teacher for many years, and loved nothing more than to get in the kitchen and get her hands dirty (and pretty much everything else in the room while she was at it).

When I thought about what dishes reminded me most of her, the first thing that came to mind was one that I won’t be making until Thanksgiving—creamed onions. The foundation of most of my Grandma’s signature recipes are butter and/or heavy cream, you see. The next thing was twice-baked potatoes, a fairly involved recipe that I only make for Christmas Eve dinner. Because, apparently, I only cook when required to by a holiday.

Then I thought of a little item my family calls simply “Grandma Cake.” It’s a devil’s food layer cake, with each layer split in two so there are really four layers. Freshly whipped cream (sweetened with a smidge of powdered sugar and vanilla) goes between each of the layers, and then the whole thing is covered in chocolate frosting. It’s like a giant Ho-Ho, only way, way better. But I had already asked my sister Betsy to make me one for my birthday, and two Grandma Cakes in the same week would be more decadence than even I could handle.

So, once again, Trader Joe’s came to my rescue in the form of Artichoke Antipasto and a jar of Olive Tapenade. Because, you know, Grandma also loved artichokes. And she always put olives on the relish trays at family dinners.

My favorite Trader fella must have appreciated the gesture, because yesterday he left me a very special voicemail, wishing me a happy birthday, and asking me to marry him! It’s true! And even though his voice sounded suspiciously like a slightly deeper version of DemiGoddess the Elder’s, I am totally going to say YES!

Just as soon as I figure out how to call him back, because my intended forgot to leave his number.

Biggles! Put her in the Comfy Chair!

A new Pilates studio just opened up the street from my house. It’s right next door to the bakery, and don’t think for a moment that I don’t appreciate the irony of that. The DemiGoddesses suggested that we go up there, buy some doughnuts, and then stand outside the Pilates studio and eat them while we watch people work out through the window. Clearly, I have raised them well.

When my neighbor, Leah, invited me to attend a Pilates class at the new studio with her, I thought, I find Pilates utterly humiliating at home in my living room, when I’m completely alone. With an audience? Oh, ho, ho… I think NOT.

But she reassured me that it’s no problem! They have equipment there that makes the exercises seem so easy! It’s amazing! It doesn’t seem like a workout at ALL! And then she promised to e-mail me the link to the studio’s website, so I could see for myself.

So this morning, I checked out the link, where I found this:

And this:

And this:

And THIS:

And as you can see, she’s totally right. It doesn’t seem like a workout because it's not a workout... It's the Spanish freaking Inquisition.

Three Gray Hairs

New ones. Right there on my right temple this morning. The tweezer is never far from my bathroom mirror these days.

I’ve promised the woman who cuts my hair that soon, very soon, I will visit her and ask her to do The Coloring. I have never done The Coloring before, ever. There are precious few aspects of my physical appearance that I genuinely kind of like, but the color of my hair is near the top of the list. I’d like it to stay the way it is.

My neighbor Leah has a lot of friends who live in lakeside homes in the more affluent Minneapolis suburbs, friends who sail competitively on the weekends, wear designer fashions, and have dazzlingly white teeth and perfect manicures. They’re all married and have small children, and are not (SO not) my usual crowd.

So last weekend at Leah's birthday party, I spent most of the night outside on the deck with the smokers and Tammy, who is also from our neighborhood. Tammy sails on the weekends, too, and she drives a BMW, but she, like me, is a single mom with older children, and after hearing about her Home Depot adventures, I knew she was one person at that party I could hang with.

Well into the evening, out on the deck, the topic of conversation turned to botox. One party guest confessed to getting regular injections around her eyes (“I get them every three months. They only cost about $300 each!). Another said she gets them in her chest (!). My favorite, though, was the woman who said she was going to have collagen put in her heels because her feet are ugly. Tammy and I exchanged a look before she said out loud what I had been thinking. “You pay someone $300 every three months to inject poison into your face? I really don’t get that.”

At first, didn’t get it, either. But then I remembered an evening a couple of weeks before, when Tammy had mentioned some kind of magic lotion that she’d picked up on a recent trip to New York. “It’s like botox in a lotion!” She had exclaimed, applying it to the skin around the corners of her eyes. “See? My face doesn’t even MOVE!” And then I remembered my own tweezers. I’m pretty sure that botox isn’t for me, not even in lotion form, but really, isn’t paying a colorist to hide my gray more or less the same thing? Aren’t we all, in our own way, dreading something, whether it’s the wrinkles or the ugly feet or the gray hairs? In the end, the unfortunate truth is that I’m no less superficial than any of those botox babes.

I haven’t decided yet how many gray hairs I will tolerate before I make the appointment for The Coloring. I guess it will be when I can no longer keep them at bay with the tweezers. Until this morning there were only four gray strands I was keeping a regular eye on. Every time one of them grew long enough to be visible, I’d yank it out again. But today there were three more, all at once. They, like the others, have been temporarily banished. And I know exactly where these new three came from:

#1—Parent orientation night. And probably the post-orientation heavy drinking.

#2—Two days’ worth of family drama involving my sisters, my sister-cousins, a couple of second cousins (one of whom is a convicted felon, and the other of whom is an overbearing ass) and the cabin that we all jointly own.

#3—Yesterday’s visit from the contractor and the insurance adjustor, who decided that the outside wall of my sunroom, the one with the water damage, will need to be completely knocked out and rebuilt. Look! Carpenter ants! Oh, and, by the way? Insurance isn’t going to pay for most of this. Sorry!

So at work this morning, fully tweezed but still teetering on the brink of completely losing my sh*t, I couldn’t help but be impressed by my own super-human powers of self control when the Marketing Deity plopped his generously-kissed seat down into the chair in my cubicle and tried to entice me into a wager on this weekend’s Twins/Yankees series.

I said to him, “Did you come here just to torment me? Because the Yankees are already in first place, Silva is pitching tonight, and I am in NO MOOD.”

He took me at my word.

Huh. Maybe I Should Have That Checked.

The rocket ship lunchbox was really only the tip of the iceberg.

Last Tuesday was parent orientation night at the high school. The principal welcomed all of us freshman parents, and congratulated us on having done such a great job of raising the class of 2010. As soon as he said that, I nearly started to bawl, right there in the auditorium.

The entire time the chemical guidance counselor was speaking, about the occasional school-wide sweeps with drug sniffing dogs, and about how we, as parents, must model responsible behavior, all I could think about was how much I wanted to get home and consume uncharacteristically large amounts of vodka.

When it was over, I went to the grocery store (for limes and club soda to mix with my vodka) and I saw a man walking in the parking lot, holding the hand of a little girl. And I nearly started weeping again.

In the checkout line I ran into DemiGoddess the Elder’s Girl Scout troop leader, who had also just come from the parent orientation. She, unlike me, seemed to have been completely unscathed by the experience, and was surprised that I had found the whole thing so distressing. She reassured me that Ms. Elder is a terrific kid, and I have nothing to worry about with her. Which was comforting, but really, I already knew that.

Clearly, something is going on here that is deeper than your run-of-the mill parental angst, and it has very little to do with Demi the Elder herself. I’m not sure what my issue is exactly, but I do know it’s mine. And yeah, I’m taking it to someone who can help me name it.

These Are The People In My Neighborhood

Last night I got a call from Leah, the neighbor next door, inviting me over to have a glass of wine with her and a couple of her women friends from the neighborhood.

Leah is the former neighbor I wrote about last summer. When she and her husband moved a few years ago, they kept the house next door to mine and rented it out until last spring, when they finally kicked out the Boy Toys (much to my relief) and put the house on the market.

For months, Leah has spent time at the house, getting it cleaned up and re-painted and ready to sell. Potential buyers have come and gone, but the house has remained empty. I'm sure our torn-up street didn't help matters.

Then last Thursday, she left me a voicemail saying, “Hey, guess what, I’m your neighbor next door again. Come on over when you’re home.” My former neighbor and her kids had moved back into their freshly-painted former house, minus one alcoholic husband.

She's remarkably composed about it all, hopeful that they might reconcile, but also very clear that she can no longer live the way she has been. Her family and friends have been around a lot, offering support and whatever household items she forgot to bring with her.

One thing I had forgotten about Leah is that she is such a friendly, outgoing person, she has no problem stopping passersby in front of her house, introducing herself, asking where they live, and taking a moment to get to know them. I watched her do it on her first day back. My own operating style in the neighborhood has always been to keep to myself, nod and say hello when people pass by on the sidewalk, and then pretty much leave it at that. It turns out that she has several neighborhood friends from her three-year stint next door, while I, in my nine years on the block, have gotten to know the people who live on either side of my house, and that's about it.

Last night when she called, I had just returned from having dinner with My Ho and Batgirl and Jeb (Mr. Batgirl). It was the second goodbye dinner of the summer for me--the first was just before Dr. Dave moved to Maryland, and next week Batgirl and Jeb are moving to Massachusetts--and with that on top of moping about missing BlogHer, my plan was to spend a quiet evening nursing my abandonment issues in front of "Sex and the City" reruns. But some wine and socializing with people who live close by suddenly seemed like an excellent alternative, especially since the Demis are up north with The Ex's parents this week, and I had a bottle of Two Buck Chuck already chilled in the refrigerator.

At one point during the evening, Leah proudly showed the four of us who were there the array of tools, picture hooks and nails she had picked up in the Dollar Spot at Target earlier in the day (“My very own screwdrivers!”). This prompted her friend Tammy, who lives around the corner from us and is also a single mom, to observe that Home Depot can be a very sexy place, if one knows how to work it.

“I just walk up to one of the employees and tell him I need a good screw," she said. "He’ll go on and on about the long screws, the short screws, the hardwood screws, even the self drilling screws. The electrical department can be really fun, too.”

Certainly, the circumstances of Leah's return to the house next door are unfortunate, and there’s no knowing how long her stay will last. But I have to admit, it's fun hanging out with the neighbors.

Totally Not Dead and Feeling Much Better Now

The masses are beginning to move in preparation for our annual Fourth of July cabin trip (a.k.a. Beastie’s Bedazzler Smackdown).

Just last night I put the finishing touches on the patriotic T-shirt for my sister-cousin Kerry, and I must admit, it is a masterpiece. I did not end up having to use power tools as I anticipated. No Bedazzlers were employed, either, because the video of Tana from The Apprentice drove me screaming away from the Official Bedazzler website before I could order one. Nevertheless, through ingenuity and the creative application of industrial-strength Velcro®, I have constructed a T-shirt that I am convinced Kerry will would rather die a slow, painful death than wear in public on the Fourth of July. And that is exactly how I know it is perfect.

It is tacky. It is sparkly. It has attachments and moving parts. I can’t say any more than that at this point, but you have my most solemn promise, there WILL be photos.

This year, for the first time, the sisters and sister-cousins have planned a menu, delegated shopping duties and assigned cleanup detail, in an attempt to keep everything as fair and stress-free as possible. This is no small feat, considering that there will be about 15 people to feed and clean up after. Sister-cousin Tiffany, who, like me, is much more an enjoyer of food than a cooker of it, just e-mailed me the following from Seattle:

From: Tiffany
Sent: Thursday, June 29, 2006 10:07 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: Cabin Menu

I have never before made a grocery list that starts out "32 eggs."

Tiffany will arrive in Minneapolis tonight, and I’ve been so preoccupied by being sick and trying to get everything wrapped up at work and organized at home that I completely forgot until just now that she will come bearing a very special box of very special somethings, just for ME.

Because a few weeks ago, when she wrote and asked if there was anything I’d like from Pike Place Market (she is kind and good and generous and thoughtful like that), I wrote back and said, “Never mind the Pike Place Market. I want CUPCAKES.”

Cupcake Royale is a Seattle institution that I did not have a chance to visit in person when My Ho and I were in Seattle last summer, but I did sample several of their little nuggets of buttercream heaven. Since then, it seems like I’ve been reading about Cupcake Royale all over the place, and for months, I’ve been pining for cupcakes. We may have finally rated a Trader Joe’s, but to date there is no such thing as a gourmet cupcake bakery in Minneapolis. It’s tragic, really.

Suddenly, I’ve forgotten about being sick, and about all the packing I have to do. None of that matters any more, because tonight, I will have a Ballerina and a Dance Party with Holly Hobby, I’ll have the Classic and the Kate and the Lavender, and I’ll have the Ultra Violet and the Barbie and both flavors of the Mo Fro. Maybe I will share. Maybe I won’t.

Cupcakes make EVERYTHING better.

Oh My God Trader Joe’s

Back when I was doing the online diet thing and trying to eat healthier, one of the regular members of my Internet support group was forever posting comments about the fabulous deals on gorgeous foods she’d find at this “Trader Joe’s” place. She lived in California, and being in Minnesota, I had never heard of Trader Joe’s until that point. At the time, even Whole Foods was a new thing in my neighborhood, and although I love Whole Foods, they arent exactly known for being affordable. I was intrigued by the idea of a store that sells quality foods cheap.

Not long after that, a co-worker who had just moved here from California mentioned that he was having trouble finding a good, inexpensive bottle of wine. He asked me, “Isn’t there a Trader Joe’s around here?” When I told him that no, sadly, there is no such place in the Twin Cities, he looked, well, disgusted.

And then I found The Midwestgrrl, and discovered that they even have TJ’s in Cleveland. Cleveland! What are we here in Minneapolis, I wondered, some third-rate hicksville? Why not us? WHY NOT US??

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when, a few months ago, I read a little article in the local paper that said yes! Trader Joe’s is coming! The opening date was set for mid-April, and then mid-May, and finally, finally, 9:00 a.m. on May 15, 2006.

Twitching with anticipation, I e-mailed The Midwestgrrl, and pleaded, “Tell me what to buy!” She graciously provided me with a number of extremely helpful suggestions, including:

“Honey Sesame Sticks are the snack I once called ‘a new and conveniently legal form of crack.’ Awesome.”

But really, that only made it worse, all the having to wait.

I read online about the store that opened in Manhattan, and how there were brie en croute riots and several people were trampled. I made up my mind that I would definitely NOT go to the new Trader Joe’s on its opening day. You know, because of the children.

But then? Yesterday? I totally did.

The place was wall to wall people, but for the most part they were well-behaved. Some of them were almost giddy. I carried a hand basket, naively thinking that I was really just there to investigate, and maybe buy one or two little things to try. I picked up some whole wheat mini pitas and a bag of lightly salted roasted almonds, two jars of Indian simmering sauces and a jar of TJ’s brand hot sour soup, a bag of frozen mango chunks for the DemiGoddesses (who love them some mango), a package of “Multi-Seed Rice Crackers,” and for sure a bag of those honey sesame sticks (which, by the way, Midwestgrrl was totally correct about).

I nearly fell over dead when I saw the prices on their frozen fish, which are well below those at Whole Foods, but my hand basket had somehow become REALLY heavy, and I was starting to think that perhaps my eyes had gotten bigger than my budget.

But then? I really did fall over dead when the total bill for my two bags of groceries came to… $35. And that’s when I knew I had finally found retail nirvana.

The teriyaki chicken stir fry we had for dinner was delicious, and, in summary, I’d have to say that I found the whole experience absolutely worth all the hype and anticipation.

And also, I want to marry Trader Joe and have lots of his little organic babies.

They Thought it Was Funny, Too, Once I Explained the Joke

The other night I was watching Lost with My Ho and his Youngster. At the introduction of the scene in which Sun goes to Sawyer to ask him if she can go through his stash of medical supplies to look for a pregnancy test, there was a shot of Sawyer, the island’s crude, cunning, sarcastic con man, enjoying a new read:

I laughed out loud. My Ho and the Youngster did not.

It took me a few minutes to realize that, being guy-types, they would have no idea why seeing Sawyer reading that particular book was so funny.

I explained it to them during the commercial.