Sunday Dinner

Sunday, I invited Mamoo over for dinner, to thank (some would say punish) her for watching Stella while we were out of town. I told her we'd have to eat early, around 5, since Jack had Judo. After Mom agreed to come, I got a call from Georgia, saying she was headed back from Athens and would eat dinner with us if I'd let her cook some of it. Then I found out from Jack that he didn't have Judo after all, so suddenly we weren't under the time constraints we had before. I could even bake some yams.

Now, it was full-on dinner for 6, with me being relegated to sous chef, a more appropriate position. Still feeling that pilgrim spirit, I bought a Jenny-O bird-in-a-bag, and we ended up with an after-the-fact-sans-gravy/stuffing/jello-quasi-holiday-dinner.

We used holiday-print napkins instead of paper towels and broke out the matching John Deere dinnerware. This is what a special occasion, planned or impromptu, looks like at my house:

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Harping

Yesterday afternoon, when I picked Lola up from school, she came through the double doors with The Look on her face that let me know I'd committed some offense. Since I hadn't even see her since 7 a.m., she'd had about nine hours to stew about it and practice that expression, so I can assure you, it was not pretty. I braced myself:

Lo: I'VE HAD THE WORST DAY EVER!

TR: What happened?

Lo: Well, to start with, YOU forgot to pack my Target binder!

TR: Crap! I was thinking today was Tuesday...

Lo: It's WEDNESDAY, Mom! And you're lucky we had a sub...

TR: So you didn't get in trouble?

Lo: NO, but that's another thing--we had a sub! I hate subs. And now my book bag is FULL of papers that need to go in my binder. FULL OF THEM! And at lunch today, I dropped my hamburger--which was on a HOTDOG BUN anyway. And they didn't have honey mustard for my fries.

TR: I'm sorry.

Lo: So I'm STARVING. What are we having for dinner?

TR: Tuna Helper.

Lo: You have GOT to be kidding!

TR: No, that's what I planned to have...

Lo: Why are you turning here?

TR: We have to go to PetSmart to get crickets.

Lo: This day just gets worse and worse. Can't you wait and get them tomorrow?

TR: I can't. I'm going out of town.

Lo: WHAT!? Where are you going?

TR: To a writing conference in St. Augustine.

Lo: FOR HOW LONG?!

TR: Until Sunday.

Lo: I have to stay with DAD?

TR: Yeah.

Lo: He doesn't even know how to sign my school planner. He won't let me have Pop-Tarts for my snack! Don't go!

TR: I have to go.

Lo: FIrst you don't pack my binder, I drop my hamburger, and there's no honey mustard for my fries. Now, we're having Tuna Helper and we have to go to PetSmart to buy crickets, but I'm sure you won't let me get a rabbit. Then you're going out of town, and I have to stay with DAD and JACK!

TR: Oh, and Dad's taking you to the doctor tomorrow.

I Can Answer That

When Biggy got home this afternoon:

Biggy: What's the plan for this evening?

TR: You and I are going to the Y to work out?

Biggy: When?

TR: I dunno. Now?

Biggy: What's for dinner?

TR: Either you can grill chicken breasts or I can make Hamburger Helper. It's up to you.

Biggy: Let me ask you a hypothetical question.

TR: Shoot.

Biggy: Let's say a man gets his wife cooking lessons for Christmas. Would that be a nice gift, or would it be considered an insult?

Projected Family Portrait

For the month of July, it's Camp Georgia at our house, as we're paying George to take care of Lola until she (George) leaves for school in August. The sisters have made a loooooong list of activities to while the while and have already checked off 'see Mim's Island,' 'baking day,' 'walk to Publix,' and 'go to the World of Coke.' At Camp Georgia, Lo must say please and thank you. She must brush her hair. She doesn't eat junk food and she has to exercise. I recommend Camp Georgia. It's money well spent.

I don't have much money, however, because Georgia is also cooking for us. You might think that sounds wonderful, especially since she's an awesome cook, and it is. But she sends me to the grocery store with epic lists--full of strange, foreign items, such as buttermilk and pineapple-not-from-a-can. Monday, we had oven-fried chicken, twice-baked potatoes, warm rolls, and fresh fruit salad; Tuesday, it was French bread pizzas from scratch; yesterday, a home-made chicken casserole; and today, country-fried boneless pork chops, fresh corn, peas, and muffins. At every meal, Biggy acts like a pig in mud. He tells my daughter over and over how good everything is, glancing sideways at me with an expression born of nine years of Old El Paso Gorditas and Tuna Helper. He never knew it could be like this.

But I've got news for my husband: my lack of kitchen skills has kept him fit and trim. Three more weeks of these dinners, that will be us above: Biggy, Stella, me, Jack, Blaise, and Lo (who'll be fine because she won't eat real food).

Big Plans For Friday Night

I left Lo's softball game tonight while the coaches and refs were still haggling over a questionable call and went straight over to the high school to pick Jack up from practice, just so I could sit in the parking lot waiting for him for twenty minutes, which is fine, for such is my lot in life...

Before my son's butt hits the bucket seat, he starts screaming about the heat being on full blast and then busts me for being wrapped in a blanket. After he adjusts the temperature and the radio to his liking, I ask if he'd like to drive, since he needs the practice, to which he responds, "Not THIS car," because we all know if he were to drive--even the two miles to our house--a red VW Beetle, he would instantly know all the words to "It's Raining Men."

On the road, he informed me that tomorrow, he, BT and Julian were planning to go to Noonday Park to ride their bikes. I just stared at him:

JackMan: WHAT?!

TR: (Raises eyebrows) Tomorrow?

JackMan: Yeah, it's supposed to be nice--AAAH, it's your birthday!

TR: (Again with the eyebrows)

JackMan: Dammit!

TR: You're going to go eat pizza with us.

JackMan: Oh My God! I hate to go out! [with y'all]

TR: It's my BIRTHDAY!

JackMan: Big deal--what have you had, like 50 of them? Don't make me go and I won't make you come to mine.

TR: I wouldn't miss your birthday dinner. I gave birth to you. Your birthday is really more about me than it is about you.

JackMan: EXACTLY! And yours is more about Mamoo. So you and Mamoo should go.

TR: Oh, yeah. Mamoo and Granny are coming. You'll be in charge of Granny's walker.

Priorities

A week ago today, Granny, who's 81, was hospitalized due to a rare complication of diverticulitis, a common disease of the elderly that fifty percent of us can look forward to when we hit sixty. The not-so-common part was bleeding out several pints, and I'm not talking about through her nose. You might think rectal bleeding is something a woman of a certain age wouldn't want broadcast to the world, but if you'd heard the gusto with which Granny described the discovery of her emergency, it would be clear to you that she won't mind this post.

Mom had called to apprise me of my grandmother's condition late Wednesday morning. My afternoon class had been rescheduled once already, so my plan was to go ahead and teach that and then leave work early to join Mom at the hospital. I figured if I left Atlanta at 3, I'd miss the rush hour. In the end, I could have unicycled to Paulding Medical Center faster than my car crawled incrementally through the West Cobb traffic. When I finally arrived around 7 pm, Granny was awake, eating ice with a spoon, blankets piled like my Saturday laundry, up to her neck.

She was so pale I could practically see through her. She'd been poked in every visible vein. She was suffering chest pains and having some difficulty breathing. None of these things seemed to bother her much, though. She was too upset that she hadn't eaten since dinner Tuesday night, and the doctor had said 'no food whatsoever' until the bleeding had stopped and all necessary tests had been run. When the workers changed shifts and the new night nurse came in, Granny decided to get her up to speed.

"I'm starving," she told the nurse, "If I'd known last night that I wouldn't be eating again for more than 24 hours, I'd have gone to the Chinese Buffet. I'd have had the Moo Shoo Pork AND the Moo Goo Gai Pan. And I'd have gone to Baskin Robbins afterward for a hot fudge sundae with extra nuts and full-fat whipped cream." She scraped an ice chip from the bottom of her cup.

The nurse was sweetly sympathetic. "Honey, I'm so sorry. Let me call the doctor and see if there's anything you can eat."

Granny cut her off: "Oh, we've already talked to the doctor. I know the answer. I can't have anything. I just want to complain about it."

About that time, Mom's friend Brenda stopped by to visit and reported that another friend, Rhonda, had gone by my mother's house to feed the FIVE dogs and let them out and that everything at home was currently under control.

So, to sum up that instant: Granny is in the hospital, bleeding into a pad the size of a couch cushion; I can read the Wellstar logo on the pillow case through her cheeks; she's waiting to go down to radiology, where they plan to remove yet more blood, add some kind of nuclear dye to it, and shoot it back into her system before scanning her GI tract; both her daughter and her granddaughter are hovering around her, trying their bests not to imagine worst-case scenarios...

and Granny wants to know if Rhonda hung out with the dogs for a while and talked to them.

Getting Real With Myself

The other day, I was unloading the dishwasher (how I spend most of my time at home), trying to find room for the assorted water glasses, coffee mugs, and ice cream bowls, when it occurred to me that an awful lot of space was taken up by stemware. Considering that I’ll have been sober 3 years in August, I started wondering why I keep those things around.

In my heart, though, I know the reason. I’ve always had this fantasy that I’d “entertain.” I imagine cars lined up along the curb and candlelight dinner parties on the deck. We’d play Ray LaMontagne and some would get a little tipsy and slow dance. I’d enjoy their buzz vicariously, enjoy the praise, “Oh, Tania, the frito pie is exquisite!”

But it’s time to smell the Sanka. I’d never invite anyone to my house that hasn’t seen me in my pajamas. You certainly don’t invite your boss or your daughter’s boyfriend’s parents over when you live like this:

Rolling With Biggy the Hypermiler

Biggy has a new obsession, which has replaced his most recent preoccupation, which was with the bathroom scales. So now, instead of hearing, "Guess how much I weigh today?" or "I lost 3 1/2 pounds overnight," I get a running progress report on his gas mileage: "I probably saved a gallon of gas today by drafting behind a FedEx truck. By the way, did you know UPS maps out their delivery routes so they never have to turn left and idle in traffic?"

Last night, we were on our way to a big time at the invitation-by-word-of-mouth opening of The Lucky Leprechaun in Alpharetta. If lucky equals free dinner, we're there. Not wanting to appear too eager, we'd decided to leave home around 8 pm, so I'd been hungry for a couple of hours already. But my husband didn't care that I'd mic'd myself a tortilla with cheese at noon, then jogged three miles, vacuumed about 4000 sq. ft. of house, and climbed the stairs a hundred times looking for his socks and glasses. All he cared about was what color the traffic light a quarter mile ahead of us would be when we got to it. He was practicing his timing, meaning he was crawling at 15 mph to keep from having to brake. Thus began our conversation:

Biggy: If you stop,you have to accelerate afterward. You never want to push the gas if you can help it.

TR: How 'bout we just walk. We'd get there quicker and it wouldn't cost you a dime.

Biggy: I don't think you're appreciating the challenge of this. It's like a game.

TR: If you used the time you'd save getting from point a to point b without this bullshit, you could play Life instead.


He put the car in neutral and coasted down a hill. When the uphill began, he barely tapped the gas:

Biggy: You know how we typically try to maintain the same speed going up, which requires steadily increasing the acceleration? Well, you shouldn't do that. You should just press the gas at one level and let the car go at its own rate.

TR: My stomach is eating itself. Look, this is ridiculous. I'll give you a damned dollar.

Biggy: Dollar nothing. If I added even one mile to every gallon...

TR: If you want better gas mileage, sell this mutherfukker and get yourself a Civic. This is like buying Baccarat crystal and then having to drink Boones Farm. It's like buying Ruffoni cookware and eating Ramen.

Biggy: Not the same at all. Anyway, you know I needed a bigger car to tow with. A Civic wouldn't pull a camper.

TR: WHAT CAMPER?! This reminds me of The Gift of the Magi.

Biggy: Huh?

TR: You never heard that story growing up? I can't remember it all, but the gist was this: There was a poor couple. The wife had beautiful long hair. The husband had a watch he loved, and the band was broken. They couldn't afford to buy each other Christmas presents, but when the day came, she gave him a new watch band, for which she'd sold her hair, and he gave her an exquisite comb, for which he'd sold his watch.

Biggy: How is this like that?

TR: You bought the FJ so you could tow a camper and now we can't afford a camper. It's not exactly the same, true. Our story is missing the heartwarming sentiments.

Biggy: Oh my god; you are so messed up.


Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...

Dietary Update

So I told you back in April that I'd agreed to try a vegan diet with George, not for any reasons of health or conscience but mainly because she asked me to and I'm afraid of her.

We stuck to it for two weeks, as was the initial plan. Then she went away for the weekend--to her father's, where she couldn't pass up his salmon (I have to say, the man can cook). And while she was gone, I went with Lo and Biggy to Wild Wings, where the only vegetarian item on the menu, nachos, was not--needless to say--made with soy cheese. I ate the cheddar, and it was good. This led to a dairy binge of eggs and smoked gouda for breakfast the next morning.

Since, we have both continued putting soy milk on our cereal and in our coffee, and I have yet to eat a bite of flesh. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to do it. No Publix fried chicken, no Ted's bison burgers (Their veggie burger is quite tasty), no Tuna Helper. Strange. 19 years off, 6 years on, and I'm off again.

But I've figured out why I was such a bad vegetarian before--why the hair loss and split nails, why the muscle aches and fatigue. Eventually I get lazy--too lazy to open a can of beans or boil a bag of rice.

See the picture I posted? A carton of Paradise. No meat/no sugar. I had two cups for dinner last night and two more for lunch today.

I can already feel the roots of my hair shriveling up.

Just Me and Georgia (and Al)

Georgia and I had planned to drive up to North Carolina on Friday and spend a couple of days checking out some colleges. Seemed like a good weekend for the trip--Biggy was taking Lo to Gainesville to watch the Gators play, and Jack would be in Indianapolis for his band competition. But then it occurred to us: Biggy was taking Lo to Gainesville, Jack would be in Indianapolis; we'd have the whole house--the whole peaceful house--to ourselves. Why not wait to go to NC when they'd all be home? For now, there was nothing to get away from.

Hotdamn, we had about 56 hours of girltime, free and clear. We could dress up in black and heels and go somewhere nice for dinner. Or wear flannel pants all weekend and eat icecream out of the carton. We could run at the river without rushing back so Greg could go to Home Depot. We could sleep late and read the Sunday paper in any order we wanted.

Yeah, we stayed home.

Friday afternoon, we went for a leisurely jog, after which we got cleaned up and went to Ippolito's for pasta. The food was great, and the little waiter boy was excellent. George commented on his perfect balance of being solicitous yet giving us space. I said I was impressed by the fact that he was obviously smitten with her but showed great restraint.

After dinner, we went to see The Departed, which I liked and she loved. What's not to like about a movie with Jack Nicholson, Mark Wahlberg, Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Alec Baldwin, Martin Sheen, and some beautiful new chick (Vera Farmiga) we've never heard of? It was full of intrigue, excessive violence, and clever dialogue.

During the ride home, I mentioned that it reminded me of The Godfather and found out George had never seen it. I was appalled by this failure of parenting. We decided to devote Saturday to Parts I and II. We cleaned the house (she offered to help!), jogged, took the dog to the vet, went to Publix and, lastly, stopped by Blockbuster. Back home, we put giant sweet potatoes in the oven to have with Brussels sprouts (since no one was around to make fun of us), and went down to the basement, Biggy's big-screen hidey hole, to watch the movies.

We made it through all but the final hour of Part II before I started dozing off and Georgia made me go to bed.

This morning, we drank our coffee and read the paper, spreading it all over the table and floor--something Biggy hates, and then we watched the rest of Part II. In the afternoon, we ran at the river, then thanked each other for a great weekend before she took off to spend a couple of hours with Garey--to throw him a bone before he heads back to Tech.

We only argued one time, because I made a reference to my philosophy that kids should be the boss of their food and their hair. (That's not to say I think kids should eat Hersheys Kisses for breakfast--just that I won't make them eat food they hate. And I don't care if they cut, frost, buzz, mohawk, or dye their hair--even platinum or fuschia.) Evidently, George has never forgiven me for allowing her to get blueberry highlights that time. She claims her hair has never been the same--that it changed her hair DNA or something.

She feels strongly that Lo should eat steamed cabbage and shouldn't be allowed to choose her cut or dye her hair until she's 18.

This conflict, which occurred while we were jogging yesterday, was heated and brief. We quickly agreed to disagree.

The rest of the weekend--smooth sailing. Perfect, really.

Last Supper

When I was growing up, dinner time was like a Pat Conroy novel or a David Lynch film. My father was a combo Henry Wingo/Bull Meecham, with a little Frank Booth thrown in. He'd warm up on my mother, "Are you going to eat all that?" and proceed to picking on either me or my sister, usually about "that look on your face" or "your tone of voice." Someone always ran crying from the table until, eventually, we learned to assume the flat affects that seemed to placate him. In any case, I was conditioned to avoid family meals, and, once I turned sixteen, I made sure I was scheduled to work every evening. Youth Prison Camp (my job at Six Flags) was preferable to the fish fries at my house.

During my first marriage, I managed to hover rather than sit at the table. I paced back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, refilling the iced tea, getting more tater tots, never sitting down. I don't think I realized, at the time, that this was an avoidance technique, but now, looking back, I see it clearly. After I married again, and was no longer a stay-at-home mom, mealtimes became tag team events, with only one parent in attendance. Biggy would take care of it (notice I didn't say 'cook') on the nights I taught, and I was able to avoid the full-family experience. In the past couple of years, however, we've tried to sit down together at least once or twice a week for my exercise in minor torture.

These people are completely devoid of manners, as hard as I've tried to teach them. The meal always begins with Lo crying. Maybe she doesn't like meatloaf. Or we've turned off Sponge Bob. More likely, though, JackMan has pinched her under the table or she's bumped her head trying to bite his leg. Then, Biggy will raise his voice and my palms will start sweating. Next, I dissociate altogether. It's not pleasant. But oddly enough, it's like childbirth: I always sort of forget, from meal to meal, just how painful it is.

Not tonight. I'm throwing in the towel. I intend to remember. Here, you see a man who sat down without his shirt, a boy who is preparing to tell his little sister where steak comes from, a girl who just finished burping the alphabet and is currently making aluminum foil animals, and a chihuahua who---does it matter?

(Note the absence of George. Smart girl.)

From this point, they're all on their own.

Feeling Not-So-Mellow

Because Miss George will be on a cruise with Mamoo Monday (No tattoos this time, Mamoo. What if you want to wear a strapless gown to the office Christmas party?), we had to celebrate her 17th birthday last night. She let me know early on that she wanted to go out to dinner but she'd be working until 8:30. That meant we'd have to go somewhere close, in order to eat and get Lo home to bed before she turned into Rosemary's Kindergartener. Since we couldn't go into Hotlanna proper, and the pickins in The Land O' the Stripmall are slim, I asked GareBear, her bo-friend, where he thought we should go. He recommended Mellow Mushroom or "anywhere really, really expensive"--THAT is how well he knows our girl. Pizza it was.

Now, I 've always loved the place, myself. I mean, it's groovy, right? We've been going for years, since the days I used to suck down a few pitchers and cry all the way home in the minivan. Where else can I get tofu AND Italian sausage on a pizza without being judged. And Biggy has wet dreams about their salad dressing.

Alas, Friday night, March 31, was to be our last visit.

It started out okay. The crowd was light, due to all the kids headed to the orgy in Panama City Beach. We got a nice big table in the middle of the room, and I didn't even have to sit by Lo. Great, she could spill her tea on someone else (she did). Then our waitress--let's call her Crystal--came to take our order. She was looking all Joni Mitchell, but Joni would have been smart enough to carry a note pad. We've got six persnickety people. It ain't gonna be two large pepperoni pies and Cokes for everyone. The salad order should have been her first clue. I won't bore you with the variations we came up with on Greek salads, but--trust me--you and I would have gone to get a pencil. Most important, the birthday girl and I were sharing a veggie special--NO ONIONS and NO MUSHROOMS. I must have said it five times, how much I hate onions, how I'd rather juice my dog's anal glands than eat onions. I kept asking, "Are you sure you don't need to write this down?" She said, "No, you'll see."

I should mention that I waited tables for eight years as an undergrad (yeah--eight years--that's what I said), and a large part of that experience happened in Athens, GA. I've suffered every kind of pain-in-the-ass customer, including REM in their hobo days. They and their furry-legged groupies would camp out at my tables and drink coffee all day, stinking up the joint with B.O. and patchouli. After 900 refills, they were good for about a nickel. (The Red Hot Chili Peppers were even worse; they'd bring their own tea bags and order hot water and lemon.) Anyhoo, I UNDERSTAND. I'm a nice patron--generally pleasant, patient, and generous. I'm also CLEAR about what I want and try to avoid any miscommunications that could cause THEM grief down the road.

You know what happened.

It's not like I could have simply picked them off either, so complex is the veggie concoction, with its broccoli, artichoke hearts, moose feta, twice-baked rice cakes, silken tofu, miso soup, etc. etc. etc. Besides, I TASTED onion long before actually I bit into one.

Next:

I go to the counter, where Crystal is so busy counting her money she evidently can't see me, hear me, or smell the onion on my breath. When her co-worker finally asks me if I need something (?!), I tell her I need to talk to Crystal. We're standing less than two feet apart, but Crystal still can't hear me. It appears she needs to find out if she's raised enough money for the operation.

The co- nudges her till she finally looks up. "Crystal," I say, "my pizza has enough onions on it to make Hannibal Lechter cry." Blank stare. Then a flat "Do you want another one?"

Birthday Girl and I sat there while they made a wholenother pizza. In the meantime, I got to watch the employees at the counter whispering and casting dirty looks our way. And when they picked up the mistake-pizza and took it back to the kitchen, I observed as they dug through it to see if it indeed had onions on it. As if I'd just tell them that so my daughter and I could watch everybody else eat while they made another one EXACTLY like it. Like that's my idea of fun.

I don't joke about food, people.