What's Cookin'?

If you don’t know what to make for dinner tonight, you could making what I’m making, grilled Greek chicken pitas with homemade tzatziki sauce. It used to be one of everyone’s favorite meals, until my tween, S, was sick one night and the smell of the grilled chicken made her want to throw up. It doesn’t smell bad, really, unless you are sick or something. Plus, it’s so easy to make, it practically makes itself.

I always start by marinating my chicken. I buy boneless chicken breasts and then cut them in half horizontally so that they are “cutlets.” The thinner chicken pieces will cook faster and more evenly. Plus, have you looked at the size of the chicken breasts you can buy at the grocery store these days? These chickens shouldn’t be endorsed by Paula Deen; they should have Dolly Parton on the packages. Seriously, I don’t know how chickens strut around and peck with those giant titties throwing them off balance. They must look even more awkward in heels. You don’t need that much breast meat. Seriously, more than a handful is too much. A serving size should be roughly the size of your palm.

Anyway, I slice them and then shove them in a Ziploc bag with some vinaigrette salad dressing, chopped garlic, and a hefty squirt of Dijon mustard.  It doesn’t matter what kind of dressing, but they do sell Greek dressing, for those of you who are really concerned about getting the right flavor profile. I don’t know what the garlic and mustard does that the salad dressing doesn’t do, except make it sound like I thought up something special. I didn’t. It’s just salad dressing and mustard and garlic. Bam!

Next, I make my own tzatziki sauce. This is where you get to impress the whole table. Sure, you can buy a pretty tasty version at Trader Joe’s, except they put too much dill in theirs, and dill is the devil of the herb world. Plus, it’s super easy to make.

You need a good sized cucumber and some Greek style yogurt to make the sauce. I like to buy giant hothouse cucumbers, the ones that come shrink wrapped for your protection. They are all stacked up neatly in their prophylactic wrappers at the store, ready and waiting for you. The one I bought today was about the size of a double headed dildo that I, um, once saw on the internet. Seriously, even I got penis envy from that thing.

I like to hand grate my cucumber. First, I start by holding up the cucumber near the vicinity of my crotch and dancing around a little. My husband made the mistake of walking through the kitchen while I did my seductive cuke dance. I violated him by ramming my cucumber in the middle of his belly, repeatedly, until he left the room. Feel free to dance with your hard cuke as long as you like, or until you lose interest.

After that, I pretend I am a mohel and cut off the end of the cucumber, just the tip, in a covenant with dinner.  Then I take the cucumber firmly in my fist and roll down the plastic wrap and snicker. Finally, I get out the grater, and gripping the cucumber shaft in my hand, I drag the end over and over across it, making a nice pile of shredded cuke. I like to start slowly and then build up speed and then slow down again and then go fast and hard, until you have about a cup or so.  It ain’t rocket science; it’s just a shredded cucumber. No one is going to care if you have a quarter cup too much.

Be sure to squeeze out the extra juice from the shredded cuke before you add it to the Greek yogurt.  Add some minced garlic, a little salt and pepper, and some dried oregano and parsley. Those would be better fresh but I ain’t cooking for the queen. One of my kids won’t even try the shit even though she loves everything in it. Is my family worth the fresh herbs? Not on a school night.  Cover all that mess and stick it back in the refrigerator.  

After all that dancing and shredding and marinating, it’s time for a nap.

When you are ready to eat, have someone else grill the chicken and put out some pita bread along with the sauce. Make one of your kids set the table. Get the other kid to put out the sauce. There bitches, dinner’s ready.

Another easy way to make this meal is to go to any Greek restaurant and pick it up. There is a Greek restaurant on every corner, probably across from the Starbucks.  It’ll probably come with some salad too, or maybe a pickle slice and an olive. Opa!

I am so tired of cooking dinner.

Less Talking, More Rubbing

My massage therapist quit. It’s almost as tough as a break-up. I know it was him, not me, but still, I must move past him and find another one to take his place. If you think about it, finding a new masseuse is about as difficult as finding a new boyfriend. You have to trust this new person enough to get naked and let him or her touch your body, to help you relax, or to work out your most hidden pockets of pain. It is not a relationship to take lightly.

The best way to find that someone new is Groupon. At least if it doesn’t work out, I didn’t pay full price. This applies only to the massage therapist. You’re on your own for the new boyfriend part. I don’t even know how to find an old boyfriend.

Last week, I went for a massage to the salon where this Groupon massage therapist works. I should have known something was a little off about the place for a couple of reasons. First, I have never noticed  the salon before even though I drive by it at least three times a week. Second, the entire parking lot was filled with Buicks and Toyota Avalons and even a Lincoln or two. I went inside and knew from the smell that something was up.

Do you remember way back when you would go to a salon and the entire place reeked of that pissy permanent solution? Well, that’s what this place smelled like, a combination of formaldehyde and urine. Yes, I had stumbled into some sort of underground blue hair salon. Every chair was taken with elderly women getting their weekly shampoo and set.  Old ladies were under heated dome dryers or had heads full of plastic curlers. The cackling and coughing were as overpowering at the stench.
You know how at Disney World, they have a little parking area for strollers? Well, this place had the same thing, only for walkers and wheelchairs. There was a line for the restroom. I could feel my ovaries drying up as I sat in the waiting area.

How did they all know about this place? I kind of got why I might not have heard of it, but is there some sort of secret senior network that distributes this kind of information? It sure as hell wasn’t on my Groupon voucher; “consider this your senior discount” wasn’t anywhere in the small print.

My massage therapist came out to greet me, and I was pleased to see she looked so spry. She escorted me to the room and went over my paperwork before getting down to business. The room looked like a Hobby Lobby vomited all over it. Ornate crosses, reproduction prints of the Sistine Chapel, more crosses, inspirational quotes. At least none of the crosses were burning. Even the background music sounded sort of hymn-like. I didn’t know if she was a very devout Christian or thought the majority of her clients were, but all that crossy cross made me more than a little uncomfortable.

She asked about my health history and then excused herself while I disrobed and got on the table. She came back in and began my massage, making small talk in a way I prefer my massage therapists not do. First, she started talking about getting a higher degree. I asked in what field, and she told me she was working towards a doctorate in metaphysical science.

What does one say to that? Wow, you are getting a higher degree in the science of everything not science? Is that online or is there an actual institute of higher learning where one can earn such a degree? If it is online, is there a graduation ceremony?  Instead, I mumbled something about not knowing much about metaphysics, which is true, I don’t. I’m not up on all my New Age quackery.

But no matter, she seemed pretty well versed in it, which I discovered when the small talk veered off to a discussion about our children. We were comparing stories about our kids, in a getting to know you, not my kids are better than your kids sort of way. I was talking about how artistic my daughters are, with one of them studying guitar and piano while the other likes piano and ballet. We talked about their personalities, and how school is for our kids, and then she said to me, “I bet your girls are indigo children.”

Not knowing what that meant, I chose to stay silent. After all, she was working on her doctorate in metaphysical science. She probably had coursework in it.

“Do you know about the indigo children?” she asked me.

“I do not,” I said.

“Well, Google it when you get a chance. I bet your children are indigos.”

When I got home, I got right on my desktop and looked up indigochildren.  Guess what? It is a New Age thing, but mainstream enough that CNN covered it in the past few years. Basically, it can be used to describe a whole gaggle of kids, ranging from the artistic and sensitive types to the kids who talk to dead people and bend spoons with their brains.

 When my daughters got home from school, I asked them if they ever saw dead people. They indicated they had not, although my older daughter said she did see a dead deer on the side of the road on the drive home. She didn’t sound all that sensitive when she said it.

I'm sure Groupon will have another massage deal tomorrow.

More than Meets the Eye

Don’t you hate when you get something stuck in your eye? Not like a stick, but more like an eyelash. Honestly, I can’t imagine having something like a stick, when a thin little hair is painful enough. Part of why it bothers me so much is because I am a hard contact wearer.

Most people who wear contacts are lucky enough to wear the comfortable soft kind, the ones you can easily dispose of or replace. They are moist and comfortable, or so I hear. Me? Well, after years of being one of those people, I just couldn’t see anymore. My options were to wear glasses all the time and have mildly impaired vision or to go gas permeable and learn to live with the pain. My eye doctor at the time described wearing hard lenses as having a bottle cap stuck under your eyelid, only not that comfortable.

Honestly, hard contact lenses aren’t that painful. After a week or so of adjusting, I hardly noticed them anymore, unless my eyes were dry or I had something in my eye. The problem is, my eyes are always dry, and when they aren’t, I have something in them. I spend a portion of every day blinking like I have a tic or the creepiest wink ever. No one has ever said my eye thing is disturbing, but I have a feeling that is out of courtesy or just plain awkwardness.

What I am trying to say is, I always have something in my eye. It's not just an occasional irritant; it is part of my daily life. If I’m at the beach, it’s sand. If I am in the woods, it’s whatever the wind blew under my eyelid. And if I’m at home, it’s a hair. An eyelash, an eyebrow hair, it doesn’t matter. One time I even had a long head hair wrapped around my eye.

Think about that for a minute….it was wrapped around my eye. Do you have one of those boiled egg slicers? If so, you remember what it looks like when you stick a hard boiled egg in it and lower the slicer thingy, and right before it cuts through the egg, it has a bulgy appearance, the tension forming a meniscus on the egg's surface before it slices clean. That’s what the head hair around my eye looked like, at least to my other eye that was looking at it.

When I woke up this morning, my left eye was irritated. I walked to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. This examination was pre contact insertion, so I had my glasses on. I can see with my glasses, but not well. It might be legal to drive in them, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Anyway, when I looked in the mirror, lo and behold, my left eye was all swollen and puffy, and not just my normal morning eye bag puffiness. This was allergic reaction swollen, the kind that would make strangers recoil, the kind that would make children point and scream, the kind that gets you whisked into an exam room at the ophthalmologist’s office.

I took my glasses off and pressed my face up against the mirror so I could see what was going on in my eye. I tugged a little on my lower lid and saw the end of a cat hair hanging out on my eye. Bingo, I thought. No wonder it looks like I’m having an allergy attack, because I am.

Yes, I am allergic to cats. I like them; they are furry and cute and strangely affectionate and clingy, and they bury their own poo. But my body treats them like the enemy if we get too close. Cat licks on my neck produce red welts like I’ve been whupped with a leather strop. An unfortunate and absolutely accidental cat scratch results in a raised weal that rivals the Continental Divide. And a hair in the eye, well, it looks like I need a battered woman’s shelter.

I pulled down on my eyelid to try to extract the offending cat hair from my eye socket, but it turns out it wasn’t a cat hair. It was a clump of cat hair, a hair ball, if you will. I didn’t go to sleep with that fur wad in my eye, but I sure woke up with it. How does one get something like that in an eye during a fitful night of sleep? Did I sleep-groom my kitties? Did the cat plant it during my altered state of consciousness?

You know that magicians' trick where they pull a handkerchief out of their pocket and it just keeps coming out, one after another, all knotted together like one unending colorful scarf? That’s what my cat hair wad was, a never-ending third rate magic trick. I just kept pulling out hairs, all knotted together. It was about a kitten's worth of hair, not unlike the tumbleweeds of cat fur that roll across my hardwood floors.

After sleeping with the offending clump of hair under my lid for a solid six to seven hours, thank you Jesus for the night’s sleep, my eye was swollen to the size of a giant squid’s. Have you seen one of those? They’re fucking huge.

And yes, I crammed a contact on top of it.

 

Disturbing the Peace

Every afternoon, I sit in the car line outside of the middle school and wait for my daughters to be dismissed. Lots of people do the same, and the line of cars goes all the way from the school parking lot down the ridiculously long driveway to the road. I like to play games on my phone or read a book while I wait because I have to get there a good thirty minutes before dismissal if I want to pick them up in time for after school activities. I usually settle in for the wait, engine off, windows down, hoping for a breeze in the late summer heat. I also hope for some peace during my downtime before the craziness of dance and guitar and piano and homework begins, but unfortunately, most of the time my wait is hardly peaceful.

You see, while I quietly and patiently wait for my kids, other parents with younger children in their cars also have to wait, but much less patiently. And we all know how little brothers and sisters can be; in a word, annoying. Some parents park their cars and release these younger kids to the sidewalk where they congregate and devise some sort of game to occupy themselves until the middle schoolers come streaming out of the building.  Usually it involves a lot of screaming and running around, with no parental supervision, since their moms and dads are busy with their cell phones. Yesterday, though, I thought I was watching a scene from “The Lord of the Flies.”

On one side of the school driveway are the parking lots and the sports fields, but along the other side is a small patch of forest, with pine trees lining the edge of the grass near the sidewalk. This little bit of grass is where the scene unfolded. It began with one kid, a grade school age boy with a faux-hawk, who flew from his car the moment it stopped. He picked up a stick from the ground and whipped it along the trees, making a violent grunting sound with every lash. He ran back and forth along the trees, making sure to whip each one. As he was flogging the trees, a tomboyish girl ran from her car and joined him. She too grabbed a stick and proceeded to beat the innocent trees. Her cries mixed with his grunts to create a disturbing melody, which was a siren’s call to yet more children who emerged from the safety of their minivans to join in. Three, four, five more kids, all beating the trees with their own limbs.

The girl impulsively threw down her stick and ran into the woods, the first kid brave enough to kick it up a notch. She came out with a rather large rock, bigger than a brick, heavy enough to require two hands to hold it. She lifted the rock above her head and with a mighty roar, threw it hard onto the ground. That act was all it took; the rest of the kids ran into the woods as she did and returned with their own giant stones. As one rock hit the ground, the other kids would try to pelt that rock with their own. Seriously, these were big two-handed rocks, and their noodly arms shook as they lifted them high overhead before throwing them down with enough force to chip away little pieces. I might have even seen a spark or two.

The faux-hawk boy, not to be outdone, ran back into the woods and came back with a thick branch this time. It was no twig; this branch was thick enough to mount a human head. The rest of the kids were up to the challenge and deserted their rocks in search of the ultimate branch. In a flash, they all returned and began beating the rocks and the trees with their fat sticks. I locked my doors.

As the frenzy of violence against nature escalated, one of the kids crossed the line. He took his rod and hit another boy’s branch. It was a declaration of war. Full out quarterstaff sparring and parrying commenced, a violent minuet on the school grounds. I looked around to see if any of these kids’ parents were going to put down their phones long enough to intervene, but alas, that wasn’t to be. 

Finally, the school bell rang and a mom called out to her son to get back in the car, right when the boy with the faux-hawk lifted his tree branch high overhead, ready to split the skull of another wild but weaker child.  One by one, the kids hurled their sticks back into the woods. Some even grabbed their abandoned rocks and heaved these too into the copse of trees before returning to their minivans and SUVs. I felt fairly certain that if they had more sophisticated weaponry, mace and clubs and burning torches, they could have successfully stormed the school and ransacked the building. They would not have taken any prisoners.

When I was a kid, I too liked to play with the plants and rocks in the yard outside my childhood home. But I used flowers and leaves to make a fake stew, or, after a good rain, a mud pie or something. I didn’t use our plants as weapons to engage in hand to hand combat with the neighbors. I mean, I’ve heard of a pick-up game of football, but not one of Mortal Kombat II.

As shocked as I was to see that level of violence, I was just as shocked to see all the kids were pretty cool with it. I could just imagine one of my kids joining in, trying to reason with the mob, telling them that playing with sticks could be dangerous, that someone could lose an eye, that they might damage the trees, or just standing there saying they should all calmly and quietly return to their cars and start their homework.

As the middle schoolers were dismissed and the car line began to move, I saw the faux-hawk kid hanging out of the  side door of his minivan as his mom drove, no seat, no seatbelt, high fiving all the older boys as they walked by. No wonder she didn’t have a problem with his violent display. Maybe she was scared of him too, and secretly hoped he would roll under the tires.

What's So Funny?

How old is too old to laugh at juvenile things? Whatever it is, I haven’t reached it yet. I enjoy bathroom humor as much as a six year old. If someone trips and falls, I am going to have to stifle a laugh before I can offer assistance. And don’t even think about naming the planet after Neptune in front of me, unless you want a barrage of blue gas and Klingon jokes, and who doesn’t? If something odd or socially inappropriate is going on, then count me in.

A few weeks ago, my family and I were enjoying a quick vacation at a beach near Charleston, South Carolina, with a good friend who had lots of extra place at his oceanfront rental. (Thanks again, MR!) We decided to go into the city our last night because seriously, it’s Charleston, and who needs a reason? We planned to enjoy a delicious meal at MR’s favorite restaurant but went to the Battery to kill some time before our dinner reservation.

Charleston is one of my favorite places of all time; I never get tired of looking at the same magnificent houses overlooking the mouth of the Ashley River, across from Fort Sumter. Between the houses and the seawall is the lovely White Point Gardens, where in addition to several historic statues and preserved cannons are some of the most amazing live oak trees. Those trees have survived a hurricane, a war, an earthquake, and a fire, and like Charleston itself, they somehow keep going in the face of years of so much disaster.

Walking through White Point Gardens, I imagine life in pre-Civil War Charleston. I can almost see proper Southern ladies out for an afternoon stroll, their slaves fanning them in a failed effort to keep them cool, their dogs frolicking under the shade of the live oaks, while their husbands and fathers lean against the railings of their porches, mint juleps in hand. The truth is, that park probably saw more pirates hanging and cannons firing than ladies strolling and slaves fanning. Never you mind; it’s my fantasy.

But dogs frolicking? That still happens every day, including the humid afternoon we paid the gardens a visit. We parked our car along the edge of the park and walked around, watching kids climb the pyramids of cannonballs and the many cannons that sit every so often along the square. We walked the entire perimeter of the park, taking in the view of the antebellum mansions on one side, the sailboats dotting the harbor on the other.  We peeked in windows and along porches, just enjoying the splendor of the historic district.

As we walked back toward the car, I noticed two majestic golden retrievers playing near where we had parked. Their owners were deep in conversation, not really watching the dogs at all.  I sort of glanced at them, registering their presence, but not really paying any attention to them. My younger daughter, S, however, who is in love with every golden retriever she has ever seen, was watching them intently.

“Hey Mommy, do you see those dogs? They are playing together. Look! Aww, they are so cute!”

I didn’t ignore her, but I was talking to my husband, and therefore did not respond fast enough for her.

“Mom, hey, Mommy. Do you see the dogs?”

Again, I didn’t answer her. It’s rude to interrupt people, and someone needs to teach her that.

“Mommy, look at the dogs!” she shrieked again.

So I did. To paraphrase a joke my grandfather used to tell, the one in the front was sick, and the one in the back was pushing it to the hospital.

I turned to my daughter and said, “Um, yes. I see them. Now I wish I didn’t.”

She turned bright red and said,” I swear they weren’t doing that a minute ago. I just thought they were cute; that’s all.”

My other daughter chimed in. “Gross. They need to get a room.”

“Or a kennel,” I added. The dogs were still going at it, humping away. If they were people, they would have already been arrested, or at the very least, YouTubed.

“Why won’t they stop?” S asked me.

“Don’t stop til you get enough,” I sang in my best Michael Jackson falsetto.

Which is when we all cracked up. I laughed harder than anyone, because I think I'm funny.

At that point, MR noticed the dog fornication and judged us. MR, who is still obsessed with “The Human Centipede,” had the audacity to say, “Oh, come on. Grow up, “ in disgust.

“Hey, she’s eleven,” I said to him. “If you can’t laugh at dogs going at it when you are eleven, when can you?”

He thought for a minute. “Hmm, you’ve got a point," and walked on to the car.

I, however, am not eleven. So what if I laughed?  At least I didn’t teach my eleven year old the expression “doggy style, “and believe me, it was a feat not to. They were dogs, and they were doing it doggy style, which to them is just “style,” I suppose.  Does it get any better than that?

Not for the dogs, it doesn’t.

Please Refrain From Tickling the Ivories

Some people are game for anything, and some people, like me, just aren’t. I don’t really have a bucket list of things to do, like sky diving or BMX racing or auditioning for American Idol. Chances are pretty good that if I haven’t tried it by now, I must have a reason. My reticence for new experiences isn’t limited to wild or dangerous activities. I have no interest in eating a “belly” or anything contained therein, but that doesn’t make me boring. If I’ve made it this far without developing a taste for offal or lake fish or even rutabagas, and I’m good with that. I don’t need to hear the right country song to convert me, because it just doesn’t exist, and even if it did, it would still be country music, and I would still change the channel, and that’s okay. I don’t need to think outside the box; the box is quite cozy, thank you. If boxes aren’t comfy, then why do cats always try to sit in them?

My attempt at living on the edge, of going outside my comfort zone, was going to a piano bar. I know, I know, it wasn’t like I hand fed an alligator. Still, I had never been to a piano bar before, and I didn’t feel like I had been missing anything. But it was my good friend TA’s birthday, and it was an evening out with the ladies, and so I went along. It’s called “being a good sport.” Did I mention sports are another thing I know I don’t like? I like my friend, and I like birthdays, and I like music, and so I thought, I’ll try to have a good time.

Turns out, I don’t like piano bars. Now, I would never have known if I didn’t go, but now I do, and I won’t be making that mistake again.

We arrived to a full house, tables mostly full, facing a small stage with two grand pianos with a few other instruments scattered about. Our table was of course right up front by the stage, and we all ordered drinks to liven up our mood as we waited for the show to begin. Near us were some other large parties, some of which also were there for birthday celebrations, which led me to believe this was more a special event thing than a regular night out, kind of like going for fondue. The drinks were pricey, the tables were crowded, and the noise was loud. I was already regretting my decision to come along, but tried to remember it was because I love TA. 

That’s when the pianists came out and took the stage. The two men seated themselves at each piano, and then they engaged the crowd with an opening song and a little explanation of how the piano bar concept works. Basically, each table has a collection of slips of paper and little golf pencils. Patrons are encouraged to write down the names of songs they want to hear, and then take it up to the pianos along with some money. If the musicians were familiar with the song or if the price was right, they would play it, a living jukebox of sorts.

Immediately, the people at the tables dove into their pockets and purses and produced wads of single dollar bills. Singles were everywhere, more like a strip club than a piano bar. People slowly started approaching the pianos, but before long, they were making it rain all over that stage, single dollars flying everywhere. While one pianist would play a song, the other would look through the request slips, deciding what he knew or liked, and what he didn’t want to play he would toss onto the other piano. The money collected went into a gigantic tip jar. The whole process was frenetic and odd.

So what did people want to hear? Bill Joel. Lots of Billy Joel. Sometimes some Beatles, maybe a little Jimmy Buffet,  an occasional Don McLean, but Billy Joel was the man. The piano man.

I’m not much of a Billy Joel fan, to be honest. My father was a huge one, and whenever we went to visit him, we could expect to hear at least one album a day, to remind my sisters and I how lucky we were that he didn’t have custody of us. What made all the Billy Joel worse was that I knew all the words, singing them in my head against my will.

I decided to make a hasty retreat to the bathroom, if only to get away from the crowd, who also knew all the words and sang along drunkenly to every song. The music was more muffled in the restroom, but as I entered my stall, I noticed a thoughtless lady patron at some point in the evening had attempted to flush her tampon, with no success.

It wasn’t just gross; it was also ridiculously stupid. In every woman’s restroom in America for at least the last twenty years, signs are posted about not flushing feminine hygiene products. In fact, every stall has its own little waste basket mounted on the wall specifically for your disgusting used pads and tampons, because they don’t flush, and if they accidentally do make it down the pipes, they will fuck up the plumbing something awful. It is common knowledge to not flush a tampon, ever.

I had a dilemma. Did I pee in that stall and let the next person think I was the bleeding idiot who left my tampon like a buoy floating in the bowl, or did I leave that stall for another, opening myself up to judgment from the other women waiting to go?

After I returned to the table, I settled down and tried to have a good time. That ended the minute the crowd began putting their arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying in time to the next Billy Joel song, singing along loudly, pausing only to have another sip of whatever intoxicant they were ingesting. I also don't "sing along." It's one of the things I hated most about going to camp. I don't want to sing along, and I don't sway, and I also don't want to clap when instructed. I am not there to be part of a show. I just want to be left alone, with my thoughts, in the middle of the crowd.

I leaned over to one of my friends and said, “I think I am ready to go.” 

“No!” she said. “Just a little longer. I paid good money for them to embarrass TA.”

That was another thing money could buy you: a little public humiliation. A few other people in the crowd were also celebrating birthdays, and for a Hamilton, the pianists would call up the birthday boy or girl and make them do stupid shit. Two women had to act out the timeless classic “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” which devolved into some sort of lesbian groping display, much to the delight of most of the men and a select few of the women. Another woman, Rhonda, also was called up to the stage, but she angrily and adamantly refused to participate. I liked Rhonda. She has moxie.

During a Chuck Berry song, an older gentleman from the audience approached the stage and offered twenty dollars if he could play since he knew that song. The pianist obliged him, and he sat down and really rocked it out. Bolstered by the crowd’s support and the sense of entitlement that comes with spending twenty bucks on nothing, he decided he was going to play a few more songs, even going so far as dedicating one of them to someone at his table. There was no getting this man off the stage. During his pretty adequate rendition of Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Great Balls of Fire,” the pianist, who had nothing better to do, poured a shot of liquor on the piano top and light it up. The crowd went wild. I was at my limit.

When the next Billy Joel song started, I got up and said goodbye, nicely I hope, but I just had to get the fuck out of there. As I left, the bouncer asked me if I was planning on returning. “Never,” I said to him. “Never again.”

 “One!” he yelled to the people in line behind the rope, waiting to get in. “I got room for one!” A rope, with people waiting, in my town in South Carolina, to get into one of the circles of hell. 

What I Did for My Summer Vacation

The short answer?  A whole lotta nothing.

After seven weeks of not writing, I am ready to have a creative outlet again. It’s not so much that I had a busy summer or even that I’ve had nothing to say; mostly, it was a little of both.

Summer wasn’t supposed to be busy because my kids had very little camp time and we had no big trips planned.  It was a lackadaisical kind of a thing, a day to day existence without rhyme or reason or routine. Somehow, without anything significant or major to occupy our time, we passed week after week going from one town to the next like renaissance minstrels, rather than the vaudeville kind. We started and ended the summer with beach trips, and managed to fit two more beach trips in between. We visited family, we went to a concert, we traveled around the tri-state area (pick any three states; it really doesn’t matter). The whole time, it rained almost every day and the temperatures never soared above a temperate mid 80’s. This clearly was not our typical summer.

As each week went by, we got more and more used to doing less and less. I went to the gym less. I put on less makeup and made myself less presentable. I exercised less self-control when it came to cartons of ice cream and things covered in chocolate. I was less strict about enforcing bedtimes. It seemed less important to get out of bed early, especially if it was raining. I stopped caring if everyone ate less healthy at less regular intervals.

My daughters took full advantage of our simplified summer.  Less rules. Less piano and guitar practice. Less shopping and crafts and organized activities. As the summer went on, they spent less time with friends, and the end result was they fought with each other less. Sure, they were less social, but there was less reason to be.

And the best part is I couldn’t have cared less.

Yes, I had less time for me, but sometimes less is more. The more time I spent with my kids, the more I enjoyed them for who they are. The less I did, the more I relaxed. The less I yelled, the more we all laughed.

It wasn’t like we were hitchhiking across the country, stopping in towns and washing dishes in diners and sleeping on strangers’ floors until we saved enough to go to the next town. In fact, it was nothing like that, as there was no anonymous sex or drug use involved. But still, it was as close to vagabond as we’ve ever been, my over-protected upper middle class suburban children and I. Maybe next summer I will take it a step farther. I’ve give them each a stick with a bandana on the end and a can of pork and beans and drop them off at some railroad tracks and tell them to not come back for eight weeks. Wait, then I’d see them less, and I’m pretty sure I would miss them after the first month.