Born Loving Flannel

I didn't get around to writing anything for the blog today...so instead I will just include another clip of one of my friends from her comedy routine. I think I can relate.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_K0fG0B8sQ

Molly's check-up

I hate taking Molly to the vet out here because I always feel like they are trying to “upsell” me into some platinum-like procedure for Molly Magoo. [C’mon guys, she eats poop. Of course her stomach is going to be upset from time to time – no need for that MRI.] Not that Molly doesn’t deserve it, of course, but this IS the puppy that attempted suicide on at least two occasions. [Who knew that rat poison was so downright yummy to dogs?] For much of her life [the Tennessee years], platinum health care meant access to a stomach pump after she had consumed whatever toxin her mother had inadvertently left lying around. [Mother of the Year]

But I try to make sure she at least stays healthy. So I found myself at the vet last week getting her little back-side blemish checked out. First of all, let me just report that Magoo is down to a very svelte 25.3 lbs. [if this adult calorie dog food continues to work like this..I may give it a try].

Imagine my surprise when the entire check-up cost only $36 [the blemish-rating was “harmless”]. However…..the vet DID recommend that we do “some serious dental work on this cute little girl.” [Apparently, they noticed the breath too.] And by serious, they mean "would you like to hear about our finance plans." Aye yi yi. For the money involved, I keep wondering if she’s going to end up with a gold grill when they bring her back to me after “surgery”. [Maybe I can customize the grill to say “grrr” when she opens her mouth]. I'm all for pearly whites...but do they have to be made of real pearls?

Well…I gotta run so I can work on competitively bidding my dog’s health care.

'Twas the Night Before Kickoff

It is officially only two weeks til the start of football season and the anticipation is killing me! I am channeling that anticipation in the little poem below:


Twas the Night before kickoff, when all through the borough
All the creatures were stirring, especially the pro’s
The banners were hung from the rafters with care,
In hopes the Lombardi soon would be there.

The linemen were primed, too hyper for bed
While visions of tackles danced in their head
And you in your jersey and me in my gear
Had just settled down for a quick pre-game beer

When out in the sports den there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter,
Away to the TV I flew like a dart
Gawked at the Sportscenter and held onto my heart

When, what to my curious eyes should appear,
But a story of grit, of spunk and Colts’ fear.

It was a brilliant old coach; a strong, clever mister
I knew in a moment it must be Jeff Fisher
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them to fight;
“On Collins, on Bullock, on Boiman and White”

“To the top of the zone, to the top of the wall
Now pound the ball, pound the ball, pound the ball all!”

He spoke not a boast, but a pledge to be kept
And dis’d on his critics with joy and with jest
“The Titans will win it, and win going away,
Happy Season to all and to all…let us play!”

Pizza, pizza, pizza

I told you Rita’s nephew and I had a lot in common. The thing I forgot to mention is that we are both excellent pizza makers, as demonstrated by the pizza night that he and I hosted during his visit. Let me just tell you that I have proven sooooo inept in the kitchen that making pizza is now seen as a major accomplishment. [Ohhh…the soft prejudice of low expectations =) ]

To celebrate the the first meal I have made since she met me…Rita enthusiastically contributed a pizza stone from Williams Sonoma to the cause. [Apparently, even pizza gains culinary legitimacy with Williams Sonoma.] I love the thing because it practically forbids you from cleaning it…"do not soak or wash stone in water, nor use detergent, soap or other cleaning fluids as stone is porous”. I read that to say…in the interest of avoiding Palmolive-flavored pizza – do NOT do the dishes. Done.

My grueling preparations for pizza night included finding the pizzeria that sells already-made dough. That’s right…pizza doughballs that are just waiting for the hand-tossed moves of this Noble Roman’s alumnus. Once you settle on pre-made dough…there are only…like…FOUR ingredients to pizza. Nonetheless, Rita’s nephew and I somehow needed to hit six different grocery stores before we had the pepperoni-and-cheese bases covered (there’s no side items on pizza night!).

So let me just get this right…all of the ingredients are pre-assembled…you are forbidden from cleaning the cookware and the only hard-to-emulate cooking technique involves food flying through the air. Is there a cooking genre I am MORE suited for?

Julia Child it ain’t…but blog-worthy it is.

Labor Day

Apparently, Labor Day is the new Christmas. Rita’s family and mine are each getting together for separate Labor Day gatherings. My family is gathering in Nashville and renting a pontoon boat on the lake. Rita’s family…meanwhile…is planning a 3-day rafting trip down the Deschutes rapids. That’s right, I’m a pontoon-boat McConville mixing with the rapids-rafting Pirkles. [But please note that my whole family is going to be on a lake during daylight hours. Now may be the time to pick up sunscreen stocks.]

Rita keeps promising that the “camping” excursion is catered. The outfit running the trip is supposed to “set up your tent and have it waiting for you”, which ought to be especially handy after the water rescue I will undoubtedly require. Last week, however, Rita’s sister sent an email asking if anyone had an extra sleeping bag because “we have one kid’s bag that will probably work for Rita, but we still need one for McC [well…she didn’t call me McC – but I still have to make sure this blog doesn’t show up when you google my name]. Schlepping for sleeping bags does NOT bode well for our “catered” camping excursion. “I told you so” is NOT going to be any consolation when the self-constructed tent collapses on us at 3 in the morning. [oh, who are we kidding – our tent won’t make it to midnight before it collapses.]

I can’t help thinking that my invitation is centered on sheer entertainment value. Tall girls in water wings are always hooty. [I bet you will be able to trace the outline of my water wings from the trail of mosquito bites.]

And just imagine the blogs.

Family visitors

Rita’s fifteen year old nephew came down to visit us from Portland last week. It was a fun week. I realized, however, that I share a lot in common with a fifteen year old boy…:

• Exactly the same palate. Cokes + Pizza – Salads = breakfast
• Have both seen Dog the Bounty Hunter [much to Rita’s dismay]
• Neither one of us knows our way around San Diego
• We can both kick Rita's butt at domino's
• He is, however, a better cook and decidedly less messy

I actually thought Rita was going to hyperventilate from laughing when, during dish-washing, her nephew spontaneously said…."Maeve, we have a lot in common because we both have trouble focusing on things we don’t want to do.” So young…so wise.

Wreck League

There comes a point in every “tomboy’s” life when she graduates from the world of competitive sports and enters the next phase of her life…the city rec league. Whether it’s softball, basketball…or even bowling, there’s often a Brett Favre-like inability to know when to hang up the sport-specific shoes. [Eventually…it just gives way to watching Monday night football…but it’s a process.]

So the other night I went to watch one of my friends play in the Over-40 city basketball championships, featuring…every female gym teacher you’ve ever had. [I think the number of knee braces outnumbered the # of knees.] I was especially impressed because the Over-40 championships immediately preceded the Over-80 (!) league championships. Do me a favor…if I’m still trying to play basketball at 80, will you immediately call the Death Panels?

I guess when you reach the Over 40 league…the game is 3-on-3 half-court. And the court at your local grade school gym is not even full size to begin with. One girl managed to play the entire game without moving six inches. Which seemed to match her cardio ambitions pretty well. But just to give you some idea of the brutality involved…the 75 s.f. court is policed by two referees. Honest to god, these girls don’t let the postage-stamp sized court stand in the way of clocking their allotted fouls. [And by fouls…I mean assault.]

They pretty much give up on team uniforms in the Over 40 league as well. Well actually…everyone has on a uniform shirt…they just don’t match. But while the uniforms are all different, the hair styles are the same. You know what I’m talking about…“Over 40” is apparently the Mullet Generation.

Except for my blog-reading friend, of course…she was the shining exception to every mullet, knee brace, foul-giving observation. =)

Bonfire of the....

So last weekend, a group of folks out here in San Diego finally took advantage of our surroundings and had a bonfire at one of the fire pits on the beach. And rather predictably…it provided a little fodder for the blog:

• We did NOT start the raging California wildfires, thank you very much.
• What does it say about our bonfire-attending group that we had to pop the top off a beer bottle with a lime juicer? That’s right…I travel with a group that can juice a bushel of limes beach-side…but don’t have a bottle opener. Who am I hanging with...Frasier and Niles?!
• Something about sitting on the beach watching a bonfire naturally launches a discussion of Gilligan’s Island…I was voted most likely to be Gilligan. Hey! I resemble that remark. [Really?...not the Professor?]
• Are we sure Joe asked his neighbor if we could burn the wood that used to be his back yard shed?
• When you don’t make fires very often…you tend to get a tad exuberant with your fire-making. Like…how-can-we-burn-the-equivalent-of-a-shed’s-worth-of-wood-and-still-be-home-by-9:30 exuberant. [Answer: a whole quart of lighter fluid…don’t tell my roommate Al Gore]
• And when you do hyper-burn three cords of wood…I don’t care how long that coat hanger is…you're going to broil not only that s’more you’re working on…but also your eyebrows and at least the first two layers of your epidermis. You can have a s’more or blister-free skin, but not both.

We plan to do it again when the air quality recovers.

Healther Skelter

Okay - I know the elections are over, but until football season REALLY starts, I'm still playing fantasy Senate cloture with MY free time.

And the topic of the hour seems to be health care. With regards to Obama's health care plan...Sarah Palin called it "evil"....which makes me think it's probably worth voting for sight-unseen. [Sort of like if Paula Abdul calls something "strange" you'd probably run right out and try it.]

I'll be honest, I can't really follow the ins and outs of the plans themselves, but I sure do enjoy the clips of each town-hall meeting/cage match. I've seen a couple of these clips now and I swear...every one of the screaming "questioner"/crackpots bears more than a passing resemblance to George's parents on Seinfeld. Half the time, I can't tell whether these people are screaming about "socialized" medicine killing old people, Obama being born in Kenya or a dinner that didn't qualify for the early bird special. [If I were some of these people, I'd be scared about death panels too.] Honestly, it seems that the medium age of these Yellers is about 82. Which I find ironic since all of these town criers are probably already getting Medicare coverage [the ultimate public option].

I dunno...if I have to pick between Obama's plan or the plan that Frank Costanza is yelling about....

Travel anyone?

I'm posting today from Moline IL. That's right...not quite Iowa, but you can see the corn from my window. Which led me to think about the signs that I may travel too much:

• I know where Moline IL is.
• Forget miles – I've started booking hotel rooms based on their cable package [the NFL channel AND Jon Stewart, I'll take it.]
• You start referring to the dog-sitter as your roommate
• Your dog-sitter, in turn, starts to refer to you & Rita as "Molly's other mommies"
• You have so many Southwest tickets that can finally bribe people into coming to see you [thanks again for that visit Mikee]
• Your girlfriend finds out what town you're in from your blog =)

The Beds Are Jumping

When we last visited the 3 “what-do-you-mean-they’re-not-gay” boys renting my house in Nashville, they were busy remaking my little cottage home into the TKE house. If you need a refresher course, you can check out some of the earlier posts...

As my house is a duplex, yet ANOTHER boy has moved his testosterone into the separate upstairs apartment, ensuring that Lord of the Rings is playing on a continuous loop somewhere in my Nashville house at all times.

It’s been an eventful tenure with these renters. Let’s see…there was the break-in… the downed tree across the driveway…basement flooding…lightening striking….[Is no one else concerned about the escalating expression of nature's wrath here?] But this week…my property manager calls to tell me that the exterminator found BED BUGS in the house. Are. You. Kidding. Me? Think about last time you heard of a friend having bed bugs. That’s right. NEVER. Why? Because your friends wash their sheets….oh….at least every NINE months or so. While not the model of orderliness myself…rarely do I require ORKIN to make my bed.

When told that the exterminator treatments [plural!] were going to cost $180…the tenant insisted that “we don’t have that sort of money”. There’s 3 of you….you don’t have $60 a piece to rid yourself of pestilence?

I'm thinking of posting someone's "bedbug status" on their Facebook page.

Aflutter for Butter

I struggle to eat well on the road as it is…but when I offered to take my New Orleans team to lunch today, I let them pick the place. Which is how I ended up at Copeland’s “New Orleans” chain restaurant. Now look…I love a corn dog as much of the next guy. But a Wednesday-afternoon lunch hardly seems the time for a carbohydrate body wrap.

I knew we were in trouble when we ordered the spinach and artichoke dip (!). Which came with bow-tie pasta (!!)…that had been deep fried in some spicy [read: battered] coating. Should I worry if the veggie-named appetizer comes shaped like a stick of butter??

After the entrée’s were ordered, the unthinkable occurred. The restaurant’s deep fryer…. broke. Gasp! [We got those crunchy little bow-tie pastas in the very nick of time.] Looking around the table, I, for one, prepared for tears. Seriously, you only have ONE fryer for this whole grease-encrusted joint?? What is it – the size of a jacuzzi? Seats four? The restaurant manager tried to tell us the three menu items they could still make sans fryer and I tried to figure out what part of their Cobb Salad depended on ready access to hot oil. There was complete anarchy at table 11 until the manager promised free dessert. Peace through cheesecake.

Luckily, the broken deep fryer panic only lasted about 10 minutes before it was repaired and the order of the universe was restored. Bring on the “Seafood Platter”, which turned out to be a completely monochromatic platter of shrimp, clams, fries and catfish. Yum. My body would just like to know how much longer we are going to ricochet between Rita’s organic squash blossoms and Copeland’s House of Oleo. I kept thinking “I ran a marathon once and I didn’t eat this many carbs during the entire 18 week training season….could you please pass the Crawfish Bread.”

Well…better go - I’ve got left-over cheesecake to eat.

I jinxed myself...

...with that post Friday. Haven't had time to blog since.

In New Orleans today, and should be able to post tomorrow.