Men are NOT visual creatures.

Yesterday I got a letter in the mail from my unstable aunt.  I've been getting letters almost weekly.  What I love about them is

1. No mention of my grandmother passing.
2. They're written on paper from 1950.
3. They're all addressed to Kelly and Jim ( my deceased brother-inlaw)
4.  Each one comes with a threat.
5.  Followed by "but I love YOU" 
6.  She illustrates the weather.

It's like a little docu-drama!  So exciting! I never know who's picture will be in there or if there will be clouds or angry thunder arrows.

But as disturbing as all this can be it's not nearly as distrurbing as having your husband looking over your shoulder at the pictures and uttering these words:

Bill:  Oh, it that you?

Me:  Where?

Bill:  That one, is that a picture of you?

Me:  Seriously?!  You think that's a picture of me?

Bill:  Well, she's wearing glasses and has frizzy hair.

Me:  Thanks for that.  And NO- it's a picture of my grandmother taken in the 1940's.

I see no point in ever drying my hair again or putting on makeup.  Or shaving my legs.   

And the first person who messages and says this looks like me I am "unfriending"  , I mean it.

--crap, I do look like this.  Shit.

You had me at "Rats wearing vests"

 

How Bill believes I listen to him.
And why I believe Stephan Pastis lives in my house.

 Last night on our way back home from the bookstore Bill shared what he had been reading, which is really his sneaky way of telling me I'm not taking care of my body/mind/fill-in-the-blank in a way that benefits me/him/Blue Cross Blue Shield.
It was about rats that were used in a test to prove interval training at high intensity for three minutes got the same results as rats that excercised for three hours at low intensity.  Oh, and they put weighted vests on the high/less time intenstiy rats.  Which was where he lost me.  Not that I couldn't follow his thread of conversation it's just I was stuck on envisioning rats in vests.  Who makes these vests? Are they like the orange life-saver  vests on cruise ships?  How long does it take to convince a rat to put one one?  If it's weighted how did they determine how much weight was too much weight?  Did the rat say , "too heavey, too heavey".  Who cares how much exercise a rat gets?

All of which he did not find funny. Which is why I didn't ask if rats that wore weighted vests during sex performed better quicker as compared to rats that took fricking forever with the same results.  Even though this was what I was thinking.  Plus I was still in the car and it was a long way to walk home.

And I was in a cooking mood anyway.  Which made me think how much a rat would have to swim to work off butter and cream.  Because every time I see the movie Julie and Julia I get all worked up to cook, bake, frappe and generally whisk anything in sight.  It usually lasts long enough for me to purchase another french cookbook to add to my burgeoning collection.  And disappoint myself by hunting for mushrooms who's names I can't spell much less pronounce leaving me to sound like a drug addict as I try to describe what I'm looking for to the produce clerk.   " Yes, I'm looking for some spaneii7?wyi mushrooms, you got those?"    "yes, it's spelled with the number 7 because it's FRENCH".     If you don't blink you can actually pull this off.

( Which is why we were at the bookstore to begin with, where I  tried to buy another of Julia's cookbooks but there was only one copy that had been mauled by "others", simply unacceptable.  It's a problem I am burdened with.  I also never take the first slice of bread.  Or wear bowling alley shoes.)
 

So instead I made my momma's chocolate meringue pie.  No mushrooms, french or otherwise.  Still, after all these years I have to read the footnotes I scrawl along the edges of the recipe card.  Like - remember - "Make the pie first , THEN the meringue"   Meringue is temperamental.  It , much like my husband, does not like to be kept waiting.  But unlike Bill it can't be distracted by frilly lingerie. Or rats wearing vests.   

 

I suspect these were Home Schooled Cows.   I suddenly feel inferior to a carton of milk.  Judgey bovine.



Who are these people?

This is the statistical breakdown of countries that are reading my blog. Of course "reading" could be a stretch.  More like random chicken pecking or passing out on the keys only to wake to see some squirrel picture.  I know it happens to me all the time.  

United States	3258
Russia	204
Germany	48
Ukraine	45
United Kingdom	6
Latvia	6
Canada	5
Poland	5
Moldova	4

I looked Moldova up.  IT'S REAL , PEOPLE!! 

Wikipedia confirmed official Coat of Arms.  So there.

Why we don't camp. Ever.

 

My snake whomping stick.  And Bill. circa 1984  



Bill and I don't possess the "camping" gene.  We're defective in that area.  And we learned this about each other very early in our marriage.   Our friends invited us to their cabin in Possum Walk , Arkansas when we were all newlyweds.....so 28 years ago.   We left town before they did with a plan to meet up at the cabin.

A couple of important things we learned about each other , we both suck at driving at night, we'd rather sleep. And we are both real pains in the butt if we're traveling and hungry.  The backroads of Arkansas did not have a McDonald's anywhere in sight. Or any other fast food joint.  So we were ready to kill each other when we finally arrived at the cabin.



Not a girl scout manual.



The cabin ( which is still there) is on the side of a bluff.  It's an a-frame cabin that was hand built by my best friend's dad.  Beautiful spot, no electricity , way way off the beaten path. - just nature.   Complete with critters.  I like nature , on Animal Planet.   When I used to go with my friend , Jill, as a teenager , she would hike alone for hours and hours while I sat on the cabin deck overlooking the gorge and read.  And I liked it that way.  Because I'm terrified of nature.

We arrived after dark.  And where we were it was more than dark it was black.  I'd been there enough to feel my way to the cabin and get a couple of Coleman Lanterns for us so we wouldn't have to wait in the pitch dark until Jill and Jim got there.  However neither one of us possessed matches.  The only time in my life I wished one of us smoked.  We brought both of the lanterns back to the car and pondered how to light them.  Well, there's a cigarette lighter in the car and one of us got the bright idea to try and ignite a leaf and then stick it in the lantern.  I thought I was brilliant.   I don't know if they've changed the design of lanterns since 1984 but these were full of propane and you had to pump them and then set a flame to some opening to light them.  I was standing outside the car while Bill tried to get a leaf to catch fire.  After several attempts we got one lit. Then ONE of us ( the details are murky here) picked up the primed lantern and tried to light it INSIDE the car.   

You know that whoosh noise you hear when a gas grill catches ?  Imagine my surprise when the car ( from which I was NOT sitting in )  flashed bright.  One of us screamed.  That would be me.  There was a lot of cussing.  Also me.   I don't think I remember seeing someone exit a car so fast.  But not as fast as the accusations....

Bill: Why did you prime it?? Are you trying to kill me?

Me: Prime it?  Why the hell did you light it INSIDE the car?

  

Probably reading a first-aid manual. or annulment instuctions.  



Bill:  I didn't light it INSIDE the car!

Me: Well tell that to your missing eyebrows!

Bill:  Are my eyebrows missing?

Me: I'm not sure I'm blind from the flash.

Bill:  You make me crazy.

Me:  It'd be easier to tell that if you had EYEBROWS

Bill:  (lots of grumbling and groping to check for missing eyebrows)

We sat in the dark for another hour until Jill and Jim got there.  I was pretty sure we'd be eaten by a grizzly bear or an anaconda.  Or both.    When they arrived they showed us where the matches were stored.  Which will be helpful if we ever go back.  Which we haven't.  Not even in the daylight.  Because camping is very dangerous.  Very very dangerous. 

Go Do -That Voodoo -That You Do- So well



View from our room.  You can't see the ants that were living in our couch.



For our 28th anniversary Bill took me to New Orleans.  And it was fun.  And scary.  And painful. But mostly fun.

My designer Happy Meal Watch rendered Debbie speechless

We stayed at The Ritz Carlton.  Oh, they loved me.  Especially Debbie the disgruntled concierge.  Who I later learned was named Karen.  Which may OR may not have explained her rather surly attitude.  But just in case she reads blogs note to Debbie/Karen,  your whole job revolves around customer service.  Smile and don't smirk when I ask you to break a hundred dollar bill. Maybe the smirk was because I had to ask for directions OUT of the hotel.  The people in the atrium were beginning to suspect I was a stalker. 

Our first morning out to eat breakfast we ran into a squall.  It turned Bill's umbrella inside out.  Which I! was silently grateful for as it had "Collierville Dragons" printed on it.  And that was just easier than screaming WE ARE TOURISTS to all the panhandlers and miscreants that we were sharing the overhang to stay dry.   It was very romantic especially with the smell of urine wafting down Canal Street.   Snuggle with me honey.





How my self-esteem took a nosedive.



We ate at Jimmy J's.  The bartender was "Jack" from Will and Grace whose name was John.  As was all the wait staff as well so it was fairly easy to get someone to come to your table.   We were greeted by "Hello - want some fresh squeezed grapefruit juice sweetie? "  Bill said yes.  I checked to see who the hell I was eating breakfast with.  We liked it so much we ate breakfast there three mornings. I ate there just to watch "Jack" who like to yell "Hello Bitches" to people I'm assuming he knew.  And got to see a car "booted" just outside the cafe as all the staff was atwitter with excitement.  I never wanted to leave - the food was amazing. 

Our big anniversary dinner was at a restaurant called Stella's.   It was 16 blocks from our hotel.  We walked.  I wore heels.  My feet were a bloody blistered hemorrhaging mess by the time we got there.   I couldn't concentrate on the 4 course dinner because I was in agonizing pain.  Plus I'd squeezed myself into some underwear called Spanx which must be code for Death by Boa Constrictor.  I had brought my "skinny" dress to look extra sexy for Bill.  And it would have worked if he were into sausage casing in bloody shoes.  So many boundaries. When we ate there 6 years ago it was much more casual.  Not so much now.  We had to flag down our server to ask how to eat the first course.  Literally.

Bill:  Hi Katie , do we just put the whole thing in our mouths [ pointing to a pureed mish mash on what appeared to be one of those ceramic Japanese soup spoons- just one]  Katie:  Yes [ in whispered disbelief]



The "mood" probably wasn't helped when I threatened his life if he didn't get us a cab back.   And he did because he still had hope the evening would turn out well.  Bwahahaha.  And it did.  For me. Because there were hostess cupcakes waiting for me in the hotel.  Because we would have had to taken out a loan for the Honor Bar.  Which is not very honorable.  But did have some rather interesting items in it. 



Like:

This looks like fun!

Let's take a closer look, shall we? 

Uh-oh...I better get started on the Intimacy Mood Juice.  And Gummie Bears.  They're kinda sexy. 

I don't know if this is for sex or my ob-gyn visit. Or both.  I looked up the website.  Go ahead, I'll wait.....
I'll be dropping a suggestion off for Debbie/Karen that the Ritz invest in the Kuma-Sutra Kit.  Maybe she won't be so cranky with props.  

Glaringly missing from the basket.......and it's for every wound.  Gun shot, intimacy, hemorrhaging feet. Band-Aid seems a little too happy about my misery.  I'll be letting Debbie/Karen know. 

No Intimacy mentioned but I feel like I might be getting screwed ........plus I'll be naked for 6 and 1/2 hours.


I love New Orleans. Can't wait to go back.  I know Debbie/Karen misses me.