State of Grace

Fine cookin' folks, them Filipinos.

Well, dollins, allow me to jump back into the blog waters with the latest stupid thing Dubya said.  And, this time, it's personal:

From the HuffPo, a excerpt from a White House meeting transcript with President of the Philippines Gloria Macapagal Arroyo:

***************************************

PRESIDENT BUSH: Madam President, it is a pleasure to welcome you back to the Oval Office. We have just had a very constructive dialogue. First, I want to tell you how proud I am to be the President of a nation that -- in which there's a lot of Philippine-Americans. They love America and they love their heritage. And I reminded the President that I am reminded of the great talent of the -- of our Philippine-Americans when I eat dinner at the White House. (Laughter.)

PRESIDENT ARROYO: Yes.

PRESIDENT BUSH: And the chef is a great person and a really good cook, by the way, Madam President.

PRESIDENT ARROYO: Thank you.

***************************************

All righty, then! We at the White House know Filipinos as SERVANTS.  But, rest assured, the President says we're great folks and love America! However, more than anything, we can cook like a mofo!

No doubt that White House Executive Chef Cristeta Comerford can rock it in the kitchen.  This is not unusual - I come from a legacy of excellent Filipino cooks including my grandpa, who was the personal chef of a US Navy Admiral.  I have a lineup of bossy aunts who insist their adobo rules above all others and you'd best agree with them.  Perhaps Chef Comerford operates the same way - love my food Mr. President or you're dead meat, preferably the favored protein of Filipinos everywhere, dead pork.

But, try to see beyond your insular world, George W.  Watch who you're talking to - President Arroyo has a Ph.D. in economics.  Prior to being elected President, Arroyo held multiple federal government appointments.  Even her DNA is a big deal - her  father was President of the Philippines.

In other words, this lady is not going to relate to your clumsy associations between her people and their fine culinary abilities.  In the transcript, President Arroyo was polite, but I sure hope her "thank you" was a frosty one.

For the record, I'm a lousy Filipino cook.  I guess there's no job at the White House or in Kennebunkport for me or for my cousin Kevin, a professor in the poli-sci department at the University of Southern California and former Deputy Mayor of Los Angeles.   Yeah, Cousin Kev, tough luck because you're a lousy cook, too.

Gaaaah, dollins.  Just gaaaaaaaah.

And, in her 53rd year, she did many deep lunges.

  Still have the touch. 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Well, dollins, today is my birthday and look what I got - a baby! Ain't she grand? Alas, the joy was short lived as I had to give her back to her mama Jennifer, one of the many Jennifers I know and love.  We must love the Jennifers because their numbers are great thus we mustn't piss them off.  This is, after all, Planet Jennifer and we're lucky they allow us to breathe their oxygen, much less hang out with their kids.

We hosted this charming girly girl known as Avery GRACE (her very fine middle name in all caps when referenced in correspondence between mama Jennifer and me) last Saturday. Avery GRACE's parents needed a date night and I offered my services which included a seminar on current concepts in opthalmology from the Hubs, the usual feminist rhetoric from me and co-dependent, groveling behavior from Malcolm the Jack Russell Terrier. Indeed, Malcolm appears to love the babies, though I believe his real agenda is to lick any leftover organic squash baby food from their cheeks as well as stealing their toys.

The best part of Avery GRACE's stay? I got to exercise my maternal instincts, long resisted by my girl Molly ("Mom, I can clean my own ears!") but still intact and functioning, as demonstrated in this action packed pic. 

Further to my own baby, Molly-Who-Will-Not-Let-Me-Clean-Her-Ears, some of you kindly inquired about her post-SAT status. I called her immediately after the test, like right when she was walking out the door.  She was on her way to the nearest dive bar to drown her sorrows in an afternoon of underaged drinking. Oh, I kid you, she wouldn't go to a bar, she'd just raid the booze at her Dad's.  Oh, I kid you again, she really went to Jamba Juice. In either case, Molly needed to knock back something as she claims to have known "nothing...I KNEW NOTHING on the test...nothing".  So much for the pricey SAT prep course.

However, just as sure as I know her ears need a thorough cleaning, I also know that Moll had an excellent grasp on the material and did better, way better than "nothing".  She will do the SAT again in September, repeating it until she's satisfied with her score, just like you Dollin Wonky Readers did as per your commentary on the last post.  My thoughts turn to my heavily pierced and tattooed pal Stan, who said he  "...took the SAT three times. Once for practice, once for real, and once more just for fun to see if I could squeeze out a few more points." Stan, you are the awesome man, but dude, I can't imagine doing a test "just for fun." 

Hey, I'm selling myself short here.  I actually have started doing something maybe even more punishing than the SAT.  Last night I began my first session of circuit training, a birthday gift from Hubs.  I left the hour and fifteen minute workout mortified that I let myself become pathetically out of shape.  Sure, I run and have a yoga practice, but I've been needing resistance training something fierce.  I not only met that need in the circuit training (damn you big rubber band thingy with handles! I wanted to shoot mine into Monterey Bay, so desperate was my workout), but got in agility training, too.  I don't know about you, but I associate agility training with dogs.  I will continue to make that connection, because I worked like a dog to complete the agility course of jumping over little hurdles, stepping through that rope ladder on the ground, and slide gliding from one diagonally placed marker to the next.  It's all to develop those fast twitch muscle fibers, though, after last night, the only fast twitch I felt was the involuntary tic on my face that showed up when I drove back home, exhausted and muttering incoherently to the unforgiving universe.

Good. Times.

Tonight the Hubs and I will celebrate my 53rd year on Planet Jennifer by going to an Oakland A's game. It's East versus West, as my beloved A's will be going up against the team of my NYC born and bred Hubs, the Yankees.  We have fabulous seats, on the field, between home and first.  Just in case, Hubs will be taking his glove in pursuit of a pop-up fly ball. 

Dollin Readers, let us take a moment to revel in the fact that my 59 year old Hubs, founder of a successful Silicon Valley medical device company, a Ph.D. (that's Doctor Hubs to you and me), father of six and an all around dignified and serious guy is taking his baseball glove to the game, just in case.   That's HOT!

And, now to book a massage before the game. It's my birthday, mofos! That calls for a massage! In truth, a massage is necessary for my wretched post-circuit training body which needs some deep kneading and pummeling to free it from an inconvenient case of exercise induced rigor mortis.

I extend my love and gratitude along with deep lunges to you, Dear Dollin Readers.  I appreciate your audience and fellowship more than you will ever know.

Late Bloomer Gets Published. World Comes to an End.

Incredibly, you will read nothing about therapy, dysfunctional families and bad childhoods in this post.  Imagine that! You click over to my url and, surprise! Not only have I published a blog entry for the second time this week, said entry will be free of existential dread and struggle.  We'll save the usual sturm und drang for another time because today is a special day, a red letter day, a happy day.

You wonder, what's going on? Why is GraceD so uncharacteristically upbeat and who put on that damn Kool and the Gang song that's always played at weddings and professional sports playoff victories?

Well, I just want to 'Celebrate' because this hot-flashing baby boomer, this Grandma Moses-like late bloomer, this writer/blogger/mother can officially announce that her ultimate fantasy has been realized: I am included in an anthology that will be on sale at a bookstore near you!

Behold, our book - celebrate good times, come on!

 

I have a story in this anthology that Roxanne Cooper told me a long time ago would be suitable for publishing.  To Rox, I thank you for saying such a nice thing.  I'm proud to tell you that I met your challenge and with this accomplishment, custom dictates that you owe me a round, if not two or three, of salty rimmed, over ice (not blended)  Austin Texas style Margaritas the next time we meet.

I am also indebted-for-life to "my Jenny" (drawled worshipfully in a kinda lame but nonetheless heartfelt imitation of Forest Gump).  Jenny Lauck, she of Three Kid Circus blogging fame and renown, suggested to editor, writer, agent and all around wonder woman Rita Arens that I may have some material for this project.  Ever the professional, Rita gave my submission a thorough shakedown, editing out pictures of my dog and the obscure references that are usual fare on my blog posts.  She was able to format my little tale of yelling at Molly then desperately wanting to escape to a Menopausal Hut into a short story.  For this, not only am I indebted-for-life to Rita as well, but I will handing over my only born, the aforementioned Molly, to the Arens household.  Rita, you're getting a deal - Molly is just a year and half away before she's 18 and kicked out of the nest to the cold, cruel world.  Thus, you have escaped Molly's middle school years and toddlerhood. A bargain, I'm telling you.

There are parent blogging superstars in this anthology, and the Table of Contents is not unlike the roster for an amazing music festival where I am an opening band (like, dare I say it, Feist?) to Radiohead-quality rock star writers of these beloved blogs:

Amalah
Binkytown
Birdie's New Mexico Time Machine
CityMama
Finslippy
Friday Playdate
Fussy
IzzyMom
Laid-Off Dad
Mom-101
Mommy Needs Coffee
Mommytrack'd
Motherhood Uncensored
Not Calm (dot com)
Paper Napkin
Rancid Raves
Surfette
Sweetney
The Modernity Ward
The Naked Ovary
Three Kid Circus
Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Adding to the glam and bling of being published, we will be doing book signings.  Be warned, someone responsible better monitor my activities at these book signings, lest I get all full of myself and sign off in the smart-ass way that David Sedaris autographs his books.  Our lovely Rita Arens, who is far more couth than David Sedaris or I could ever be, will kick off the "Sleep is for the Weak" book tour on May 17 at the Kansas City Literary Festival.  Book signings are confirmed for July 18 at BlogHer, August 29-30 at the Decatur Book Festival, September 4 at the Kansas City Barnes and Noble, and September 13 at The Full Circle in Oklahoma City. 

More "Sleep is for the Weak" events to be announced, including book signings in California where I will be on hand to conduct a bonus tequila shot drinking contest for parents of teens and/or toddlers.  Think I'm kidding? You'll have to show up to find out.

Those who need to get a jump on things can pre-order our book from Amazon, Barnes and Noble and indie book sellers, Booksense.  Official release will be September, 2008. 

I can barely stand it, dollins.

Love and blessings to all,
GraceD

 

Look what made my owie feel all better.

  Mofo iPhone 4 Christmas, Dollins! 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Merry Christmas, my Dear Precious Dollin Readers.  I wish all of you peace, love and happiness today and always.

Now that those niceties are out of the way, check out what Santa Hubby brought me!  Eeeeee-haaaawww!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I'm still sporting facial swelling and an especially vicious black eye from my oral surgery last week. 

Back away from the fugly face woman, kids - She's got an iPhone and is not afraid to use it!

Today - off to the newly remodeled home of our kiddo Andy and his most excellent family.  His wifey is Cuban which means good eats will be served.  Molly will join us and all I can say is that she better show up with a new Joy of Cooking book for her mama otherwise it's coal in that chick's stocking.

Later -

Rest up from the Cuban food tomorrow. 

Big party at our house for the family on Thursday. 

Recover from that on Friday. 

To Do -

Force kiddo Tracy to flip some of her perfect blueberry pancakes for breakfast.

Force kiddo Tracy's boyfrend Brian to nap and overeat after months of touring.

Heap love on kiddo Jenn who needs many napping and overeating breaks from grad school. 

Love on kiddo Tiffany who has two kids in diapers, yes, dear God, "two kids in diapers."

And, even more love on kiddo Adam who teaches second grade.

Big love, more love on kiddo Andy who, as a defense attorney, works with criminal types every day.

Finally, kiddo Molly gets the love for working hard in her nutso-heavy duty academic course load at school and as a diligent hostess at her job in the town's busiest sushi restaurant.

And, always, always, always - love in big doses to the hubs, who makes all of us feel bright inside.  He is love personified.

We're busy with the love, people.  What's better than giving the love?

(Ummm. getting an iPhone?)

Thanks for Giving

  Fresh Bird 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Ah, most dollin State of Grace readers.  I do indeed thank you for giving me your kind charity in reading this here humble blog.  You have been fabulous and I don't deserve your loyalty, but I'll take it anyway because I'm piggy like that.

You all have been on to me in the nicest possible way.  You have agreed with me on some issues, respectfully disagreed on others, called me on my shit, called me to see if I'm okay, held my hand and held me tight.

Thank you.

I've had a couple of unbloggably bad days recently.  I'm okay, but I blew the National Blog Posting Month thingy.  Dang! I got to 19 days! I was doing so well!  Now, I'm no longer eligible for the valuable prizes, honor and glory that comes with blogging every day for 30 consecutive days.  I suck, man.

Another reason I suck - blew the National Novel Writing Month, too.  No comment except that I suck! Suck! Suck!

But, something that I am sticking to is this -  I've stopped using the "F" word around the hubs.  He hates it when I say the F word.  This makes me wonder if he really is from Brooklyn. 

I think the hubs has unreasonably high expectations of me just because I majored in English Lit.  I really should clue the hubs to the fact that anyone with a degree in English Literature says f*ck more than, say, someone who majored in accounting.  This is because we English majors know all too f*cking well that the accountant will get a high paying job after graduation while we end up waiting on tables.  We're f*cked, in other words.

Other than a couple of slips here and there (a given, considering the f*cked up administration that has f*cked this country over in the last 7 f*cking years), I've been golden in keeping my promise to the hubs, who prefers that I dish out my political perspectives with a side of gentility.

My vow to stop uttering the F word every other sentence will be a major challenge today because this, along with most American holidays, is a power cooking day.  Being of the Anthony Bourdain school of cooking, my use of the F word is as necessary as an excellent knife and the best butter.  Today I have to be as sweet and f*ck word free as - gulp - Rachel Ray.

Gah, Rachel Ray.

Note to hubs - See! I did not write "F*ck Rachel Ray."  Golden, I tell you.

Gaaaaah.

Moving on.  Our Thanksgiving Menu:

Appetizers:

Jumbo black olives like the kind we used to put on our fingertips as kids.

Fancy shmancy salami made with Pinot Noir.

Carrot and celery sticks

The Big Kahuna:

Brined and roasted turkey

Steamed lobster tail for the kid who does not eat fur or feather but will eat fin

Mushroom stuffing by El Hubs

Garlic roasted mashed potatoes

Rice because I'm Filipina

Brussel sprouts, aka "Barbie Cabbage"

Fresh cranberry relish

Giblet (for me) and non-giblet (for hubs, who thinks giblets are creepy) gravies

The Pie

Someone will probably stop reading my blog for this, but we don't like pumpkin pie.  We don't like pumpkin.  So sue us already.

Anyway, sugar crumb crust apple pie from the nice progressive infidels at Uhuru Bakery.

Non-partisan vanilla ice cream with that.

...and, Repeat

Then, we're going to my brother's, Gary the Marathon Man, to do it all over again tonight!

 

I'm kinda sorta live blogging this on flickr if you're interested in the brined turkey business.  It produces a turkey breast so moist and tender, you won't believe you're eating your (mother's) turkey!

All righty, then.  Back to the prep.  Happy and blessed Thanksgiving, dollins.

Dog Fight! And, a Fifth Grader Breaks it Up!

  Peace reigns in the land once again
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Good Morning, Dear and Dollin Readers.

Here's clothed Nakedjen holding freshly bathed Malcolm.  Nakedjen's black labs Buddah (reclining) and Stella (standing and panting) look on, perhaps a bit enviously.

I took this pic in dirty pajamas and muddy Uggs, a mess because I broke up a major tussle between Stella and Malcolm over a ball. 

As I do every morning, I was throwing the ball via the Chuck-It method out into the woods in front of my house.  Malcolm plunges into the trees to find and retrieve the ball-bounty.  I stand at the front porch, leaning against the railing in my pajamas and Uggs, drinking coffee and contemplating my plan for the day towards world domination through positive thinking and chocolate consumption.  And, spa treatments.  And, praying for a  Democrat in the White House come 2008. 

This morning house guests Stella and Buddah joined in the ball throwing festivities.  All was going well -  the balls were launched at intervals to create varying fetch opportunities, thus each pooch had their own ball.  I continued to drink coffee and enjoyed the additional pleasure of discussing plans towards world domination with Jen, whose own scheme involves nudity and excellent vegan cuisine.

Somehow the Chuck-It launching lost its rhythm, probably because our talk transitioned into a discussion of break-ups/divorces and the fuckness of it all.  Then, as if to accent the fuckness part of the conversation, we heard high pitched wailing, fierce growling and the rustling of dried grass and twigs.  Stella and Malcolm had lunged for the same ball and were rolled up in a fur flying, fang flashing playground fight.

The adrenaline flood of Maternal Instinct surged through my veins and arteries like ice cold water.  Without thinking that I could throw out my ankles or even my ancient hips, I flew from the porch, zipped between two tightly close parked cars, and plunged downhill to the rolling fur and fang frenzy.  Acting solely from gut and ovaries, I jumped on the two dogs, pushed away Stella and covered Malcolm with my entire body.  I screamed like a banshee the entire time, which, in any other neighborhood except for mine, would have warranted multiple 911 calls by citizens, rightly concerned about the possibility of domestic violence in their midst.

By then, Jen made her way to Stella and snatched her up.  Stella was panting.  Malcolm was panting. Buddah was panting.   I was panting.

Now, here's where Jen and I are to be praised as dog mothers -

1.  Both of us know this is What Dogs Do.

2.  Because of this knowledge, I did not do the sissy-stupid thing of blaming Stella, or worse, Jen.  That kind of ignorant nonsense happens at dog parks around the country.  Yeah, yeah - there's dog-on-dog mayhem and violence, but if you know your dog, that can be prevented.  And, yeah, yeah - I could have prevented this by focusing on the fetch activities.  Now I know not to talk about divorce and play fetch with the dogs at the same time.

3.  Both of us checked in with each other and our dogs. There were no apologies, just total understanding.

All of us proceeded into the house.  Unfortunately for Malcolm, he had the added indignity of a bath, but I wanted to wash the dirt off to see if he had any bites or scratches.  He had none.

I, on the other hand, have two scuffed knees and dirt in my wedding ring.  Just like a fifth grader who can slide into home, climb a six foot fence, drop down to the other side and keep running, running, running.  Just like a ten year old, without the wedding ring, of course.

And, to me, that's the best part.  At 52, I can still mix-it-up like a kid.  In my pajamas.  With the dogs.  And, my hips?  Perfectly in place, nothing dislocated or broken.

Whew.  Sheeeet.  Let's go to the Farmer's Market.  I need to recover with some roasted beets and organic apples.

Take the vicodin? Or write a big ol' blog post?

The vicodin won.

Back story:

I've been undergoing extensive dental work.  Implants here and there.  New crowns.  All good stuff. 

Last week I had to get a set of x-rays done.  The technician inserted a special plate over my upper front teeth to take the image.  The plate was tight , way tight and it hurt, oh man did it hurt.

It was so tight that it cracked the root of tooth #7, an incisor, right in front.

Owww! And, fuuuugly!

Because I couldn't get the tooth removed before taking off last weekend, I had to cope with a wobbly front tooth.  Today, it was extracted and owww, it hurts even more.

And, because I'm an insistent patient, I scored a scrip for vicodin.  I just took it and I'm about to go down in a quivering but happy heap.

Eeeeee-yaaaaa-whoooooo!

Tastes Great! Less Filling! Grace Lite!

  Grace Base 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Here you go, the blogger in a far more presentable state than she is at the moment. 

I must say that I look very nice here, if not a little sly, in my "Grace Base".  If you are so inclined, you may click the pic for the description of my basic look on which I pile on accessories and outerwear.

I took this pic a little while ago, but it's published here as you don't want to see a self-portrait of my current attire which consists of my hubs' robe and my Uggs.  Trust me on this - you really don't want your monitor to crack into tiny little shards of sharp glass or plastic that will invariably fly directly into your eyes as a result of viewing such an image.  There is no need for you, dollin most precious reader, to endure the eye injury or the assault to your aesthetic sensibilities.

Actually, I should get out of his bathrobe, so gigantic on me that it rivals in size to the iconoclastic big suit David Byrne sported for the latter half of Stop Making Sense.  I have to pick up the hubs from the airport in two hours and I don't want him to holler, "This is not my beautiful wife!" 

What a slug I am.  While my noble road warrior flew down to Mexico City then up to Chicago all in the holy name of American entrepreneurship and while my noble teen diva Molly participates in compulsory American education all in the holy name of getting into the University of California, Santa Barbara (her current #1 college choice.  Yes, another beach town.  Out of my womb sprang a blonde beach girl.),  I stew in a big robe and sweat in furry Uggs, trying to write harmless stuff.  You know, the kind of stuff that won't fly directly into your eyes and cut up your retinas.

In other words, I'm trying my best to blog lite.  Like, in  the spirit of this:

Peppy pink panel, don't you think? I'd make that sucker blink  - Lite! Lite! Lite! - if I could.  But, it's enough that I used that savagely spunky font "Curlz MT".  Blinking text steps over a boundary that, if I ever cross it, I hope someone will shoot me like a horse in pain.

Here's the deal: It seems that I'm not ready to get the demons out on the blog just yet.  Tales from the Cruel Summer may have to wait until I'm done with the nightmares, flashbacks and binging on milk fats.  For example,  each and every time I think I'm ready to spiel big on the bullshit antics of that Certain Family Member - you know, the one who lined tomatoes and onions around my father's dead body in his open casket - I implode like a sad old hotel in Vegas that's been detonated to make room for a parking structure. 

And, then I eat a quart of  Häagen Daz strawberry ice cream.  A quart, not a pint, mind you.

So, unless I'm feeling particularly brave, certain that I won't be haunted in my sleep and disciplined like a ninja on a no-dairy diet, I'll probably be writing lite.  Maybe the heavy will show up, like I'm a bit peeved about this business of the Mommy Makeover and the folks who think tummy tucks for the postpartum mother is not only okay, but  a woman's sacred choice and that no one should judge her for hating her natural form.  Dang, I could roll off five paragraphs if not an entire blog post on that alone.  I will, by cracky, but first I have to shower and pick up the man.

Until then, I remain your Lite! blogger, characteristically slovenly, but only 3.2 grams of carbos per post.

Love to you, mah dollins.

Not All of our Bookshelves Are Disaster Sites

  Going downstairs, bookshelf. 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

See?  We're not entirely slovenly citizens here at the State of Grace.  We don't need a FEMA grant to put these shelves in order.  Behold the neatness of books.  Groove on the pottery.  Worship Lord Shiva next to the pots.  The bathroom is at the bottom of the shelves and steps in case you need "to go".

Also, not all of my blogging is a disaster.  I'm keeping up!  I'm not a total blogger-loser!  In fact, you can read me over at BlogHer, where there are no blogger-losers and that includes me, baby.  Nope, not a loser, not me.  Just because I haven't started on the other bookshelves doesn't mean I've got a big "L" tattooed across my forehead.  I'm not a loser! No! No! No!

Defensive, much?

But forget the sketchy household management here.  I'm talking about the good advice, unsolicited or not,  in Taking Tips from the Blogosphere.  In that post you'll find excerpts from my new favorite blog, Beauty Tips for Ministers.  Yes, a blog devoted to the care and grooming of clergy people exists and it's hysterically funny, I swear to God.

All righty.  The other bookcases?  Maybe tomorrow.

Hey! Look at my dog!

  Malcolm's Morning Sunbath 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

And not my bookcases.  Which have NOT BEEN TOUCHED.

I have some very good unbloggable excuses.  So, there.

However, today?  Or, rather THIS WEEK?  Is the week.  Oh, yes it is.  I swear to you.  On my honor.  Or, rather, on my dog's honor.

Now, that's pressure.

Anyway, doesn't Malcolm look noble in that shaft of light?