Chick Stuff

I'm baking a three-layer birthday cake for my mom today: red velvet, Devil's food and classic yellow. I've come up with the frosting design (didn't have to consult Pinterest), and it's baking now, as I write.

"Is she making these from scratch?" you might be asking. Oh, hell no.

Before Matt left for the office, he said, "Make sure it's moist. Cook it five minutes less than it calls for. Don't forget to add plenty of oil...so it's moist. And water, to make it moist."

Believe it or not, this is Matt's love language for "You're pretty creative, but a great cook you ain't."

{Digression: I finished reading The Help this week, and I've been talking like a 1960s southern, black maid all week. This is not a racist comment, as they are now heroines of mine! I'm gone have to read that book again, I liked it so well.}

My cooking has true moments of beauty, but traditionally, and I blame my English/German heritage on this, it's quite bland. And I don't follow directions. Ever.

My friend Emily writes this wonderful blog, photographing all that she cooks, and it inspires me. She's a stay-at-home mom, too, with THREE kids, and she homeschools one of them. AND she's a great cook. It's really sickening, but I love her.

Part of my problem is planning. I never go in for the kill on this. I made an Italian bake the other night, hurrying through it because I started around 5:00 p.m., and I realized that I'd forgotten to add the red wine, the KEY ingredient. When it came out of the oven, fully cooked and bland as hell, I wondered if I added the wine then, pouring a half-cup or so over cooked pasta, maybe no one would notice. A few minutes later, Matt walked in. I sprinkled a bunch of seasoned pepper on it (my best friend), and called Sam to dinner.

We sat down to eat, and I said, "I tasted it. It's OK." Matt asked, "Is it bland?" I couldn't look him in the eyes, I just nodded.

Sometimes, I like to cloak the truth in a "I made a healthier version than the recipe called for" attempt. I pretend that this works for me.

Matt and Sam are troopers. They know that deep down, cooking isn't really my thing. Just like Chick TV, Chick Lit and, basically, mindless-chick-stuff aren't my things.

Post Script:
The Devil's food looks moist; the red velvet crept out of the pan and made a mess because I think it was too hot; there's classic yellow batter all over the kitchen floor. The phone rang 5 times from the start of this blog to now. If it weren't for my editing job, and need to talk to publicity people, I'd blow up the phone. At least I do not have the E! channel on in the background...

Due For Repair

Spring arrived in a little blue box this week. My crocuses and hyacinths are in full bloom, the days are longer, and Matt is almost tolerable to live with (hee hee).

We've been cooking out, playing outside (Sam is in his fort right now killing bad guys), taking walks, and tonight I'll be firing up the grill and pouring a small wine goblet for my dear husband--who never has to wait on repairmen--to enjoy on the deck.

I'm not sure what it is about us and repairs, and thank God I write from home so I can be here to meet the endless stream of child-abducting vans that are forever parked in our driveway. I called Matt today to tell him that our LG fridge was spewing water. At first, I detected low-grade defeat over the phone, then a growing surge of apoplexy, but then he calmly sighed, saying, "Do you want to call them, or me?"

There is a dark cloud hovering over our appliances, wiring and, soon enough, furnace. It's like a hail storm in the middle of a hurricane, and it never seems to end. These are the things that make marriage fun.

But it's life, and sometimes there's no better answer than a 1997 Martinelli, Jackass Vineyard, Russian River Valley Zinfandel. (Alcohol 16.5% by volume.)

Riding Life's Waves

We're on our last day of vacation in California. We're at Matt's parents now, but we rented a house on Newport Beach this time, so we were mere steps to the ocean. It was a little chilly this time around, but that didn't keep Matt and Sam out of the water, both surfing with their wetsuits on. Sam heard a million times, "Oh he's so cute!" Honestly, he did look pretty darn Matt-like in his suit. I asked Sam yesterday morning if he was going surfing, and he answered, "Yes, Mom, it's what I do, it's my job."

Matt and I ran on the beach a couple of times, and there were a few trips to Perry's Pizza and PJ's Surfriders. Standard issue. I know every nuance of Newport Beach now. : )

Sam told Matt how his job isn't any fun, saying, "Daddy, you don't have any toys or children to play with (well, a few children), just those big rocking chairs."

Matt took Sam and I to see his elementary school in Orange. In California, the kids walk from room to room...outdoors. Their little coat hooks are outdoors. Gotta pee? The bathroom is located outdoors. It's crazy to think that these little kids aren't locked inside some building, wandering the halls like all the little Indiana chillins. I like the concept, but...

The Newport Beach Grammar School is located on the beach! OMG, how much sand those poor teachers must have to sweep up daily. Not to mention all the beach bums that stop and gawk. Oh, no way.

Yesterday was Matt's and my wedding anniversary. It was a very sweet day. I think we hugged and kissed 53 times. He took me to our favorite restaurant, Orange Hill, that looks out over all of Orange County and a sliver of the ocean. I gave him a plastic, red heart that I'd dug out of the sand, to which I'd added a piece of heavy string. It was kind of a joke, but he got it. Our hearts are still strong, and our perspective on what marriage really takes in unflawed. He truly is the best guy, and I'm extremely fortunate. I love my guys so much.

Camper Van Halen

Matt told me two days ago that we'd been invited to a suite at whatever-Conseco-Fieldhouse-is-called-now to see Van Halen. I stared blankly, looking for an escape hatch.

I said, "Oh, god, honey, it's just that I...it's just...oh, how do I say this...I hate them. I hate them so much." I told him I'd look for a sitter. Imagine my delight when all Brooks family members were unavailable! But, damn, our Australian friend said, "Yes, of course I'll watch the lad. I'm pissed that you didn't ask me first."

I told Matt that the only song I remember is Pour Some Sugar On Me.

Matt's response--OK, more like a snicker--was, "Jill, that wasn't Van Halen."

I like the friends we'll be joining, I happen to love making fun of big hair and Spandex, and Matt told me today that Kool and the Gang are opening. OK, I'm there. I'm so there.

Open That Bottle

The Wall Street Journal, in an attempt to encourage their wine-loving readers to drink the good stuff, began an Open That Bottle night program. Instead of hiding your prized wines (I have several from the early 1990s that I've been hoarding), you take them to a party of fellow wine enthusiasts and drink.

We participated Sunday night at the home of my editor friend who lives downtown in the old Block building. Although I've turned Matt into a wine snob over the years, we paled in comparison to most of the knowledgeable folks sharing bottles at this fest. There were Rochioli pinot noirs, Martinelli Zinfandels from Jackass Vineyard, plenty of Côtes du Rhône, Burgundy and Châteauneuf-du-Pape...and one of my old boyfriends. DRINK! 
 
Just kidding, it was fine.
 
Matt and I met DJ for dinner at St. Elmo's afterward--more wine--and then flipped a coin for who drove home. Fun evening.

Happy Valentine's Day, Matt...

Quads 21st Birthday Bash

We celebrated the adorable quadruplets' birthday last Saturday night in Broad Ripple. We met at Union Jack's for some intensely yummy pizza, and Matt was sweet enough to stay home with Sam so that Deb--our favorite babysitter--could join us.

Deb returned home, but my dad stayed with us, and we felt that a ripening experience in Ripple would be a quick shot at the Alley Cat Lounge. I always loved the Cat. I maybe or maybe didn't play pool there with several bands over the years...

Saturday night, Whitney Houston had just been pronounced dead--no real surprise to us--and some big, loud, weepy girl at the Cat (also drunk and stupid) went up to my dad and asked if he was a Republican. My dad, meekly, answered, "Um, no, I'm not a Republican," (fibber) to which she said, "Good, because if you were I'd punch you in the face."

She continued walking around the bar crying, so I had to make fun of her, just a wee bit. I said, "Oh, are you all right?" to which she replied, "No. Ronald Regan killed Whitney Houston, and if I find any Republicans here tonight (shew, I was safe) I'll f*@#ing punch them in the face."

We left the Cat pretty quickly. It was getting weird earlier than I remember back in my days. We walked down the alley (you see the significance here) to the Vogue Nightclub. My favorite place on earth next to my very own family room.

Our entire bunch: Jason, Angie, Nick, Tyler, Lauren, my dad and I got jiggy with it for hours. We all knocked back some tasty beverages, and none of us were feeling any pain...until the next morning.

Chocolate milk definitely cures a hang-over.

Matt's Birthday Party

I really must desist in surprising Matt each year, because by the time he's 40 there will be no more tricks up my sleeve. And I've already told him...we're going somewhere hot for his 40th.

We had a surprise party open house this year. I told Matt that our neighbors previous and past would be joining us, which was fine with him, but people kept coming, kept coming, more people. We realized that we are still friends with almost all of our former neighbors. We're very fortunate with that.

I made a bunch of very yummy soup for the occasion:

bought him the perfect cake with our likenesses :) (and broke the "H"candle):

and his friend re-gifted this hideous thing from Christmas:

Another party snaps to attention. I'm on break until Valentine's Day.

Do What You Like

I shared the best "secret" moment with Sam tonight...and then ran to tell Matt about it.

I have kept a journal since the 7th grade. Thank you, Mrs. Blaylock.

Sure, at many points it has saved my life. But my most extensive, serious journaling has been since the day I found out I was pregnant with Sam.

I journal all the time, and many days--most days--after Sam has said something funny, interesting or mean, I'll say, "Oh, Mommy needs to write that in her journal."

Tonight, Sam said, "I want to journal. I love to write."

I replied, "Well, when you learn all of your letters you'll be able to form words, and then you'll...oh, Sam! You'll be a writer. Mommy always wanted to be a real writer, but Mommy lacks some discipline, but if you want to be a writer...write! You can write a book!"

Sam's face burst with a smile. He couldn't contain himself, and he threw himself forward, hugging me, and simply said, "Mommy..."

Sam loves praise and nurturing. I followed it up (because of the parenting books) with, "You can be anything you want to be. Even a Senator. Mommy will still love you."

Sam said, "I want to be a writer."

I expounded to Matt.  Matt's response: "Well, better than a lawyer..."

Apple Pie and Amoxicillin

Not since I was in Madrid, Spain, searching for a 24-hr RX, have I been so greatly disappointed. In Spain, lovely Spain, there are roughly 3 drug stores per any metropolitan area. They open at 9, close at 5, and none of them are open weekends. This goes for France, too, come to think of it. While walking what seemed the entire country of Spain, back when I was still "fashion over function," I had at least 15 blisters on my feet from walking in clown shoes all day.

I searched for hours, not speaking a word of Spanish (5 years of French has really come in not handy), for a freaking drug store! To no avail.

But I will say this: at least in Europe you understand. They're purists. They don't like neon. They don't like advertising and marketing. They won't allow "box stores." Bless their hearts, I love Europeans.

But when Sam got strep throat over the weekend, and I had to call my always-there-for-me stepmom to find an open MedCheck (at 6 p.m.) I was pissed. We live in Carmel, for God's sake. Strip mall capital of the world, right?

And then to fill a prescription? Forget about it. One open. ONE. Oh-my-high-price-of-gas-God.

I called Matt after I'd already driven at least 12 miles around in a circle, asking, "Please hold dinner for me, I'm at CVS on Rangeline" (my third attempt at an open pharmacy). Matt said, "Better you than me, because someone would already be dead if it were me..."

There were actual tears in my eyes.

So, Sam's better. God bless America and amoxicillin.

We took him to see Beauty and the Beast 3D the next day. Ten minutes into it I spoke over Sam's head to Matt: this is a horrible message, if you really think about it. Matt nodded.

When we left the theater, Matt said, "So, Sam, the message is that if you hold a girl captive for long enough, she might fall in love with you."

Oh, the truth does sting.

People in my hot tub

The "people in your hot tub" idea is a theory that allows you to entertain famous people who you may not--and probably are not--married to.

My neighbors, Kelly and Mike, and my husband all chose sex symbols, television personalities (if you can call it having a personality), and moviestars. OK, OK, I gave Kelly "Dennis Quaid," because I rather like him, too. And, honestly, I'm probably too old to know her other choices. I think both husbands chose Megan Fox, because, you know, they're guys.

Except for Jon Stewart, a highly sexy, funny and intellectual television personality--with tons of personality--I had a difficult time coming up with people who are actually still alive. Kelly thinks I'm nuts. She lets out screams regarding my choices.

I've spent a lot of time with Shakespeare. Old Bill would be in my hot tub, for sure, and now Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.

I've been on an F. Scott Fitzgerald kick, of late. For those of you who may have only referred to the Cliffs Notes for Fitzgerald or, who, like myself, didn't completely 'get' him at age 16...reread! I just finished This Side of Paradise, and it's as if time stood still since 1920. Highly intellectual and philosophical, mildly political and greatly FED UP with humanity.

I'm walking on a cloud, having just laid the book down after a heavy sigh.

On to revisit the works of George Bernard Shaw. If you have ever seen a photo of him you may already know that he won't be joining my party.

Work, no sleep and a big smile

There's something in the water around our neighborhood because everyone seems to be inexplicably happy these days. I know I am. I love life so much that I feel a little guilty for loving life so much. Shouldn't I be hating the world along with everyone else? Oh wait, that's only "as seen on Fox News."

It's the fact that I'm working. I'm working a lot right now and that makes me extremely happy. Sure, I tell Matt and Sam to "get out of here - give me some peace for the love of God" now and again, but that's my perfectionist calling card, not unhappiness.

Matt's been very supportive, and when he lets down his guard I think I even see a shimmer of pride on his face. : )

Sam, well, Sam is the greatest kid on earth. I sometimes wait for a specific measurement, some conclusive allotment that will be filled and I'll be content to love him on that level without possibly loving him more...and then he smiles, or laughs, or farts on me and I love him even more.

I made up this little song, Sam and Mommy Are Best Friends, when he was wee, and he still sings it to me occasionally. He's just the coolest little guy and I am so grateful and extremely blessed. Matt and I ask him all the time, "Do you even know how much we love you?" and Sam smiles, puts his hands as high as they'll go, and says, "This much, right?"

But, the kid still sleeps with us. He always begins just fine in his you've-got-to-be-kidding-me comfortable bed, but around 2 or 3, sometimes 4, he comes into our room. My eyes fly open like broken spring window shades, and I'm up the rest of the night. Last night, Matt slept in Sam's room because he was sick, so Sam and I watched Batman Forever in my bed until way past his bedtime. He fell asleep in 14 seconds, but then his snoring began. I turned our fan to level two, suffered for at least another hour, and then turned on a humidifier, as well. The bedroom sounded like a vortex into which we were about to be sucked, so I finally surrendered to half of an Ambien.

Snoring that trumps insomnia is never good news. Tired, bags under my eyes, I made him a quiche for breakfast and kissed him multiple (hundreds) of times throughout the day.

Matt dropped me at the Cheese Shop today while he waited in the car with Sleeping Boy. I bought a sliver of goose liver paté (where my PETA membership from college hits a snag), a bigger sliver of Stilton cheese, and of course, our favorite, Fol Epi (mais oui!). Sam and I made our first batch of cake balls today. It's the new thing, or maybe it's the old thing - I wouldn't know. They are not very pretty, but we did it together, like we do most everything. Now he's cooking dinner with his dad in the kitchen.

What can I say, it's love.

Party at Our House

Matt and I love to entertain. We both love cooking, and I like making sure everyone's glass is full, all the candles are lighted, not one spec of dirt lingers anywhere, and that the music is spot on.

We're having a New Year's party, so come on over!

We had the greatest Christmas ever. It will be difficult to top in the coming years. We went to church--pretty much the entire Brooks clan, Matt, Sam and I--and allowed Sam to stay with us for the candle-lighting ceremony. It was beautiful and moving.

The Brooks gang joined us for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities, which warms my wee heart when we all can be together (but we were missing Jason's family, sadly).

Santa came, of course, and brought Sam everything on his list. Matt and I exchanged presents...one highlight is my retro Schwinn bicycle from the late 1960s - perfect!

But my favorite gift of all, from Matt, was a huge box filled with canned and dry food. I want to get involved--really, really involved--with Gleaners Food Bank. I have a plan I've been working through for a while, and when I opened the box, Matt said, "This is to help you start your mission."

I almost cried. This guy, this husband of mine, the onion...oh, I love peeling back new layers revealing what a sensitive guy he is.

So, he can't fix much around the house. That's all right. He's a good guy, and I knew that the minute I laid eyes on him.

With every great year and wonderful Christmas we have, we know that the most important part is giving to those in need. I hope to end all of my nights wide awake at 2:00 a.m. worrying about the children who didn't get dinner. And all it takes is a plan...and some serious driving around.

More to come - Happy New Year!

Say, what?

In all of my geekdom, I discovered my new favorite website: Forvo.com. All of the words in the world. Pronounced.

It has over 6,000,000 people pronouncing words that might typically throw you, like Aeschylus (that one always gets me) or Jeffrey Eugenides (also had a really hard time getting that one down).

For this website you will need:
1. A computer
2. Volume turned up on said computer

You type your word in, and then click on a little arrow icon and voila: someone says the word correctly!

It even gives you a "Language of the Day," which today is Flemish, in case you want to practice your Belgian Dutch.

I'm searching the house for words I can't pronounce...I might play on this all day!

Shrimp & Grits

I'm in the South. I've been in Charleston, SC for three days for a little break; a calm before my three writing jobs kick my ass in January. The 3rd South Carolina city I've visited, it's by far the most grand. Not quite Atlanta, GA, but for the South, it's really good. Strangely, it's a blonde town. I've met several great locals, and tonight a Charlestonian woman said, "I like you. Blondes have to stick together." She wrote down her phone number and told me she hoped to hear from me very soon. Funny, as that's something I'd probably do.

I've had some very quirky things happen since I've been here, and I'm shocked at how many 80s preppies are still living that dream. Whale and duck pants, bright green and bright yellow pants and shirts. I think the stores simply haven't restocked since 1985.

Charlottesville was chock-full of preppies with Daddy's money, seeking a degree in philosophy or poetry; The Charlestonian accent, however, doesn't give me the shivers.There was a sardonic quote once about how Southern people never sound like rocket scientists, even if they are rocket scientists.

Charlestonians deliver diction, syntax and annunciation with a soft undulating way of conveying their "inna-most" thoughts. It's sweet, sophisticated sugar. I told Matt that I could live here (if we ever move from Georgia, cough cough), and he said that Ruby Sue would likely turn over in her "grave" if he ever moved to the South. We simply won't tell her.

I met a couple last night who started off fun, but I quickly left the jazz bar via a ride from their "bike taxi" son, who'd recently graduated from the Citadel. I was afraid I'd either be sold off to slavery, or chopped into bits (worse yet, grits) if I played with this crazy group any longer. The wife, a Charlestonian, told me her "ugly" secrets and dark thoughts, her husbands miscomings, and her son's quest to marry the daughter of his dad's (her husband's) ex-wife. It was all too "Bravo" or "Oxygen" channel for my liking, so I left before they locked me in a trunk.

I had some damn good wine and mussels before I left, though. I held my arms way up in the bike taxi, laughing at the experience.

I took a wonderful walking tour of the historic downtown given by a 7th-generation Charlestonian and two dry old women from deep-Virginia, whom I could not comprehend at any corner. Although it's fascinating to learn about history--the 1860s were sure good--I noted one little thing that I don't think the rest of the group was following, something that was wearing on me like moss on a myrtle tree. The Civil War ended. There is no more Confederacy. You can talk about palmetto trees and artillery all you want, winning battles at Ft. Sumter, and decorated generals, but the Conferacy is not coming back. Charleston seceded first--and that's cool--but the Yankees won the good fight. And there's no sweet-tea-sipping glory-day-remembering under a magnolia that's going to bring it back. It just...poof! Went. In smoke, nonetheless.

But my stay at the Francis Marion Hotel (Revolutionary War "Swamp Fox") has been wonderful. My calves are killing me from walking...and I've done my share of eating and drinking. The icing on the piece of cake I did not order was Indiana beating # 1 rated Kentucky while I sat tasting my first-ever shrimp & grits.

I'm really looking forward to scooping Sam into my arms today, and kissing my husband hello. I miss them!

The Importance of Being Noticed

One of the best quotes I've heard in a long time came from my friend, Doug, who tells his dates, "Can we please not record this night on Facebook?"

Hilarious.

Today Sam had a playdate with a good friend, whose mom--a wonderful mom--is very young. She added to her Facebook page "where we are having lunch and what we're eating" and I gave earnest consideration to ever posting again.

This younger generation keeps record, by God. I'm astounded at how many accounts they need to tell and show the world just what they've been up to. Is it ego? Is it trying to fit it, or find their place in the world? Is it necessary?

I'm waiting for an answer. I'll check Twitter and see what I find out.

A Fond Farewell

We said farewell to our loving gerbil this week. Gertie died November 30 at 8:11 p.m. Her services were held under our Evergreen tree in the front yard.

Gertie spent many of her days being completely ignored. During those times she enjoyed chewing through toilet paper or paper towel rolls, hiding in one of her many "huts," and running on her obnoxious, loud, green wheel.

She leaves behind her family: Matt, who told Jill "Yes! Let's get a gerbil! Gerbils are fun! I always had gerbils when I was a kid!"; Jill, who fed her, talked to her, held her although Gertie made her sneeze, and cleaned her cage; and Sam, who once took her to preschool for Show and Share.

Gertie died with a full belly, and both Jill and Matt got to hold her for a while until that fateful moment when she decided to lie on her back. Sam seemed unphased by the situation, as it was bathtime, but he did kiss her a couple of times before she passed.

When told that Gertie was now in heaven, Sam smiled, and said, "My next gerbil is going to be name Tutu. And my dog is going to be named Fafa.

Peace Out, Gertie.

Brining the Bird and Other Disgusting Measures

In a few moments I have to walk into my kitchen and stick my hands down the turkey's underpants and pull out stuff that no one in their right mind would actually use to make gravy, let alone eat.
My brine is cooling, Sam is coughing his head off in his "office" playing video games (it has begun...video games), and Matt fled for work (a short day, thank goodness). His parents have been with us for two weeks, with one more week to go! There is plenty of body heat in our house.

We took them to the Jazz Kitchen, which is one of my favorite places, and scored some bonus points for doing so. They're in Chicago today, so I'm going to whip this place into a Christmas wonderland since they leave next week, and will miss the transformation.

Thanksgiving tomorrow with Matt's folks, my mom, sister and niece. Big Brooks bonfire on Friday with the entire clan. Matt's parents want to join the bonfire, but I neglected to tell them that they might have to pee in the woods. This should be interesting.

Until then, happy Thanksgiving!

School Pictures

I got behind a Chevy Malibu on Tuesday and it almost ruined my day.

Kidding.

Sam had school pictures taken on Thursday. We arrived to school early (we're almost always the first ones there because we drive 15-20 minutes to school, so it's difficult to time).

The director said we could "go right in" for the photo session since we were early, and she handed Sam his "paperwork," which she even called "paperwork." I waited. Sam sat in a row created just for picture day, little orange and blue chairs the height of small trash cans. I combed his hair and waited outside. I peeked a couple of times while he waited. He had this huge piece of paper gripped in one fist, and with the other small fingers he waved to me. He grinned. He was knocking his legs together and occasionally swinging them. He kept giving me big grins like he was very patient but couldn't believe how long he was waiting in line since he was the only kid there.

Or perhaps that's what I was thinking.

When his name was called, I vanished. I didn't want him performing for me, looking my way, or making goofy faces. I hid in the bathroom.

When he finished I walked him to his room. I asked how it went. He said, "It was fun, Mom. I was just getting my picture taken."

I cried the minute I got to the car.

This needs no formal introduction...

Fresh Beats