Crazy Cat Lady

I have always loved animals: cats, dogs, birds, fish, etc. This particular story all began when I received a Christmas card from my husband's "Granny" about ten years ago, addressed to "The Cat Lady." It took me by surprise considering I only had one cat at the time.

Since then, I have received a variety of cat-themed gifts: cat mugs, cat drink coasters, cat t-shirts, cat figurines, cat books, plush cats. All these presents were from various people in my life, but all pointed to a conclusion that I was not so convinced I agreed with - that I'm crazy about cats. And I was obviously not aware of the cat-loving vibe I was apparently emitting. I mean, sure, I love my cat, Gracie. She is sweet and, up until a few weeks ago, was fairly low maintenance and didn't cost me much in the way of vet bills. Gracie is a great pet, but it's not like I'll ever commission a portrait of her and hang it over my mantle, or bring her to a professional taxidermist once she's passed on in order to preserve her in some kind of life-like playful manner, lying on her back playing with a ball of yarn next to my living room sofa, or something...that's all just a little too creepy.

However, for some reason or another, people just assume I have this great affinity for cats. Just think, me, the Crazy Cat Lady, a moniker I've been running from for the last decade. Really...when I picture a "Crazy Cat Lady"....the image that comes to mind is not one of a fairly attractive, fit, thirty-year-old with a family. It's more like a lonely, old, senile woman with a yard full of empty aluminum cans and a house full of cat feces. (I apologize if I've offended any of my readers.)

About a month ago, I noticed a mother cat and two kittens scavenging through one of our trash bins on our driveway. Thinking, "wow, this is a great opportunity to get rid of all that organic canned cat food I over-zealously bought in bulk and to which my cat promptly turned her nose up at" (not exactly thinking the whole situation through very well), I broke open a few cans and placed them on my front walk. To be honest, this is not exactly the first time a litter of cats have found themselves begging for food in my front yard. It's happened a few other times...I don't know why it's always me and not my neighbors...it's like my house has some kind of stray cat magnet or something.

Jump ahead to the present and add a few more kittens, turns out there were four, and they are all still here, snuggled up on this cold late autumn night beneath the holly tree in our front flower bed. In the background you can catch a glimpse of the light from our front window reflecting off the many empty aluminum cat food cans from which the distinct aroma of rotting tuna and mackerel feast emanates. That, together with the plastic water dishes, cardboard box with an old flannel blanket and a scattering of little foil balls, all begin to paint a scary picture of that very image I've been trying to avoid. Am I really turning into the Crazy Cat Lady? I am neither old, nor lonely, nor senile (except I do catch myself talking to these little critters as if I half expect them to answer me, "why, yes, we would like it if you brought us some more tuna and mackerel feast, please. And, could we trouble you for some more fresh water?") You betcha, coming right up!

How did I end up like this? For God's sake, I practically have a feral cat colony at my front doorstep...actually, scratch "practically," I do have a feral cat colony at my front doorstep! It's like this transformation was inevitable...reminiscent of a Marvel Comic super heroine with a fear of embracing her true self! Except, I'm Crazy Cat Lady, bringing justice and sustenance to the malnourished of the feline kind! I wear a frumpy sweatsuit, instead of a skin-tight, leather bodysuit. And, instead of ripping open my blouse to reveal a "S" emblem on my superhero uniform, I just lift up my sweatpants to reveal the embroidered cat face stitched to the ankle of my thick woolen socks (another gift, I might add.)

Luckily for me, my stint as the Crazy Cat Lady may soon be drawing to a close. I say "luckily" because these cats are beginning to eat me out of house and home. Thank God for a few kind handouts from my neighbors, yet these cats have already polished off the rest of our Thanksgiving turkey, some Boars Head lunch meat I tried to justify was already passed its prime (it was only four days old), and some leftover ground pork I found in my freezer, defrosted, and fried-up in some olive oil in a skillet. I refuse to tap into my cat's food stash, because it feels a little too much like dipping into my daughter's piggy bank.

A true "Cat Lady" is supposed to be coming to my house to trap the kittens and bring them to my vet to get cleaned up, immunized, and put up for adoption. How did I finally find this woman, you ask? Why I just projected my industrial-sized spotlight affixed with a cat emblem toward the sky, and my phone rang within two minutes. Who knew, right? Kidding aside, the kittens will be off to better lives soon. And me, I'll be at it again trying to shake off this unwanted identity, of which I've now made it even more impossible to rid myself.

Soup and a Sandwich

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving celebration yesterday. Surprisingly, yesterday's preparation and dinner went off without a hitch at the Fox household. However, we are now faced with that same yearly dilemma of what to do with all the leftovers. And, if you are like me, you may have a whole package of carrots leftover (because you only needed one carrot for the gravy and they just don't sell one carrot at the grocey store) staring back at you from the crisper drawer begging not to be peeled and sliced and added as just another member of a crudite platter for munching on during the college football games tomorrow. And you may also have a ton of cranberry sauce left because you were a bit overzealous in thinking that the rest of your family might eat cranberry sauce this year (even though they hadn't wanted to eat it for the past 30-something Thanksgivings) because you made it with 1 part water to 8 parts sugar. So here is what I'm making with the leftovers: My Creamy Carrot Soup and Turkey and Cranberry Cornbread Panini

Creamy Carrot Soup (yields 6 servings)

Ingredients
1/2 cup chopped onion
1/8 cup butter, cubed
2 1/4 cups sliced carrots
1 large potato, peeled and cubed
2 (14.5 oz) cans chicken broth
pinch freshly grated nutmeg
1 tsp ground ginger
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped
1/2 tsp kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/8 tsp freshly cracked pepper, plus more to taste

Directions
In a medium stock pot, saute onion in butter until translucent. Add carrots, potato, 1 can of broth, nutmeg and ginger. Bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat to medium and cook for approximately 30 minutes, or until vegetables are tender. Allow to cool for 15 minutes.
Transfer to a blender or food processor, cover, and blend until smooth and silky texture. If too thick, gradually add some additional chicken broth from the second can. Return all to the pan; stir in the cream, rosemary, salt and pepper. Cook over low heat until heated through. Add additional broth to bring soup to correct consistency. (You may not use all the extra broth.) Correct seasonings.

Turkey and Cranberry Panini (yields 2 servings)

Ingredients
1/3 cup of cranberry sauce (from whole berries, not the jelly stuff)
4 slices of corn bread (or whatever leftover bread you may have)
4 oz turkey breast, thinly sliced
3/4 cup corn kernels (optional)

Directions
Spread the cranberry sauce over two slices of bread. Scatter the corn kernels over it, then top with the turkey. Top with the remaining slices of bread and toast in a panini grill (or George Foreman, or in a skillet pressing down with another skillet, a sandwich press, or possibly a clean brick?) for approximately 2 to 3 minutes, or until bread is golden and crispy.

A Quick One

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice.

~Meister Eckhart

My First Thanksgiving

Because of a series of unfortunate events that occurred over the last week and a half, it was decided a few days ago that my family would celebrate our Thanksgiving holiday here, at our house, instead of at my in-laws' place. While I've always wanted to be in charge of cooking the Thanksgiving feast, I never wanted to have to do it under the circumstances surrounding our last-minute change-in-plans. And, when I say "my family," I mean, my husband, my daughter, and me....just the three of us. You see, we've been, what you'd call "quarantined" from the rest of the Fox brood because of the rampant spread of illness throughout our home: My daughter, currently recovering from pneumonia and double ear-infections, my husband, currently suffering from a terrible cough, high fever, and God knows what else (he hasn't visited a doctor in 18 years), and my cat (oh, yes, my cat!), diagnosed with feline lower urinary tract disease just this morning. In the best interest of my father-in-law, who suffered a freak accident last week and is now without the use of his legs for the next three months, we all figured it was a good idea not to expose him to "the germs" (it's the last thing he needs right now!)

So, in preparation, I scoured my many cookbooks and my favorite websites for Thanksgiving recipes. Specifically, a turkey recipe and how to go about cooking one. You see, while I can go on and on about how much I love to cook, I've never once roasted a turkey! I promptly went to the Williams Sonoma website and downloaded their 15-page pamphlet, "A Well-Planned Thanksgiving," in search of some sort of guidance. Since there will only be two of us actually eating turkey (my daughter does not eat meat...except hotdogs...if you call that meat), I needed to know how big a turkey I actually had to buy. According to the pamphlet, I needed to allow approximately 1 1/4 lbs of turkey per person. I was left wondering "where does one find a 2 1/2 lb turkey?"

Once I had finalized my menu (last night), I was off to the grocery store (last night). I had been to the store briefly on Sunday to fetch more Motrin, Kleenex, kitty litter, and wine, for my daughter, my husband, my cat, and me, respectively, and much to my dismay, the lines (even the express lane) were ten persons deep, and the aisles were as clogged as I imagined my arteries were going to be after I eat a hearty helping of pecan pie and brandied cranberry and orange sauce over Breyer's Vanilla Ice Cream. Needless to say, I was fearing the worst for last night's trip. To my surprise, the store was fairly quiet, no lines, and as the automatic doors slid open, I exclaimed to the grocery-store worker walking in beside me, "wow, I should have waited until today to do my Thanksgiving shopping! It's so much less chaotic than it was on Sunday!"(Not wanting to look as if I was some sort of naive Thanksgiving newbie, who would wait until a day before Thanksgiving to buy all her ingredients, which is exactly what I was.) He chuckled and said, "Good thing you were here on Sunday, you'd be lucky if there were anything left on the shelves today!"

Great.


So I figured, I should start preparing some of the side dishes today, as well as begin to brine my turkey:

Lesson Number Two (Lesson Number One was to always do your Thanksgiving day shopping the weekend before, in case you missed that): always keep your eye on the boiling cranberry sauce! Trying to scrape the burnt sauce off a glass cooktop is a real bitch.

Lesson Number Three: Read the label before purchasing....as in, read the label on the turkey BREAST you just purchased (you idiot) before you buy it, mistaking it for a whole five pound turkey and not realizing it until you get home, take it out of the packaging, and start rummaging through its innards for the giblets you need for your Savory Herb Gravy, which are not there because you bought a turkey BREAST, you idiot!

Lesson Number Four: Don't Panic!

Lesson Number Five: Breathe.

However, I must say, my pecan pie tart looks spectacular and smells amazing! (I just have to keep my husband from snaking a piece of it in the middle of the night.) My green beans have been boiled and my turkey is currently brining away in apple cider in my refrigerator. I must admit I do not remember sitting down today, between all the cooking, shopping, bringing my cat back to the vet for her sub-Q fluid injections, and supervising my daughter's nebulizer treatments! You readers must feel pretty special right now knowing that the first time I sit down today is to write to you all!

Okay, then, that said, good night to you and have a very happy Thanksgiving!

My Favorite Quotes

For a fresh start, I have decided to include one of my favorite aspects of my "other blog" (Project Pennywise) as part of the Fox Chronicles - Quotes. So, when I have nothing interesting to talk about, I will just throw in one of my favorite quotes or maybe a recipe (and do I have some good ones for the upcoming winter season!) But for today, a favorite (and relevant) quote:

Democracy is…the conviction that there are extraordinary possibilities in ordinary people.
— Harry Emerson Fosdick

While we were disappointed in the amount of negativity in the 2008 election, we were also overwhelmed by the renewed sense of obligation and privilege the American voters felt while waiting (sometimes hours) in line to cast their ballot for new leaders of this country. They came to the polls in record numbers, knocked on neighbors' doors, and called supporters, each with the feeling that they, a single, ordinary person, could truly make a difference.

The Wack is Back

Hello, my friends! (Hey, it worked for McCain when attempting to excite his fan base...so here's hoping it riles up my reader base!) I know its been a while and, to be honest, I've had my hands full these past few months: my daughter turned "3", I've been starting up my new business, and we had a very historic, record-breaking presidential election! I have to admit that I did throw around the idea of turning this site into a political blog (wanna talk some Polly-tics, anyone?), but after careful consideration, I realized the shelf-life of such a thing is approximately 3 months and then what do you talk about? But I am truly excited about the outcome of the presidential race and at the prospect of a president being able to bring not only our country, but this world, together. Have you seen the worldwide reaction to an Obama presidency? From Canada to the Philippines, from Japan to Argentina, people are celebrating. They are celebrating the thought that once again the United States of America will be the world's beacon of hope, where absolutely anything is possible if you are willing to work for it. They are celebrating the prospect that the United States will again be a leader and promoter of successful foreign relations, environmental conscientiousness, and peace. It is certain, Barack Obama has the world's attention. And with this attention, will Obama, unlike no other man we have seen in decades, have the ability to implement the change he has been orating about for the last two years? He has a lot on his plate and a mound of high expectations to fulfill...we will have to wait and see.

Welcome to the Jungle

So a few nights ago, on my way home from a girls night out, I spotted two deer on the sidewalk near my house. I used to see deer in my neighborhood often a few years ago, when my family first moved here, but as construction increased, their sitings decreased, until eventually we just didn't see them anymore. So I was amazed to see two, after not seeing any for the past couple of years. The next morning, as I opened the matchstick blinds on a window that opens up to our screen porch, I saw a long black squiggly thing squirm its way across the patio toward the back wall. After seeing it a few more times throughout the day, I was finally able to conclude that it was a skink. Nasty little things that look like snakes, but have feet. I figured I'd let my husband deal with it when he got home. Off to the mall I went with my soon-to-be three-year-old daughter in tow. As we pulled into our driveway on our way home, I spotted a brown mound on the welcome mat at our front door. Thinking to myself that this was an odd shape for a UPS package, I approached slowly. As I got closer, I realized it was in fact a gopher tortoise. The little guy was already heading back down our front walk, he ventured down the side of our house toward the preserve in the back. With a little guidance from my daughter and I, to avoid our neighbors' dogs, he eventually made it into the woods.

Lets zoom ahead three hours....my daughter is down for her afternoon nap, and I'm done making a new workout playlist for my iPod. I head out to our garage (aka, home-gym), get distracted by the overgrown lantana and other hedges in our yard (currently with grass so high, it could easily be mistaken for the Amazon) so I start weeding and pruning and loping. As I'm discussing the recent animal sitings with my neighbor across the street, a yellow rat snake comes slithering down her driveway, across the street, into my yard, and up my oak tree....apparently, he had mistaken our yard for the Amazon as well. So, there he was, all three-feet of him, yellow with black stripes, dangling from some low branches. All the neighborhood kids came over to stare at the spectacle. Eventually, when we left it alone, he traveled back down the tree and out of sight.

The way this day was going, I was a little freaked out about what type of wild animal I was going to encounter next. Was I going to see an alligator cross my back yard? Or maybe the possom I saw eating the birdseed the other night would make another appearance. We already have atleast 20 different species of birds visiting our feeder (even ones that aren't normally found in northeast Florida.) At one point, with all the wild animal sitings in my yard in the last 24 hours, I couldn't help but think I'd been tapped by God to play Noah in the next Great Flood. The situation was beginning to feel a little too "Evan Almighty" to me. (Come to think of it, it has been raining a lot here lately....hmmm). The next thing I know, I'll be diving out of the way of a pack wildebeasts bursting through my front door. (Actually, that sounds a little too "Jumanji.") Or, perhaps, as I'm picnicing with my daughter a flock of exotic birds will land on my shoulders, as a break in the clouds above shines a focused ray of sunlight down upon me, to which I lift my head up and belt out a chord reminiscent of an aria performed by a famed opera diva. (Okay, maybe, not....that's a little too "Ace Ventura" after all.)

When I Grow Up

Recently, my daughter and I met up with a couple of other stay-at-home moms and their children at the local IMAX theatre to watch a movie about dolphins. Aside from watching the miracle that was my daughter sitting still for nearly 45 minutes with her mouth agape at the sight of dolphins the size of 2-story buildings, watching the actual documentary-style film wasn't so bad itself. It followed dolphin researchers and naturalists all over the globe, from the British West Indies to Patagonia, from Waikiki to the Abacos in the Bahamas. The film was filled with spectacular aerial video of the islands and crystal-clear water, set to the sounds of steel drum bands and reggae. Against this gorgeously tropical backdrop, the researchers would spend each day swimming with the dolphins, videoing them, recording their sounds and analyzing their body language. And when they weren't swimming with dolphins, they were cruising the glassy waters or compiling their day's work in a small white research building....on the sand....along the ocean.....under swaying coconut palms.


As I was watching, I couldn't help but wonder.....where along the course of my life did I veer off from being the wide-eyed child who dreamed of training dolphins when she grew up....to becoming a certified public accountant, just another bean-counter amid a sea of identical cubicles. Sure, I also wanted to be a choreographer (a la Paula Abdul), an architect, an actress, President of the United States, even. As I grew older, I also dreamed of being a lawyer or the vice president of mergers and acquisitions for a large firm in NYC (a la Richard Gere in Pretty Woman). And I guess it was right about at that point when the change happened. It was not so much the fun of it any more, as it was the money-making potential of it. It was that, and I think the constant reminder from others that those earlier aspirations were just childish daydreaming. And maybe most of it was. But for those people who really are dolphin researchers, architects, Presidents of the United States...its their childhood dream-turned-reality, because they made that for themselves. They ignored the nay-sayers and the self-proclaimed "realists."


A friend of mine once said that the more someone told her she couldn't do something, the more motivation she had to prove them wrong. Isn't that the truth? Why, in fact, my daughter proves that very theory to me on an everyday basis. "Don't climb up that slide, you're going to slip!," I'd tell her at the playground. Next thing I know, she's at the top, smilling and waving at me. If only we could all remember to have that type of determination in our adult lives. So, my advice is to not listen to those people who tell you you can't do something (that is.....unless your intention is to....um.....rob your local bank....then, no.....no, you should probably listen to those people then.) And, hey, I'm not trying to be funny....our economy is going down the toilet, gas prices and grocery prices are through the roof and half this country can't afford their mortgage, I'm sure the thought of robbing a bank has crossed a lot of people's minds....not....my mind....certainly NOT....but other people's.

I'm Confused

So, I must admit this whole primary election process is a little wacky. I can't be absolutely sure, but apparently, if you are a Democrat in the State of Florida, only half of your vote counts...huh.....interesting. Then, just when you think it can't get any more f*ck#d-up than Florida, there's Michigan, where incidentally, one doesn't even have to be on the ballot to receive delegates.

So, here I am, pondering (as most of us bloggers tend to do), reflecting, and stewing over these matters....and then I realize...what does it all mean anyway...if I am not a Super Delegate...my opinion does not make one iota of a difference.

Congratulations, Mrs. Clinton, on winning the most primary votes in American history! It's odd that I will not be able to vote for you for President.

Fran-Jell-O-co

So, my husband and I have been on the South Beach Diet for about two months now. I swear, once you get past those first two weeks, this diet is as easy as pie...with a whole wheat flour crust and sugar-free filling, of course. Now that I'm on Phase II, I enjoy my homemade, whole wheat, oatmeal and slivered almond waffles with raspberry preserves (and a little spray butter) and a mango smoothie for breakfast, either apple & peanut butter or pear & herbed goat cheese on crispbread for lunch, and some kind of meat and vegetable for dinner. For a snack, I have anything from light string-cheese to jalapeno-smoked almonds to anise-flavored biscotti, but when it comes to dessert...it can get a bit dull. On Phase I, about the only dessert I could have was sugar-free Jell-O gelatin or some nasty ricotta concoction (and no matter how much the SB cookbooks trump it up as fantastic, it is just plan awful to me). So finally, on Phase II, I could have a square of dark chocolate after dinner, or sugar-free Jell-O, or frozen sugar-free Cool Whip, or sugar-free pudding...satisfying, but after awhile, both my husband and I were tired of it. So I created "Fran-Jell-O-co." Who says Jell-O pudding can't be sophisticated??

Fran-Jell-O-co

Ingredients:
1 4-serving pkg chocolate fudge sugar-free, fat-free Jell-O pudding
2 cups cold lowfat or fat-free milk
1 cup sugar-free Cool Whip, defrosted
1/4 cup chopped, toasted hazelnuts
4 teaspoons Frangelico, hazelnut liqueur

Directions:
Prepare Jell-O pudding according to package directions, pour into 4 ramekins. Let sit until firm, then top each ramekin with 1/4 cup of Cool Whip (if you can manage to make it into that perfect swirl like in the picture on the container...10 points!) Top each with a teaspoon of Frangelico (I know you are not suppose to have liquor on the SB Diet, but it's just a teaspoon!). Then top that with a sprinkling of the chopped hazelnuts. And...voila...Fran-Jell-O-co!

Enjoy!

10 Things I Learned This Mother's Day

10. That my child receives at least 500% of her daily calcium requirement via Mac and Cheese, Cheez-its, string cheese, and yogurt (make that 1000% if my husband is in charge)
9. That in our modest 4-member household (we have a cat, Gracie), I am responsible for the clean-up and disposal of (at least) 3/4 of the poop generated around here.
8. That no matter how many times I have to follow my husband around turning off lights, tv's and faucets in unoccupied rooms, I will always get hounded for how much I spend on a bottle of wine.
7. That you can always cure an unhappy child with an icee pop.
6. That you can always cure an unhappy husband with an ice-cold beer
5. That no amount of interesting conversation I can muster-up, can compare to the intrigue and suspense of a 48-hour Transformers movie-a-thon, or The Players Championship.
4. That mothers never truly get a "day-off." They just add to their to-do list for the next day.
3. That a day like today, is not a good day for your 2-year-old to tell you for the first time that they don't like you anymore.
2. That the mixture of smells from a lime-bamboo pillar candle and 2-day-old flaked white ocean fish canned cat food that Gracie left in her bowl while we were gone for the weekend, do not make for a welcoming home-fragrance.
1. That the best gift on Mother's Day is not tangible or definable in any way. It is priceless, really. It's that peaceful, serene feeling you get when you realize.....ahhhhhh......everyone is asleep...I can finally watch what I want to watch (Desperate Housewives) while cozied up with my glass of Syrah on the popsicle-stained, overstuffed couch, wrapped in my cream-colored bamboo cotton throw and completing my weekly Sunday crossword puzzle.

Happy Mother's Day!

Operation Phone Conversation

Have you ever tried to have a normal conversation on the phone while caring for a toddler? It's impossible, unless they're napping of course. Here is a sample phone call I had recently with a survey representative wanting to know about my recent oil-change experience at the local Jiffy Lube:

Me: Hello?

Survey Rep: Good afternoon, may I speak with Polly Fox, please?

Me: Speaking

Survey Rep: Yes, ma'am, I'm calling about your....

Me: No, no, no, you cannot have a banana, you just had one an hour ago!

Survey Rep: Um....about your recent visit to Jiffy Lube in Jacksonville, FL. Is that correct, ma'am? Were you a customer at Jiffy Lube recently?

Me: Yes, I was. What did Mommy just say? WHAT did I just say? Put the banana back, right now! You've had two already. For God's sake, you're not going to poop for a month!

Survey Rep: Ma'am, is this a bad time? I can call you back when it's more convenient.

Me: No, no. Now is fine. There is no such thing as a convenient time around here, anyway. I'm sorry for all the interuptions, please continue.

Survey Rep: Yes, Mrs. Fox. To begin, on a scale of one to ten (one being the worst)how would you rate your overall experience at your most recent....

Me: Get down from there right now! You are going to break your neck trying to climb up there. Do you hear me! Don't make me do the count down. Okay....one....two....three! That's it, come here! You are in Time Out young lady! You sit there until I tell you you can get up!

Survey Rep: Um, your most recent visit to Jiffy Lube, can you rate it please on a scale of one to ten?

Me: I would have to say it was a nine.

Survey Rep: Okay, and how would you rate the timeliness of the service on that same....

Me: Get back in that chair until mommy says you can get down!

Survey Rep: ....scale?

Me: I would give it a 10. We didn't wait that long.

Survey Rep: How about the customer service, on that same one to ten scale, please?

Me: Excuse me a sec....okay, time-out is over....are you going to listen to Mommy next time? Good. Can you go play with your kitchen set or Little People while Mommy is on the phone? Okay. I'm back. Sorry about that.

Survey Rep: No problem. The customer service, how would you rate that Mrs. Fox?

Me: Yes, I know I promised to bring you to the park, but Mommy is on the phone right now. We will go when I am done. Um, the customer service was a ten, too. They were really nice there.

Survey Rep: Wonderful. Now, how would you rate the appearence of the waiting area...on a one to ten scale?

Me: No, I am not done yet. You will know when I am done, because I will not be holding the phone to my ear! Please go play with your toys. NO, no, no! You can NOT have an icee pop!

Survey Rep: The appearance of the waiting room, Mrs. Fox?

Me: Oh, yes, I apologize. NO, you cannot have chocolate OR jelly beans...you only get those when you use the potty! I would say the appearance was a...um...ten.

Survey Rep: Just a few more questions and we'll....

Me: Put your clothes back on right now! How are we suppose to go to the park if you have no clothes on? Well, if you are going to use the potty, then USE THE POTTY! You can't just run around here naked. Get off the couch!

Survey Rep: ...be done.

Me: I'm so sorry. Actually my entire experience with Jiffy Lube was a ten. Can you just write "ten" for all the rest of my responses?

Survey Rep: Yes, ma'am. I will do that. You have a wonderful day.

Me: Thank you. You too.

Cheers! To Your Sanity!

So....somewhere along the line, my daughter picked up the concept of "cheers." It started off with her just wanting to tap our wine glasses with her sippy cup full of milk, but has escalated in the past month to other areas beyond the dinner table.

My husband and I thought it was cute that she wanted to "cheers" us with her toddler fork (by tapping it against our dinner forks) so we indulged her. Or when she would run up to me while I was spitting toothpaste in the sink and hit her toothbrush against mine and say....surprisingly....Cheers! Soooo cute, I thought.

For some reason she finds the concept of "Cheers" quite amusing. She's incorporated it into her daily routine....celery stick with peanut butter...Cheers!.......crayons.....Cheers! icee pops....Cheers! She even came over to me in the kitchen and bumped her hip to mine and said....naturally....Cheers! Momma! Cheers!

While I'm not so sure how this will all eventually play out once she's enrolled in primary school, it always makes me smile to know that she finds sheer joy in the simplest of things. I cringe to imagine what her teacher would think of us if my daughter were to run to the front of her class just to tap a pencil against the teacher's chalk while shouting the inevitable "Cheers." Or what the educators on duty in the cafeteria would think if they saw a group of five-year-old's clanking juice boxes, while shouting "Cheers!"

Or what the other moms might think if they were to see my daughter tap her fruit punch against another child's drink at a birthday party....um....actually, I know what they would be thinking...dear God, please don't let her have learned that from us!

And gone would be those glorious happy hour playdates!

Not a chance!

***A Side Note***
Your taxes are due in 3 hours...so get your ass to Staples, buy Turbo Tax, and get it done you lazy bastards!

***Another Side Note***
A thank you to Donna, for lighting a fire under my ass and giving me the ego boost I needed to keep writing this nonsense. It's nice to know there are actually people out there who missed the blog while I was gone!

***Third Side Note - A Game***
See if you can find the "hidden" new blog post! No, seriously, there is a new post further down the screen (don't know why it showed up there as opposed to...um...the top of the screen.) Anyway....scroll.....scroll....keep scrolling...Hiatus? No...State of the Absurd? No....keep scrolling you morons!...Shepards' Pie? Nope....ah.....there it is....In Vino Veritas....

Road Trip

After a long break, I promise you, a long post...

"In the Toddler Justice System the family is represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. The Father who investigates the disobedient behavior and the Mother who gets stuck prosecuting and babysitting the offender. These are their stories." (dun...dun)


Our trip to Flat Rock, North Carolina began when I picked up my husband from the Ford dealership, where he dropped off his 2004 Explorer for the 12th time this year for major repairs. It was onto Savannah from there. We decided to not drive straight through to NC, since it would be hard on our daughter to arrive there at 10pm. Instead we stayed at a hotel off I-95. With the exception of our daughter announcing that she had "FARTED" at the top of her lungs a couple of times during our otherwise quiet dinner at Sam Sneads Grill and Tavern (amongst a bevy of weary and sun-burned golfers there to unwind after a hard day on the course), things were starting out well.....embarrassing....but well.

The next day, we decided to forgo our plans to sightsee Georgia's oldest city, and instead headed on to Columbia, South Carolina, for a trip to Edventure Children's Museum. The museum itself was quite entertaining. It had a two-story replica of a human boy, in which children could climb through and learn about his brain, lungs, stomach, and, yes, the intestines. The enormous "Eddie" would "poop" out these fascinated youngsters via a "slide-colon". Each one preceded by the sound of a noisy bowel. It was interesting to say the least, but well worth the stop. After a nutritous lunch at the underground cafeteria, which offered only a virtual McDonalds or Domino's Pizza, we were on our way to the Blue Ridge Mountains.

It had been about 20 years since I last visited this beautiful part of the US, and as we approached the SC-NC border, there arose the majestic mountains in the distance. Around 4pm, we checked into our lodge, put away our things, and set out to explore the town. Surrounded by blossoming pear trees, crab apples, and wild daffodils, I was stunned at the sheer beauty of the place. Determined to fit in with the rest of the mountain folk and to sample their fresh country fare, we thankfully found ourselves an Applebee's in the nearby town of Hendersonville. The rest of the evening was spent reliving our old camp-days playing ping pong and foosball in the downstairs rec room of the lodge. It was more like "extreme ping pong," since our daughter would not stop throwing more balls (ping pong and foos, not M&Ms) on the table during our game. We tried to distract her with her My Little Ponies, but she was going to have none of that.


The next day, Friday, more guests started to arrive. Hell-bent on doing a little sightseeing and exploring places in which we don't get to visit very much, we eventually found our way to the local SuperWalmart. Unlike the Walmarts I've visited in Florida, Flat Rock's Walmart was pristine! Another clue that rednecks and illegal aliens do not take near enough pride in their "center of the universe" as do mountain hillbillies.


Later that day we found out we were assigned to the room which was supposed to be the hospitality room (as indicated on the welcome note in our wedding goody bag.) With the amount of food and alcohol we arrived with, there was no doubt a few guests (unaware of the room change) assumed our family had hijacked the hospitality room for ourselves.


That night was the non-rehearsal rehearsal dinner. My daughter would not stop talking throughout the beginning of it, so I don't know much of what went on, since I spent the rest of it holed up in my room watching "Happy Feet" until my daughter fell asleep for the evening. Luckily our room was right off the main lodge room, so I was able to let her sleep while I enjoyed a few hours of helping the bride decorate her wedding cake until a quarter after midnight. It's funny what brides stress out about while planning their big day. But we all do it. In fact, I specifically remember losing it when the DJ at my wedding played "YMCA" during the reception. Literally, I was breathing fire out of my mouth and steam was blowing out my ears like that of a boiling tea kettle. I had written in large, capital, sharpie ink pen NOT to play "YMCA" (among a number of other cliche wedding reception songs that make my skin crawl). I knew if I heard even the first three notes of "she's a brick....hooooouse..." my husband would have to break out the defibulator. But in retrospect, everyone seemed to enjoy gayly raising they're arms in the air. It just goes to show that in the end, no one really understands or cares how much time and effort you put in to the festivities, because they're all too drunk to remember the next day anyway. If I was only privy to this vital piece of information earlier, my husband and I could have saved a bit of money and held the whole thing at our local Olive Garden.

Anyway, back to my story: my sister-in-law, the bride, her two best friends, and I spent 2 hours deciding whether there should be 2, 4 or 5 fake birds on her wedding cake. The two at the top, a male and female painted bunting, were a must, but the lone male goldfinch perched at the bottom looked awkward, the large, red, male cardinal seemed to steal the painted buntings' thunder, the wayward hummingbird looked a bit ominous piercing down with it's pointed beak at the avian couple, and the woodpecker was committing a stage taboo by having its back turned to the wedding guest audience while it pretended to peck insects from the wood slab cakestand. In the end, the lone goldfinch was flanked by the profile of the woodpecker on the opposite side of the cake, with a blue jay centerstage. (Okay, I am just now rereading this and it sounds like something a mental patient would utter while playing a game of go-fish by himself in a white-padded-wall asylum.) This debate was then followed by the question of whether there should or shouldn't be tree leaves scattered on the cake table. The ultimate decision by my husband (after 6 Crown and Diet Cokes, mind you) to randomly scatter the green leaves on the white tablecloth was taken as if it had come from wedding-designer-to-the-stars, Preston Bailey. Just another example as to how wedding day stress can blind you to reality...you make an expert out of a drunkard.

According to the forcast Tuesday evening (while I was packing) the high was to be around 70 degrees, with a low of 58. For the late morning wedding I had picked out a red and white, polyester-spandex blend wrap-dress, with 3/4 length sleeves (just long enough in case there is a slight chill, I thought) and strappy, red heels. I'll pack a my mustard-colored spring coat just in case. Saturday. The big day. Wedding day. We awoke to the sound of rain on our window panes. A little rain, it'll be over in a few hours. We turned on the Weather Channel. An unexpected cold front had moved through overnight. Rain and fog likely all day. High 47. Did I mention that the wedding ceremony was to be held outside? How about 3200 ft in the air in a chapel built on a steep ridge atop Cedar Mountain, South Carolina? Scratch that....High 35. Pea-soup fog. Oh yeah, and misty rain. There goes my hour-long hair blow-out.


Yes, the ceremony was about an hour from the Lodge. The wedding guests formed a caravan as we mindlessly followed the groom's father through the winding backcountry roads. As we continued the climb the mountain, the occupants of our vehicle...mainly me...began to experience shallow breathing. Apparently, I don' t do well at high elevations. Up, up, up we went. Deep, deep, deeper my inhalation. Not knowing how much further we had to travel, and desparately seeking out the nearest fire station in case I was to be in need of medical assistance, we approached a yellow, diamond-shaped street sign, with a squiggly line and an arrow pointing upward. About that same time, the pea-soup fog decended on Cedar Mountain. So here we were, my husband and daughter, and my brother and sister-in-law, meandering cluelessly up the side of a mountain in 5ft visibility along the winding road, with steep rocks to our left and a steep cliff to our right. Did I mention I suffer from slight anxiety disorder? I clenched the dashboard with both hands as I began to feel heavy-headed, my hands and stomach numb, and my breathing a bit more shallow. Shivering in my light coat, under a fleece Gators blanket, I mistakenly looked off to the right at the white abyss below. I shrieked "Dear God! Please let us be there soon!!" My brother-in-law continued to mumble-on about werewolves appearing out of the misty forest (again, this is conjuring up the insane mental patient image), as my sister-in-law tried to catch her breath from laughing so hard, my daughter naively playing with her My Little Ponies, and my husband trying to comfort me by telling me I needed to go back on my meds and asking if I had packed my prescription for Xanax.


At last we arrived at our destination. I beautiful spot I could imagine, on a clear day, with a high of 70. The wedding guests were wrapped and huddled in the hotel blankets they had pulled from their beds. The whole wedding was quite lovely. (Well, I wouldn't know entirely since I spent most of it in my 4-Runner because my child would not stop crying "where's Daddy!" even though he was sitting right beside us). The white backdrop behind the cross on the altar, along with the fridged temperature and the misty rain, made us feel like the wedding had been transported into the clouds. Which, I guess, technically, it was. It was truly a unique experience, and not one that could be easily recreated. So I hope the bride and groom were not disappointed.


With the exception of being lost for a brief moment, the ride back was not as eventful. The reception at the Lodge was beautiful and intimate. The tablescapes were rustic, simple, but lovely. And my daughter finally went down for a three hour nap, so I was able to feel more like a wedding guest and less like my husband's hired nanny. She eventually woke up (in a much better mood, thank God!) and danced the night away with the other little children. Actually she spent most of the evening chasing with open arms the much-in-demand, lone, three-year-old little boy.

The next morning we enjoyed our country fixin's breakfast with the bride and groom and were on our way. Determined to use my $50 Cracker Barrel gift card at some point on our trip, I came up with every excuse in the book as to why we had to stop in Orangeburg , SC (only a couple of hours after breaksfast). Unfortunately, my husband was onto my little scheme, and we had to wait until we found another restaurant hours later. My daughter was worn-out, cranky, and hungry. And my husband was worn-out, cranky, and giving me the silent treatment. He did eventually start talking again somewhere around Brunswick, GA, however, my daughter repeatedly whined, kicked the back of my chair and pulled my hair as I tried to take a nap. It wasn't until we reached downtown Jacksonville, that she finally fell asleep. Perfect timing! A half an hour later, we were home, my daughter was again, tired and cranky, and...to my own horror...we had no wine left in our house.

Somehow, the family-bonding and adventure I had imagined would happen on this little road trip of ours dissipated like the pea-soup fog. This summer, I had hoped we could drive up to Massachusetts together, stopping a few times along the way. Then again, there is always time for traveling when my daughter gets older.

Hiatus

Well, I'm back. Sorry for being away so long. There's been a lot going on in the world of Fox, so I've had to take a break from the blog scene for a little bit.

Speaking of little bits....my sis-in-law just had her second child, a beautiful little girl, last Thursday. My family and I traveled to South Florida to visit and to spend time with them for Easter. In addition to Easter and the baby, I've found out the unfortunate news that my cat (that went to live with my dad after my daughter was born) disappeared 3 WEEKS AGO!! And they only decided to tell me now. And, my tooth, which was supposed to be replaced yesterday, came back from the lab the wrong shade (too dark for my pristine pearly whites!) My grandma-in-law moved into her new assisted living apartment on Saturday. And my daughter decided sleep was optional for the past few days. Not to mention the last minute tax return information that keeps arriving from my family members (who, in return for free tax prep, expect a one-day turnover)....I can never truly get away from the accounting career, can I?

So, here I am, back in St. Augustine, with my one day to repack, do laundry, go grocery shopping, do some light housekeeping, plant 2 plumeria trees, pick up dry cleaning, entertain my child, cook dinner, buy a wedding present, and make hotel reservations and an itinerary for tomorrow nigiht....before we are again on the road to North Carolina for a friend's wedding in the mountains. So I have to warn you it will be a while again before I can post, since we will not be anywhere near a computer for the next 5 days. I'll try to get one more out tomorrow before I go, but I'm not making any promises!

State of the Absurd

Well, Florida has done it again. We have manage to make a mockery of ourselves in the political realm one more time. We just can't seem to get it right. It became apparent with the whole hanging chad and recount debacle of 2000, and every year since, our state has debated over and over again the method in which to best appeal to our overwhelming population of senile elderly voters, illegal immigrants, and uneducated rednecks. Yes, now the Florida Democratic Party has decided to bypass us Florida democrat voters entirely, by not allowing our opinions to count when it comes to selecting the democrat presidential nominee. While I guess the rest of the nation is simultaneously sighing in relief, us, Floridian Democrats are feeling a bit wronged. Amazingly, through no fault of our own this time. Florida's democratic committee decided to run our primary in January, breaking its agreement with the DNC not to do such a thing. Great idea that turned out to be! In an attempt to have an early influence on the rest of the primary season, instead we had a sham vote, surely not fully representative of our State since everyone knew the vote was not going to determine which candidate our DNC delegates were going to go to, since our DNC delegates are not to be seated at the convention.

So Florida's Democratic Committee announced earlier this week that a mail-in vote was going to replace the earlier sham vote. Yeah!

Then yesterday they announced there will be no revote by mail. Oh no!

I'm really beginning to believe this is a conspiracy of the utmost secrecy to eliminate Florida entirely from the whole Presidential voting process. You know, by making our votes non-binding by reason of incompetence. It's simple contract law. I believe there is a move by higher-ups to try and forfeit our rights similar to when someone is appointed power of attorney due to a person's incapability to take care of oneself. Our population of senior citizens has become so overwhelming that maybe they just decided it was easier to take away their rights en masse than wasting paper doing it individually. The rest of us are just collateral damage I guess.

Well, maybe they are right to do such a thing. And to heck with them anyway. Let the rest of them decide our nominee for president. And when the world comes tumbling down around us, just know that you will not be able to blame Florida this time.

Shepard's Pie

Okay, so the last three days have been such a drain on my psyche. Between the 14 hours doing yard work, losing all my advertising through Google (and they are not paying me for anything I've made up until now either!), my stubborn two-year old, the economy tanking, our dwindling savings, PMS, and my souffle, it's about time St. Patrick's Day rolled around. There's nothing like a good drinkin'-related holiday to lift one's spirits.

So in honor of good ol' St. Paddy, here is my recipe for Shepard's Pie (adapted from a Kraft Foods recipe.) Okay, I know it's late, so you might have to save this one for next year.

Shepard's Pie

Ingredients:
1lb lean ground beef
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 shallot, minced
1 cup frozen peas, carrots and corn mix, thawed
1 cup beef gravy
1/2 cup ketchup
salt & pepper to taste
2 cups hot mashed potatoes
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
2 garlic cloves, minced
4oz cream cheese, cut into pieces

Directions:

Preheat oven to 375. Heat oil in large skillet and brown the ground beef. Add the shallots, thawed veggies, gravy, and ketchup to the skillet and stir until well blended. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Pour mixture into 9X9 baking dish. In a large bowl, combine mashed potatoes, cream cheese, garlic, and 1/2 cup of the chedder cheese. Spread the mashed potato mixture evenly on top of the beef mixture. Sprinkle with remaining cheese. Bake for 20 minute until heat through.

In Vino Veritas

A wise person once pondered, "why is it, that we may only be happy but for an hour?"

Lately, I cannot wait until five o'clock rolls around. Yes, the universal time of appropriateness for enjoying that first glass of my favorite grape drink (or mommy's juice, as my daughter likes to shout to everyone as we pass the wine selection at our local supermarket.) Ever since my daughter hit her mid-two's, this special time of day cannot come quickly enough. And before you decide to contact DCF, I am certainly not condoning getting blitzed while caring for a child. I'm just talking about one glass. Actually, I'm just talking about those first few sips...the aahhhhhh factor.

And I guess that is why I'm not ready to have another kid yet. It's pretty selfish of me, but I'm just not capable of giving up that evening glass of vino right now. And after Elle's two bouts with a virus this past winter that kept her (and me) up all night, I'm not so sure I'm ready to give up eight hours of sleep a night, either.

By the way, congratulations, Jen and Ron, on your new little bundle of joy! And my condolences on the loss of your good night's rest.

Souffle

So, my computer made a liar out of me. It's been down for the better part of two days, and I am only now able to play catch up with all my blogs and all my email. But as promised, here is a post for you to enjoy on your relaxing Sunday afternoon (if you happen to live on an island in the eastern Pacific.)

Have any of you ever tried to make a souffle with a two-year-old running rampant through your kitchen?? Just wondering. Actually, a friend and I took a "free" course on how to make souffles at our local Williams Sonoma. I say "free" because these courses are part of the store's ingenious promotion technique: tell the customer its free, promote every gadget in the store in preparation of the dish, and make sure to rave about how you can't possibly make the dish as easily without it, be sure to throw in a few "it's that simple"'s or "see how easy that is"'s for added emphasis, make yourself readily available after the demonstration for the horde of wanna-be chefs searching for these "necessities," and be sure to tell the suckers, er...I mean....customers about all future cooking lessons to be held at the store.

Needless to say, we fell hook, line, and sinker. Yes, after buying myself a proper souffle dish, a new pastry brush, and an egg separator (I know, I could just use the two shell halves like I've always done, but the separating tool was just so cute, and I just had to give it a new home in my "useless kitchen gadgets drawer." My garlic press and wire cheese slicer were getting so tired of each other, and I thought it was only fair to bring them home a new friend.)

Anyway, tonight was the night I was going to try out Julia Child's Souffle Au Fromage (i.e., Cheese Souffle.) I used Gruyere, cayenne pepper and a little nutmeg, only slightly varying from the Williams Sonoma recipe. If you are not familiar with souffle's, they are one of the most finicky recipes to try and cook. After wasting my first 5 eggs by accidently breaking the yolk of the fifth egg into my egg separator gadget thingy, I was a little distressed. You see, not even a drop of yolk the size of a pin-head can intrude in the egg whites or they will not whip to the proper consistency, if at all. At the risk of sounding too much like Julia Powell's Julie & Julia blog, I will not bore you with the minutae of the rest of the recipe. Just know that it rose above the souffle dish (as it's supposed to) only it was about 3 inches higher on one side. The cheese on top was a little brown and it tasted a little salty, but all around okay. And, I must admit, I am damn proud of myself for accomplishing such a feat while tending to my daughter, who continued to spill her milk, then her water (only after dipping her megablock's in it), and to my cat, who continued to vomit up hairballs in our dining room, and to my husband, who kept complaining about how the stupid computer won't connect to the internet,and how I was the only one that knew how to fix it, and that he must be able to log on to his company server NOW!

Well, I cleaned up the cat puke, the milk, the water, the megablocks. I fixed the computer, threw some meatballs in the crockpot (my husband hates souffle), and baked a proper souffle au fromage for myself and my daughter (who just preferred to call them scrabbled eggs). I sure hope you people in Guam are enjoying your relaxing Sunday afternoon!

Can I Interest You in a Fake Tooth with Your Whopper

So, you may have been wondering where I've been lately and why I haven't posted but once this week. I was actually employing a marketing technique known as deprivation research. Like when Burger King got rid of the whopper from it's menu for a while. The end result: outrage and a record boost in whopper sandwiches. I was hoping for a small vigil of blog supporters myself, as well as an increase in readership, but all I ended up with was the usual comment from my next-door neighbor (thanks Nate!) and an email from Google stating they were revoking my advertising contract due to too many invalid "clicks." Not exactly the response I was hoping for.

Okay, seriously, I made a brief and unexpected trip to South Florida to visit the BEST dentists in the State (Southport Dental in Port St. Lucie)! I had a tooth emergency. And while a missing tooth here and there usually would go quite unnoticed here in Jacksonville, being originally from West Palm Beach I could not possibly wait until my next scheduled trip down there to have it replaced.

So to make it up to you, I will be writing on a weekend. Yes, a few more Fox Fixes for your leisurely Sunday afternoon. Enjoy!

Signs of Spring

So my azaleas are in full bloom, its averaging about 72 degrees each day, I have a flock of goldfinches making daily visits to my bird feeder, my nose is running like a open fire hydrant left unattended, and about 10 family members, friends and acquaintances of mine are set to give birth any minute now.....ahhhhhh....it must be Spring! The only things missing this year are the two feral cats that used to hump each other daily on the back porch of the foreclosed house next door. The female, cross-eyed from dining on too many poisonous toads I suspect, had a litter of kittens at one point. They nursed from her under our oak tree in our backyard for about a week. Then most likely became dinner for our resident owl, since I never saw them again after that point. I don't like to think about that, so I just imagine that they were lovingly adopted by a wonderful family a block over. I actually attempted to rescue them, but they were so frightened of people that I was eventually left with a big bowl of rotting canned wild Alaskan salmon and anchovies in the garden beneath our bedroom window (my husband was real pleased with this), and about 20 cans of the stuff leftover in our pantry. I didn't know what to do with all the leftovers, since I figured even the starving would turn their nose up at it. But, luckily, I handed them off to my father, lover of canned-fish sandwiches, and none the wiser as to their original purpose.

I had even borrowed an armadillo trap from our neighbors (complete with old bait leftover from its last capture). But this year, we have new neighbors in this once designated feline whorehouse, and unbeknownst to them, the deed was done right there in the spot where they now enjoy their morning cup of hot joe in their lovely white wicker club chairs. Yes, I will miss those days when I curiously watched those two flea-infested shorthairs go at it from our family room window, as my husband would sneak up behind me singing "bow-chick-a-wow-wow," or warbling in his best, deep-voiced Marvin Gaye impersonation "Come on, let's get it oooooon." Hoping this was only to be funny and not an attempt at foreplay, I would just turn around, giggle, grasp my head as if comforting a headache, and quickly look for something else in which to be engrossed with.

You see, like poor ol' crosseyes, I too tend to find myself knocked-up each spring. It's so bad, that my husband and I would be in an argument over something, and not intimate for a few weeks, and somehow the following month....boom....I've got a bun in the oven! Fertile Myrtle, that's me. But this Spring, I am determined, I will NOT get pregnant. I will make it to my 30th birthday, this July, a party of one, a size two, and with a chilled margarita in hand, make that three! I will not succumb to Spring's feminine wiles, her procreating urges, her bad joke on her twin sister, Summer. "HA HA," she cackles, "take THAT! See how good she'll look in her new Michael Kors swimsuit now!"

Oh, no! Not this time, Spring! Fall? Maybe. Winter? Even better.

Yes, winter is a lovely time to be pregnant. The bulky clothes, the cold weather to aid in battling the night-sweats, the excuse for eating all that holiday party food.

But I'm getting way ahead of myself. I just have to make it to July. You hear that, Spring?? July.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

I'm back! And just so you know, my daughter is finally on the mend. Now if I could just get her to realize that a diet of sugar-free ice pops and all-day Disney-movie-a-thons are not going to continue to be the norm around here. She has also figured out that the pitiful whining she used while she was sick was a great weapon for getting whatever she wanted. And now she believes that if asking politely for another "icee pop" doesn't succeed, she can resort to this more unscrupulous tactic. I, however, am insurmountable when it comes to this little ploy. My husband, on the other hand, is a gutless wonder. She's got him wrapped around her cute little finger and she knows it. When it comes to asking for one of her favorite frozen treats, she sometimes tries to circumvent me entirely. But usually, she works the room like a sleazy politician. Glaring up at you innocently, while batting her big brown eyes, and whispering "more icee pops, momma? Peeeeeease."


"No, honey, no more ice pops right now, we're about to eat."


"Daaaa-deee! Daaaa-dee! More icee pops! Peeeeease. Peeeeease, da-dee, one more icee pop! More, more, more, more!"

He glances over at me, and is returned a harsh stare. "You can have an ice pop, okay, honey, darling, sweetypea, angel, cupcake, princess."

I roll my eyes and return to whatever it was I was doing....the bad cop....once again.

So there you have it....a good cop, a bad cop and a sleazy politician...kinda sounds like the beginning of a vulgar joke, or the cast of a Quintin Tarantino movie, perhaps.

New and Improved

Okay, so I might have jumped on this whole blogging thing half a decade late, but I have never been known to be one on the cutting edge of technology. I just got an iPod last year, which still only hold music files, no movies, TV shows, webcasts or pictures. And, up until a few months ago, it used to take me 20 minutes just to text "Happy Birthday" to a friend on my cell phone. But I do admit I have become quite addicted to this idea of journaling my random thoughts (and favorite recipes) to a somewhat-anonymous audience. And I have been researching ways to better serve you, the reader, with better content, easier access and more relevant ads.

To start, you can now enter your email address and subscribe to "The Fox Chronicles." Every time I publish a new post it will automatically be emailed to you. You also can email each blog post to someone you might think would enjoy it, make fun of it, whatever. And this is true for all of my other blogs as well (www.projectpennywise.com and http://whatsinyourrefrig.blogspot.com)

I am constantly exploring new ways in which to improve these sites, and I will keep you posted whenever I add something new. So, I thank you all for continuing to come back. Remember to put me in your "favorites" and subscribe so that you do not miss a post!

Sick Day

So, I've decided to take a sick day today. No, not because I am sick, but because my daughter has come down with a fever and runny nose something fierce! She hasn't slept at night or during the day, hence I have barely slept either....so....lucky readers....you get yet another one of my favorite recipes, Pork Pot Stickers:

Ingredients:
8oz lean ground pork
1/3 cup chopped scallions (approx. 2)
1 tbsp soy sauce (low sodium)
1 tsp sesame oil
1 1/2 cups packaged cabbage-and-carrot coleslaw
3 tbsp water
1/2 tsp cornstarch
30 wonton skins
1 tbsp peanut oil
1 cup water
Store-bought Plum Sauce for dipping

Directions:
1. Heat a large nonstick skillet over med-high heat. Coat pan with cooking spray. Add pork, cook 6 minutes or until done, stirring to crumble. Add scallions, soy sauce, and sesame oil; cook 30 seconds. Stir in coleslaw, and cook 30 seconds or until cabbage wilts, stirring frequently.
2. Combine 3 tbsps water and the cornstarch in a small bowl. Add cornstarch mixture to pork mixture; cook 1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; cool to room temperature.
3. Working with 1 wonton skin at a time (cover others with wet cloth), spoon 1 scant tbsp pork mixture into center of each skin. Moisten edges of skin with water. Fold in half, pinching edges together to seal. Place on a baking sheet in a single layer (cover loosely with a towel to prevent drying). *
4. Heat peanut oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Arrange pot stickers in pan in a single layer (tips pointed up); cook 2 minutes or until browned on bottom. Add 1 cup water to pan; cover and cook 5 minutes. Uncover and cook until liquid evaporates, about 2 minutes. Serve immediately.

*At this point the pot stickers may be covered with plastic wrap and frozen. Once frozen, remove from baking sheet and place in plastic freezer bags (up to 3 months). To thaw, arrange pot stickers in single layer on baking sheet, cover with plastic wrap and place in refrigerator overnight.

This recipe is from Cooking Light magazine 2 years ago. It is an awesome appetizer or meal for 2 to 3 people. Do not forget the plum sauce...it makes this meal!!!

I'm Going Jogging...

I believe it's jogging. Or yogging, it might be a soft "j." I'm not sure, but apparently you just run for an extended period of time. It's supposed to be wild.
~Ron Burgundy, Anchorman

I love running. I never was a runner before college, but ever since then, I've made it a point to run as often as I can. I even went running on my honeymoon in Kauai on the edge of 20-foot ocean cliffs, with a purplish-pink sun rising in front of me and the Pacific spraying my face with every crashing wave. It was amazing! I've been running in Philly, Miami, Atlanta, and Dallas. I once went running on the boardwalk through Venice Beach, California in the early morning, right through the filming of a Hillary Duff music video (before she became so famous), blaring the Beach Boys' "Help Me Rhonda" so loud, that I had only realized what I'd done when people started raising their hands in the air as if to say "what the hell?" Oops! I just thought it was a bunch of people hanging around outside a henna tatoo place. But running is a great way to go sightseeing. They even have a running tour of New York City...I definitely have to do that some day.

When I run, I get in this kind of zone, as most other runners do. I forget what is going on around me. I can do just about anything while on a run. Sometimes I plan out the rest of my workout while listening to my iPod or formulate my grocery list. I daydream about about my dream home, dream car, or dream career, sometimes I ponder the theory of relativity, run through a few mathematical proofs, or knit...just whatever I'm in the mood for and whatever keeps my mind off the mileage.

The farthest I have ever run was 12 miles, not that far for a seasoned runner I guess. But I just can never seem to get past that mark. And I swear, every year I plan on running a marathon, but never am I able to stick to the training schedule. Actually, I have never participated in ANY sort of organized race. I can come up with a million excuses when I want to: I can't find the time, its too hot in the summer I'll get heat stroke, I'm pregnant (not presently, but when I was pregnant it was a wonderful excuse for everything). But in reality, marathons just scare me. I don't know if its trying to cram in long runs on the weekends, or planning around vacations, or the fear that I will crap in my running shorts in front of thousands of race spectators! You've heard that before, right? It's crazy, I mean, they're crazy! These marathoners are so dedicated to their finishing time that they would all together forgo the use of a port-a-potty for their own pants. Some say runners can't control it, and that's what scares me the most. If any of you have run a marathon before, have you actually seen this happen? Just curious.

Well...huh......what can I say to follow that one. Not much I guess. Just hope you all aren't reading this one during your lunch hour.

A Weekend Away

This past weekend, my husband and I decided to take a little vacation. We dropped our daughter off with her grandparents and headed an hour and a half west to Gainesville, Florida. This was actually supposed to be our three year anniversary trip, but with our actual anniversary falling so close to the holidays, it was easier to wait until now to go. Our original destination was going to be Savannah, however, with the housing slump and my husband being in the residential construction biz, we opted for Gainesville, where his parents still own his college apartment (i.e., a free place to stay.) Luckily, the place has had an overhaul since its use as a college bachelor pad. A description of its previous condition would require a completely new post altogether, so I will not even attempt to go there. (However, if you were at my wedding, you were privy to a lovely sampling by my now brother-in-law during his best man speech.)

Anyway, the drive west is always fun around 5:30 in the afternoon. And as we neared the University of Florida, and while we were driving along the main road through downtown Gainesville, a group of about 100 homeless people on bicycles, or I don't know, maybe they were fine arts majors, were headed east toward a less desirable part of town. Out of nowhere, my husband turns to me and says, "do you think they are all headed to the woods for a group orgy?" My first thought was, whoa, what kind of weirdo did I marry? He has definitely seen way too many Stanley Kubrik films, but what I actually said was, "You know, hun? That's exactly what I was thinking when I saw 100 bicyclists headed toward Waldo, FL: they must be going to the woods for group sex!! Amazing how we are always on the same page! See, we are soulmates. I love you!"

So, my husband and I, if you haven't already guessed, both graduated from the University of Florida. And it never fails, each time we decide to visit our old haunts, the question always arises (usually from me) as to whether other people around us (usually students or waitstaff) think we are just another pair of college kids. Or do they view us as the pathetic old couple trying to relive their younger years by invading their hip nightspots. And it was only after we made the decisions to skip the 65 minute wait at Outback (average patron age: 20) at 9pm for an immediate table at Stonewood Grill (average patron age: 40), and opted for a mid-day coffee and bagel break at the nearly-dead Atlanta Bread Company (average patron age:35) instead of the so-packed-you-can't-even-find-a-parking-spot-on-the-grass Starbucks (average patron age: 19) that we realized which couple we ultimately were.

On Saturday night, we dined at the Melting Pot, where we found ourselves complaining about the service, the lack of a full bar, and the limited per-glass wine options. Yep, we reminded ourselves of our parents....scary. And, outside a Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, who knew it was humanly possible to consume 5000 calories in just one meal? My husband nicknamed the place "The Gluttony Pot," which didn't rhyme, but was far more fitting than, say, "The Svelting Pot." I had mistakenly worn my "skinny jeans" (in an unsuccessful attempt to appear more college-aged) which I finally fit in for the first time since October, but after that night of overindulgence, will probably not fit in again until after a few more months of daily intense cardio training. I hurriedly loosened the top button of my jeans as soon as we got to the car. Thinking that it would be in poor taste to actually do so in the restaurant, I prayed that the thing wouldn't burst from its delicate stitching like a missile and kill an unsuspecting patron, or less worse, permanently imprint the word "BEBE" on our poor waitress, and even less worse, land in someone else's fondue pot, after being dunked in poppyseed batter, and ending up choking the poor sap who had mistakened it for a deep-fried, green-goddess-sauce-filled, mushroom cap!

But other than that, I enjoyed our brief brush with irresponsibility, as I slept until 10 each morning and took pleasure in having more than just one or two alcoholic beverages in the evening. We didn't make our bed, or hang up clothes, or put our dishes away in the dishwasher, or wipe down the bathroom counters. We left toothpaste spittle in the sink, and food crumbs on the coffee table, too. Yes, after a weekend in Gainesville, I truly knew what it was like to be my husband.

Compost Bin - An Update

So I've decided to postpone sprucing up my yard this week due to an unusual late-February freeze these last two nights. My procrastination in trimming back dead plants actually paid off this time. Take that homeowner's association community aesthetics subcommittee!! Even so, I am still in the process of building my compost pile. I have decided against using one of those bathroom-receptacle-sized ceramic bins and have, instead, opted to construct a 3X3 foot heap in my backyard. I figured with a mound of compost, I would more efficiently be able to dole out the stuff to my planting beds with a shovel. And who needs to pay for "special" worms, when you can just summon the natural ones! Being that it is a pile of rotting old soil, coffee grinds, produce trimmings, and newspaper, the big question is going to be: where am I going to put this thing? I live in a restriction-laden golf course community. Our home, according to the Architectural Review Committee, is located on this golf course. However, I've had not even a glimpse of said golf course through the 25 foot buffer of 30 foot pine trees and overgrown, cottonmouth-infested underbrush, unless you count the occassional "G*d D@$& it!" or "S&*$!" or, most often, "F@#king F&*@#$%&*!" from the forest-consealed amateurs on the green. Actually, my first experience with these "ghostly" utterances eminating from the woods in our backyard occurred about four months after we moved in. It was April, about 75 degrees outside, and I was approximately five months pregnant. The day was too gorgeous not to spend it outdoors, and our home felt ultra-secluded since we were the only house built so far on our side of the street. I got into my bikini, which I must admit looked more like a woman bodybuilder's competition garb over my very cumbersome body, than the delicate floral string number I had flaunted the prior summer, slung a towel around my neck and poured myself a glass of Pellegrino, before stepping through the patio doors onto our back porch. Surrounded by a peaceful solitude, I tossed around the idea of whether to lie down topless or not. Do you think anyone would see? I asked myself. Who? I responded, construction workers don't work on Sundays. The neighbors across the street cannot see over here. How about someone with binoculars? I wondered. It was while I was engaged in this internal conversation that I heard it:


"What are you waiting for?"

The sun's rays eminated down through the cumulus clouds forming a patchwork of light on the St. Augustine grass as the powerful, resolute voice came from the pines. Huh? That's weird, I thought to myself. Perplexed, but certain all that folic acid intake must finally be getting to me, I shrugged it off.

"Would you just do it already!"

"God?" I whispered hesitantly, as I squinted my eyes and gazed out at the sunlit forest. My conversations with Him had never felt so....um...concrete before now. Plus, who knew He was so preoccupied with my sunbathing practices.

"Stay off the beach! Stay off the beeeeeach! Oh, man! That was a close one!"

No, shit! I whisper to myself. a little offended. Why do you think I'm even here, in my backyard, mulling this whole situation over in my head.

"Aw, come on! You're so close! Why don't you just dive in? You're right on the edge! Damn it!!"

The voice sounded a little deeper this time, and a little more agitated. God doesn't cuss, right? I pondered the possibility. But, then again, wouldn't you be a little irked too if your job was to give advice and guidance to billions of people everyday, that mostly went ignored and less then 10% ever followed through with? Certainly.


So I did it. I laid my towel down on my beach chair, and placed my book, water, clothes, and my bikini top on the grass. Aahhh! I closed my eyes and reveled in the few moments of utter serenity. The only sounds being the creaking of the cypress and pine trees, the rustle of the grassy underbrush, and the chirping of two cardinals chasing each other around a magnolia. There was a light breeze and the wonderful scent of jasmine.

I took a sip of my sparkling water, and as it's crisp bubbles tingled on my tongue, I nearly choked when I heard, "WOOO HOOO! You did it, youS@n of a B&%@H!

I perked my head up, thought for a moment, then smiled as I reclined back into my chair. Yep, I had done it. Liberated from clothing restraints and tan lines, I lie there basking in my newfound freedom.

And, yes, later I eventually figured out the voices were that of a foursome of drunken golfers struggling at the 17th hole. And, yes, had I not been an overly hormonal pregnant woman, I'd surely would have come to that conclusion much sooner.

But, anyway, back to the subject at hand....my compost bin. I've got to find an inconspicuous spot for it in my yard. One far from my house, and out of view from my back windows and those of my neighbors. Again, I am asking for your help....any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

On the Job

For all you vegetarians out there, this recipe is for you! Okay, so here is, yet another of my favorite recipes. Yep, you guessed it, not much going on, and not a lot of witty stuff to talk about. But mosty, I've just been very lax in my housekeeping responsibilities as of late, so I must spend some time today spiffying up the place. I would be completely and utterly embarrassed to have any guests over in the state that it is in currently. See! Even stay-at-home moms get carried away surfing the net, playing computer card games and otherwise neglecting their work, while on the job. Only difference is, I don't have that nosy coworker in the cubicle next to me, peeking his head over the side and complaining to the boss (aka "Big Brother") about my 2-hour-long solitaire sessions, thus initiating a covert, computer-spying investigation of my workspace, and ending with my termination....Nope, my husband and daughter are stuck with me, whether or not the laundry gets done or the bathrooms get clean.

Anyhoo, this Couscous Salad is awesome as a weekday lunch to bring to work, since it is best served at room temperature. Plus it is a cinch to make. I lifted this recipe from a Cooking Light magazine a few years ago, so it is not a Polly Fox original (although it has served as the basis of most of my own pasta salad concoctions.)

Couscous Salad with Chickpeas and Tomatoes

Ingredients:
6 tbsp organic vegetable or chicken broth
6 tbsp water
3/4 cup uncooked couscous
3/4 cup canned chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/4 chopped, seeded plum tomato
6 tbsp crumbled feta cheese
2 tbsp chopped, pitted kalamata olives
2 tbsp minced red onion
2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tbsp extavirgin olive oil*
1/8 tsp kosher salt

*You should never use the cheap stuff when dressing a salad or making an olive oil dip for bread. Save that for pan frying, and splurge on a good Italian, Spanish or Greek olive oil for this type of thing.

Directions:
1. Bring broth and water to a boil in a medium saucepan, gradually stir in couscous. Remove from heat, cover and let stand for 10 minutes. Fluff with a fork.
2. Combine cooked couscous with remaining ingredients in a large bowl.

So Easy!! I know!

Tradewinds

With a typical closing time of 10:00 pm, downtown Saint Augustine is not known for its nightlife. But a few months ago, in an effort to forget about our mundane lives for one night, some fellow work-from-home-women, mothers and I ventured out for a ladies night we will not soon forget. Initially we had planned to visit an elegant Bistro for its Ladies Night specials, however, for some fateful reason, it's bar area was closed that evening for repairs. We drove through the narrow, one-way streets, desparately seeking a new nightspot (and a parking spot for that matter.) Everything would be closing soon, except for a stagnant "Scarlett O'Hara's" and a college-age sports bar. We finally found a parking spot along the main drag, and decided to search on foot. As we rounded the corner on King Street, we heard it, loud music and the sound of a good time. The doors were open and people were packing into the place. The row of bikes out front should have been our first clue, but we were so determined in our quest for bequilement, we sauntered right passed them through the open door to the Tradewinds Lounge.

Admittedly, it looked less like a tropical isle in the South Seas, and more like the opening sequence of a Law & Order episode, as we stopped just passed the entrance huddled together like a group of rabbits surrounded by a pack of wolves. If there was any other time I heard more loudly (and more appropriately)the proverbial screech of the jukebox record player coming to a stop, I do not remember it. Here we were, five, somewhat conservatively dressed, suburban housewives emerging from the dissapating cigarette smoke like a pod of just-landed aliens through the early morning fog in a Kansas cornfield. We stood there a minute (okay, maybe five minutes) in awkward silence, as we stared at each other, then at the bearded, tatooed, and black-leather-clad crowd, then back at each other again. Until, finally, the boldest one of us started to make her way toward the bar, as we followed in a single-file line after her. She ordered that night's special, pre-made "punch." While the rest of us ordered our vodka tonics and bottled beers. I ordered a Michelob Ultra, of course, since I planned on getting in an eight-mile run before bed that night and didn't want to fill-up on too many carbs! (I'm kidding, of course, I usually only run about three miles in the dead of night.)

We staked-out our spot near the "dance floor," since it provided a great vantage point for people-watching. Amid the deafening live music and the one-eyed, one-legged pirate playing the harmonica in my ear, I was actually beginning to loosen up and enjoy myself. While I couldn't hear a damn thing my friends were saying, I continued to smile and nod my head in agreement, and occassionally throwing in a chuckle and a scrunch of my nose for good measure. Halfway into the night we had "adopted" Peg-Leg, the nickname we affectionately gave our harmonica-playing friend, into our little group. Two of my friends got the itch to hit the dancefloor with two members of the motorcycle gang sitting at a table nearby. The lead singer of the band gave a little speech before his next song. I couldn't tell you what he was talking about, but the room full of bikers rose to their feet, as the band uttered the first few notes of that old dance club favorite...God Bless the USA.

Watching the scene unfold before me, I was puzzled, speechless, and a bit dizzy from inhaling all that smoke. Those who had taken to the dance floor for that number were hell-bent on finding a dance beat in that song. All of a sudden I noticed a rather large biker chick boring a hole through me with her eyes. She resembled what I envisioned a model for the plus-sized S&M collection at your local smut shop would look like. She smirked as she grabbed her dance partner's buttocks and uttered in my direction, "you wish all this was yours!" Shaking my head back into reality, I realized I apparently had been momentarily hypnotized by the oscillating gold-plated chain dangling from her belly-button and disappearing up under her very unflattering mid-driff halter top (where only her rough-rider companion had the balls to venture, I'm guessing.) God only knows how long I'd been ogling at the pair dirty dancing to Lee Greenwood.

After a few hours, and a few more Ultras, I discovered that Tradewinds was really a melting pot of a dive. There were not only bikers, but retirees in their floral-print, Tommy Bahama duds, tourists wearing their newly purchased "Tradewinds Lounge, The Oldest Bar in the Oldest City" colored t-shirts, the college crowd downing their cheap pitchers of Bud Light, the traveling businessmen, and us, the suburban wives club. Actually, the only demographics noticeably missing were the old ladies from the Red Hat Society and children.

We capped off our trip to the twilight-zone with a stop at the Wendy's drive-thru and a harrowing 15-mile ride home on a dark two-lane highway, back to the safety of our sheltered little community. Ah, to be home again. Aaaargghhh!

The Oscars

So, a night of shameless self promotion and back-patting came and went with a fizzle at the Fox household. Yes, once I grew weary of the endless bickering between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton during the Texas Democratic Presidential Primary Debate, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and switch to the Academy Awards. Who needs presidential primary debates when you can get all your relevant political insight from host, Jon Stewart's, facetious, left-slanting commentary. Since it didn't even "start" until after my daughter's (and husband's, for that matter) bedtime, I was stuck by my holey-sweatpants-and-stretched-out-waffle-weave-shirt-wearing-and-plate-of-Skinny-Cow-ice-cream-sandwiches-eatin'-self watching the botoxed and liposucked beauties strut to the microphone to announce the nominees & winners. (Nothing like watching the likes of Heidi Klum and her amazing crimson sillouette to make me wish for a rematch with the Norovirus, and then along comes Jennifer Hudson and her game of side-boob peek-a-boo, and I feel much better.) And I say "start," because, really, the only part (in my opinion) worth watching is the whole pre-award show glam-a-thon on the red carpet. I like to equate the worldwide audiences' enthusiasm to know who won the award for "Best Sound Editing" to that of Mary So-and-so winning an AICPA (American Institute of Certified Public Accountants) award for "Best State Sales Tax Avoidance Scheme." The only difference being, Harry Winston and Dontella Versace were not banging down poor ol' Mary's door, and instead, she was stuck with her sales lady from Ann Taylor as her stylist and a diamond heart pendant from Kay Jewelers as her little item of "bling, bling."

And what award night wouldn't be complete without a coked-up Gary Busy violating young startettes on the red carpet? And speaking of violating young starlettes, what about Ryan Seacrest? Every network's go-to guy for hosting television events, apparently needs to take a lesson from Miss Manners when it comes to appropriate lines of questioning. Asking Jessica Alba if she is "going to breastfeed", or "what's the process going to be," was a little gauche, if you ask me. But all together less horrific than Joan River's roughhewn interviews (and looks, for that matter.) And he'll still have a job on American Idol...lucky S.O.B.! All I can say is poor Dunkelman.

Criticism aside, my family did celebrate with our annual, over-the-top, extravagant, Hollywood-award-night-worthy dinner fare of "Oscar"-meyer hotdogs, chips and salsa! We pulled out all the stops, including ketchup and mustard, when it came to our little Oscar night shin-dig!

In closing, I'll leave you with some of Stewart's memorable quotes from last night:

"You have to admit, this is a huge election. A historic election. So much excitement. For the first time in so many years we don't have an incumbent president or an incumbent vice-president. The field is wide open. Have you all had a chance to examine all the candidates, study their positions and pick the Democrat you'll vote for?"

"Democrats do have an historic race going. Hillary Clinton vs Barack Obama. Normally, when you see a black man or a woman president an asteroid is about to hit the Statue of Liberty. How will we know it's the future? Silver unitards, that can't be all?"

"You have to give Barack Obama credit, he's overcome a great deal. Not just he's an African-American. Barack Hussein Obama is his name. His middle name is the last name of Iraq's former tyrant. His last name rhymes with Osama. That's not easy to overcome. I think we all remember the ill-fated 1944 presidential campaign of Gaydolf Titler. It's just a shame, Titler had so many good ideas. We just couldn't get past the name. And the moustache."

Can't Get Enough?

Finding yourself craving more of a "Fox Fix" lately? Just because I take a break from the blogosphere on the weekends doesn't mean you all have to stop reading. In the tradition of NBC's Must-See-TV motto: If you haven't read it, it's new to you! So take some time this weekend to catch up on some earlier posts you might not have had a chance to read yet, or peruse the Archives for a re-read of some memorable favorites, such as "The Mall" or, of course, who can forget, "Blue Balls." And as always, share them with your friends and co-workers. See ya Monday!

A Lesson Learned

Like most American families, my husband and I are struggling to pay off a lot of debt. Since selling my soul to the University of Miami School of Law to the tune of $100,000, half of which funded my year of living it up in South Florida, I have been forced to live "the life less luxurious." But my brief fling in legal education was not in vain. I learned three things in one semester of law school: 1.) the art of argumentative writing; 2.) the definition of the word "chattel" (a moveable article of personal property); and 3.) that you should NEVER "dabble" in a private law school education unless your last name is either Gates or Buffett.

Since there is no such thing as a time machine, and I try to live my life by the optimist's mantra, "all things happen for a reason," I have made peace with my expensive decision and have vowed to instill in my daughter (and any of her future siblings, for that matter) the monetary lessons I was unfortunately not privy to when I was young and naive.

For instance, the importance of paying off a credit card each month. (As a side note, I think it is shameful how banks promote their credits cards to unknowing college students, but that is beside the point.) The credit companies will collect their money from you sooner or later, unless you file for bankruptcy or die - two options that I, as a former CPA, must discourage against since they tend to wreak havoc on your financial and actual life.

Also, the advantage of applying for scholarships over student loans. And, no...No, no, no....you will not be able to "live like a college student" for a few years once you find a decent-paying job after graduating, thus enabling you to pay off your loans early. I can promise you that! And, yeah, at the time, you may have enough money to buy yourself the entire fall collection at Hollister, but you'll be paying off that fashion faux pas (plus interest) over the next thirty years of your life, when you'll ultimately realize the life-span of your college style choices does not last much past the age of 22. I still try to explain this point to my husband, who to this day, continues to wear all of his long-sleeve, one-in-every-color, Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts, you know the ones depicting their wearer as some newfangled jack-of-all-trades. They deceptively insinuate that he is somehow simultaneously affiliated with the Breckenridge Ski Club (he has never even seen snow) and the North Shore Surf Academy. And then there is my personal favorite, marketing director by day, cashier at "Uncle Freddie's Finger-lickin' Fried Chicken Shack" by night.

So I am hoping my daughter will be much more financially secure once she graduates from Harvard, than I was graduating from UF. Or she'll come to the same demoralizing realization as I did....that her "investment" in "fine" furniture items for her college apartment, such as papasan chairs from Pier One, an entertainment center made from particle-board purchased from Best Buy, a Walmart oriental rug, and the "Monet's" bought from the back of some guy's delivery van at the corner of a busy intersection, are not the makings for a cover of Better Homes & Gardens, much less the stylish livingroom of your average middle-class suburban family.

My Favorite Sandwich

So, this morning I awoke to my first bout of writers block.

My husband and I have been at odds over the past few weeks, but in an effort to coexist peacefully, and after coming to the realization that we weren't quite sure what we were arguing about in the first place, we decided to reconcile our differences a few days ago. Ever since, everything has been fantastic! That is, everything except for my creative thinking process. It turns out, our arguing had actually been my muse. I begged him last night if we could go back to the way things used to be - the bickering, the snide, off-hand remarks, even the silent treatment. Oh, how I long for that silent treatment. It provides me an opportunity to get lost in my routine reverie. (How, exactly, do you think I come up with all this crap anyway.) "I need my blog inspiration back," I pleaded, "I can't let my readers down!" But, alas, my darling husband would hear none of it.

So here I am, upon my virtual soapbox, empty-handed but for my recipe for the best sandwich ever:

Ham, Apple & Brie Sandwich

Ingredients:
1 Baguette Loaf, sliced in half lengthwise
3 tbsp Apple Jelly or Apple Cinnamon Chutney
1/4 lb Honey Maple Boars Head Ham, sliced thin
1/2 Granny Smith Apple, sliced into thin wedges
4 Long Slices of Brie, with or without the rind
1/8 tsp Ground Cinnamon

Directions:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees
Spread jelly (or chutney) over bottom half of baguette. Layer the ham slices on top of the jelly. Next, evenly layer the apple slices over the ham and top with the brie. Sprinkle with the cinnamon. Place the open sandwich on a foil-lined baking sheet and bake until brie has melted and tips of ham are golden brown, about 5 to 7 minutes. Remove from oven and "close" the sandwich using oven mitts or a (preferably clean) dish towel. Press down firmly. Slice sandwich into 4 sections. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.

This recipe is a Polly Fox original! It was inspired by a similar sandwich I had at the Wine and Cheese Gallery in Gainesville, Florida. I happen to love the mixture of sweet ham, crunchy, sour apple, spicy cinnamon, and creamy brie. It pairs nicely with Chardonnay.