Nashville Day 2

Much, I'm sure, to the Captain's chagrin, I've been listening to classic country music since we got home from Nashville. It's his fault for finding a classic station on Sirius radio that carries a show called Willie's Roadhouse and playing it as we drove home Sunday.

I'd never heard some of the songs, but many of them brought me back to hanging out with my sister Donna when she she was first married to Jim. Jim had a collection of 8-track tapes and we must have listened to them a lot. Charlie Pride, Willie, of course, Loretta Lynn, vintage Dolly, Buck Owens, Johnny Cash, Tammy Wynette...it was like going back in time.

Jeff's dad had a few of the albums that let Jeff know some of the songs, but he mostly indulged me with something I didn't even know I wanted.



Also, I was fresh from the Country Music Hall of Fame. Eric and Tracy and I spent a couple of hours there while Jeff went to a craft beer release. They're not big country music fans, but were intrigued. Not going would be kind of like skipping the Eiffel Tower in Paris or Buckingham Palace in London, right?

Nashville is quite the hopping place day or night.  The Hall of Fame museum is massive. Elvis' gold-plated Cadillac was there, as were more guitars than I could count but Eric probably did. The number of stage dresses and outfits were amazing, but not more amazing than their tiny sizes.

The museum also displays the cornfield from the set of Hee Haw complete with some of the outfits of the cast who stood there and told truly awful jokes. Hee Haw was must-see-TV for my family long before that tagline was dreamed up.

We left the museum and wandered around downtown Nashville a while before we decided we needed to refresh ourselves at the Bourbon Street Blues and Boogie Bar. At 2 in the afternoon, it was full and there was live music rocking the place out. It was tremendous.

We wandered some more and had to run to meet our shuttle. Well, in truth, Tracy ran. Eric and I were slower and took advantage of her waving down the driver. Jeff returned from his beer share having made new friends with whom I'm sure he'll be trading beer in the future.

We had ticket for a beer crawl, which was to begin from Alan Jackson's bar on Broadway. We got there only to discover after a long wait that the bar crawl had been postponed for another two hours. So we created our own crawl. We didn't crawl far, as the bar we started in (and most others it seemed) was three-stories and each floor had a different band or singer.  Some had full stages, some had tiny squares of space big enough for a stool, an amp and a microphone.

Most of the musicians covered major hits, but occasionally they'd break out an original song. We ended up having a late dinner at Puckett's, which included a young woman singing. Her name is SJ McDonald, and she looked about 16. I hope she makes it big. We can say we heard her first.

We stopped off at 450 North Brewing just south of Columbus. We're definitely going to go back. At 3 p.m. or so it was nearly full. We had only a snack of shredded beef nachos, but my eyes kept wandering to nearby tables full of pizza and cheese curds and such. It's not for vegetarians or people who can stick to a diet, but you've never had nachos like these.

It was a great trip, but followed as normally happens, with a lot of work. The highlight of the week might have been going with my friend Tina Noel at near the crack of dawn to listen to our friend Lisa Vielee speak to a packed house about being vulnerable in the workplace.

If you're like me, you think highly of your friends. I mean, it takes a while to make a friend, so you want to have good ones, so of course you should think highly of them. But when you see them in a new setting -- as in addressing a packed house of people who arranged their day to hear what they have to say, it's an interesting new light.

Lisa was awesome. If she wasn't already my friend, I'd actively seek her out to be one. She has great taste in shoes, too.

Friday, Jeff came home and was greeted with a blast of classic country music. He was on the phone with Alison, and I'm certain they were both rolling their eyes and poking a little fun. The were, in fact, talking because Jeff had been talking at work about a song from some new (or old) group that either Ali or Jeff had tipped the other off to. As I've said before, my brain doesn't remember any other music than country. All I remember is that it's a group that sounds a little bit like Devo. What I remember about Devo is they wore hats that looked like terra cotta plant pots. Right? That's Devo.

Anyway, we turned down the tunes to talk about Spring Break. We've made no decisions, but for that fact that we'll be together. Which is enough for me. I am, as my bio tells you, a simple country girl at heart.

 If we road trip by car, though, I'm going to insist on a few miles to educate them on the classics.

Nashville Notes

Five hours in on a mostly interstate drive that was supposed to take about four-and-a-half hours, I was a little bit frazzled. Dire predictions of winter weather hadn’t come to fruition, I’d picked Jeff up a full two minutes early for our weekend, anniversary getaway and we’d had a well-timed pee and snacks break.

Traffic in Louisville got silly just about the same time Jeff started playing around on his Sirius radio dial and blasting the music. Lest you get the wrong impression, I, too, am a music fan. I like all kinds of music, though my brain will only retain a few gospel hymns and country music.

Jeff is an audiophile, and partially deaf. So audible to him is loud to me. And he likes his music loud. 

I’ve lived with him 22 years and dated for two ahead of that, so I know this. It’s part of what makes me love him; his passion is contagious and fun to watch. It’s even educational when I’m of a mind to learn.

So, all was good as we went from hits from the 50s to the 80s to the 90s to the 70s as he found songs that he loved or didn’t. Traffic-wise, we were stuck in the 10s. As I rode the brake, Jeff was flopping around like a fish out of water. If a fish could play air guitar, drums, saxophone and direct the invisible band. And it was 6-feet-2.

But it was still all good. No country music crossed the dial, but I have a passing acquaintance with a lot of the songs and was singing (badly) along when I could. Then, not too far from Nashville, we hit another traffic stall and I had a hot flash hit that had me turning off the heated seat, unbuttoning my shirt and turning down the window to the frosty air.

I was panting. Jeff was still playing all kinds of music and playing air everything as three lanes of vehicles played a brake light show. And then from nowhere, a semi-tractor trailer comes roaring down the break-down lane on my left. It felt like it brushed back the passenger side mirror, and I don’t mind telling you I would have peed my pants had it not been for that earlier stop we’d made.

I mean, who does that? Turns out, a bunch of people. I’m not sure where they thought they were going, and I was hopeful they’d run right into the arms of Johnny Law, but I kind of got used to it. Not that I liked it.

This was about the time my headache started. There's volume control on the steering wheel , and every once in a while, I’d lower the sound. Without fail – or complaint – Jeff would lean over and turn the dial to the right, go back to strumming and telling me the origin story of where he’d first heard this song and how it shaped his musical tastes. Sometimes he’d tell me about the artist.

I normally like this kind of running dialogue, but between the hot flashes, the continual noise and the Tennessee traffic, I was pretty much done. We finally got to the point of origin for the slowdown and sure enough, all of those asshats who’d blown by me were stalled along the breakdown lane as a quarter-mile length of police and highway workers were out in the pitch blackness doing God knows what.

Maybe the asshats were part of the crew and were hurrying in response to some kind of need. I hope not. I hope they were being punished for acting on their impatience like I had wanted to be didn’t.

We got safely to the hotel at least an hour later than we’d expected to, but I’d calmed down by then and all was good. We get in to find the hotel having technical issues which meant we couldn’t get room key cards. We hadn’t had dinner and were planning to explore Nashville.

“Well, you could flip that thing on your door and leave it open so you could get back in when you got back,” said our helpful bellhop, musing out loud that doing so would leave our belongings open for whomever might want to come sort through them.

“How about room service?” I suggest.

The bellhop nodded. That was an option to, he conceded.

I’d begun unpacking and Jeff advised me to let that go and start examining the room service menu, which wasn’t to be found. “It’s here,” he said when I told him it didn’t exist. “Just look for it.”

I called the front desk. “No, we don’t have room service menus in the rooms,” the clerk said. “You’ll have to go down to the restaurant.”

I refrained from telling him that we didn’t have a room key. Jeff went down, took a photo of the menu and gave our order. Which, I kid you not, was delivered in plastic bags and Styrofoam by the security guard.

I may not have chosen our accommodations well.

Ali called while we were assembling our take-out containers, and we were having a lovely chat as she walked back in the snow from a late test she’d just taken. Suddenly the phone cuts out. She doesn’t call back.

After a few minutes, I text her to tell me she’s not dead in the snow of Lafayette, seven hours to the north.

Nothing.

Jeff calls her.

Voice mail.

I take a drink of the champagne we’d brought with us. Krug. The good stuff. We’ve been married 22 years. We deserve the good stuff.

But it was a bit acidic as I pictured her fallen in the snow, bloody and alone because she’d either been run down by a drunk student or mauled by a horde of thugs.

I Google to find her dorm reception. “I don’t want to sound like an overprotective parent,” I said as Jeff nearly choked on his food. “But would it be possible to check on a student?”

Long story short, it was only her phone that died in the snow. She texted back as I was on the phone with the poor kid who was trying to be nice to me but clearly was rolling his eyes and saying, 

“seriously” to whoever was next to him at the desk. He was laughing when I reported that she wasn’t dead and asked him to not tell her that I’d called.

Of course, the Captain ratted me out. I got a “MOM” text.

I am unapologetic. It’s unlike her to drop us and then not respond. She’ll thank me when she’s broken her leg and is laying cold and alone in the dark and the cops find her because I sounded the alarm.

The champagne tasted a whole lot better once she’d resurfaced.

I worked Friday morning, and Jeff explored Nashville’s beer scene. Then, we both explored downtown, intending to have a late breakfast at Biscuit Love. We found nearby parking and left all but our coats in the car. The line to get in was massive, so we opted to walk to Hattie B.’s Hot Chicken. The sun was out.

As we crested a long but fairly high hill on the way there and the brisk Nashville wind found my ears, I was regretting my decision to walk light. But we persevered only to find another long line.

I rarely wait for food, and there were other options all around us, but Jeff was stoked, and I was intrigued. Behind us were two girls who could not stop talking about the menu and should they get this, or should they get that. “The peach cobbler is a must,” one said. They both wanted fries but thought they should diversify. We were in line about 35 minutes. This discussion DID NOT STOP.

We get in but still had a bit of a wait and I spied the size of the chicken tenders I was planning to get. Mind you, I didn’t need to look at the menu as it had been fully described to me on repeat. Jeff had been getting tips from buddies who’d been there before.

I ordered level “Hot,” which was a couple steps up from plain. Jeff leveled up one to “Damn Hot” and declared me a sissy. Minutes later, when his mouth was on fire, he considered his choice. By this time, the chattery girls had sat down at our table. It had been vacated for a spot in the sun by the couple who’d stood ahead of us. They were from London. The talkers were from Connecticut.

Clearly, we were tourists, but it was fun and once the girls found different topics of conversation, they were fun, too. We ended up eating on the porch, that had rolled down plastic over to stand in as windows. The heat lamps made it tolerable, but we still ate with our coats on.

Jeff wasn’t the only one trash talking me. To my left at another picnic table was group of men, one gasping. “Why you got to breathe for anyway?” his unconcerned pal laughed at him. The Londoners had downed their pitcher of beer. I’d gone back for more tea to save Jeff’s life. I ended up giving him one of my tenders – they were huge. The sides were amazing, too.

Before we left, I chatted a bit with one of the cooks and asked him how he’d gotten the greens so tender. “I cook ‘em,” he said.

I laughed and a waiter joined our conversation where I shared that I’d never been able to make them so delectable. “You’re not cookin’ ‘em long enough,” the chef declared.

“How long do YOU cook ‘em?” I asked.

“Three-and-a-half hours,” he said. The waiter chimed in, “But his momma would cook ‘em overnight.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” the cook said.

It was worth the burn. And the wait.

Oh. We got the peach cobbler. I sampled it before my taste buds were burned away. I should have thanked the Connecticut girls. We at the rest of it as we walked back to our car. I was wearing boots, which weren’t really made for long treks, and I hit the 10,000 step mark before we got within site of the parking garage.

At which point, Jeff says, “Want to go to the Johnny Cash museum? It’s not far from here.”

We’d been talking about what to do as we waited for Eric and Tracy to arrive, and Jeff knows I’m a big Johnny Cash fan. I’d found a brochure in the hotel, and he’d seen a billboard. The car was parked. My dogs were barking but sure, how far could it be?

It was far. Along the way, we ran into the Connecticut girls who were on the way to the Country Music Hall of Fame museum. They’d debated between it and Johnny Cash. We ducked into the Hall of Fame for a bathroom break. It’s possible I put a little rest in the restroom, but we went back in search of the Man in Black.

A mile later, we found it, and it exceeded the hype. I’m not sure you have to be a JRC fan to enjoy that place. I learned stuff, and I remembered some other stuff. I’d totally forgotten he had an acting career and had appeared on Little House on the Prairie and Columbo. He even hosted Saturday Night Live.

He was even in a movie where Andy Griffith was the villain, and he took a tiny Ron Howard hostage in a movie when Cash was the villain. It took a bit of thought to realize that was a very young Kris Kristofferson in Stagecoach. Merle Haggard looked the same. And I wondered if that was the genesis of “The Highwaymen.”

Anyway, we were there for a long time, and I sat through one of the movies to rest up and remember. It was super fun, and I felt indulged because the Captain isn’t a country music fan. At all. But who doesn’t love Johnny Cash?

Eric and Tracy hit town and we went back to the hotel where we had a few drinks and pre-gamed before our late dinner at The Green Pheasant, which promised a fusion of Japanese and Tennessee cuisine, and in 2019 was voted Nashville’s best restaurant. It was amazing. Flavors I’d never seen paired before and highly delectable.

The waiter recommended we order at least eight plates and we thought he was insane. But then we did, and it was great. I couldn’t even tell you what all of it was or how it was made. But I’ll remember the meal.

We stumbled back to the hotel and I went to bed while the rest of the team sought out a Blues band fronted by one of the hotel staff – Jeff had figured it out earlier. Sadly, the band had disbanded by the time they got there. It was a good day.

We’ll see what Saturday brings. Pretty sure it's going to be awesome. But I'll see it in more comfortable shoes this time...

Boiler up the blasphemy

We drove up to Lafayette last weekend to take Alison out to dinner. We thought she'd want go to Red Lobster and get her crab on but she was thinking sushi instead.

I should have gotten the name of the place we went to. It was really good and we had a little booth that was set apart from the tables and separated by glass beads.

It was perfect -- a lot of room and quiet enough that we could listen to Ali expound on her antics in the month or so since we'd seen her.  The food quality was second only to the company.

Ali was telling us about a group chemistry project she'd been involved with. It was a success, and a lot of fun for her because "they let me decide everything." Classes are going well, as is her social life. She's hitting the Co-Rec more regularly lately as she tries to out-swim the Freshman 15.

"It's getting kind of painful," she confessed, describing the return of her abdominal pooch and its effect on how her pants fit.

We'd surprised her with a little Valentine's gift bag that included some chocolate, some Ramen and a surprise from Aunt Margaret, who is super crafty. She'd been to a pottery place that has added an option to paint and stencil wood. She decided it would look good in our wine room, but Ali decided it would look better in her dorm room.

Jeff and I have been working a lot but we're about to go off for the weekend to celebrate 21 years of wedded bliss. We're sharing the weekend with Eric and Tracy, who have 30+ years together.

It's kind of fun that we're going to Nashville, TN, when only I am a country music fan. Eric is flying from there to Costa Rica to surf, so it makes sense that we go there. I'm going to have a great time. I don't know about the rest of them.

The Captain has already found a few craft beer options, so unless Stormageddon strikes, it should be a fun weekend. In the meantime, we're trying to finish up the perishables in the fridge and fruit bowl. In doing so, I committed a cardinal sin at dinner tonight.


Ali and I are purists when it comes to sausage, pepper and onions. It's a stir fry, essentially, with turkey smokes sausage, red, orange and sometimes green peppers and onions. A little soy sauce and that's it. Paired with mashed potatoes, it's simple enough that even I can't screw it up. Jeff occasionally would suggest we should add different kinds of vegetables, but Ali usually talked him out of it.

She's not here to protect the sanctity of the sausage and peppers, though, and I had veggies to get rid of. So tonight, I threw in the small bit of broccoli and jalapeno that were in the vegetable crisper, along with some corn. It was good, but I know Alison would have flipped her lid like the time I sneaked turkey burger into Grammie's chili. I'm lucky I didn't have to sleep in the garage that night.

I sent her a picture. Her response:

Of nests, empty and full and friends to the rescue

I've been super lucky in the friend department. Some come via family, some through school, others through work and friends of friends.

Recently, one of them suggested an outing to hear an Egyptologist lay down some facts about women who rules in the ancient world. Interesting, sure. But I was feeling intellectually lazy and initially passed on the opportunity.

But here's the thing (s). I have never had a bad time hanging out with Cathy Garver. Just running into her at an event you didn't know she'd be at will make it a better party. And I had just resolved to make this year the one where I stop declining events because I don't want to put on real clothes or brush my hair. Plus a bunch of other also superfun ladies had already said "ah!" (That's the phonetic Egyptian Arabaic for "yes.")

So, a desire to keep to my hope to be more outwardly active and a liberal sprinkling of FOMO had me adding my name to the Egyptian lecture list at the last minute. It did not disappoint. In fact, it was funny and eye-opening and everything I've come to associate with CG.

Earlier, I'd agreed to celebrate Tina Noel's birthday with drinks at a winery that offered (weakly) heated igloos from which you can sip and watch a beautiful Heartland sunset.

We also went to a movie of which prior to this outing I zero knowledge. Now, much like being an expert on ancient Egyptian leaders and the appeal of our hunting/gathering days, I'm also an expert on INXS and Michael Hutchence. Ha. Not really, but I am better informed about both and realized I actually know some INXS songs. Actually, I'm lucky they didn't toss me out of the igloo when I asked what the movie was about and then followed it up with, "Who's Michael Hutchence?"

As you know, I'm a country music fan with no ability to discern the talents behind rock music. I can, however, tell you (generally) who is singing what country music song. I'm working on this and just last week recognized Bob Dylan AND The Rolling Stones. Low bar, maybe, but I'm working on it!

In addition to being less ignorant of other music genres, I plan this year is to take a trip of some kind every month. I'm counting West Lafayette for January because the month is half over, the prednisone is wearing off and I'm a little bit tired. And it's wicked cold right now.

The Captain and I are going to Nashville, TN, next month celebrating our wedding anniversary along with Tracy and Eric. Still planning that out, but it's a definite. March/April will be a Spring Break trip somewhere: maybe Maine.

The idea of the trips and desire to do more stuff with friends is definitely a response to Alison's return to college. The classic empty nest. But when you have friends and you like your family, it's not a bad thing to have a roomier nest. You go out, you have fun; you remember that you used to a fun person who went outside the house for more than work and groceries.

It's not a bad year so far. Here's ➤➤➤➤➤➤➤➤➤➤➤➤
the best picture of Ali's last day with us. She's saying goodbye to her father, who had work, which left me to return her solo. Were there tears? Maybe. But only in the room, down the stairs and in the car for a bit.

I'd parked as close to Ali's dorm door because we had a significant amount of stuff to drag up to the third floor. I'd switched cars with Jeff to get it all up there. Campus was virtually deserted, so it didn't seem like parking illegally would affect anyone. So there was no need for that bus driver to try to shame me when he decided I was in his way.

I say try, because he didn't shame me one bit. There was:

A. plenty of yellow for everyone. (Someone should tell Mitch Daniels that parents need to be closer to the dorm doors -- and should get a free pass when there's NO ONE but you and your kid on campus.)
B. No one got off the damn bus at that spot; and
C. Could he not tell I was having a moment?!?

Ali has been back at school for a couple weeks. I've got a list of stuff for her next care package. She's not planning to come home until Spring Break but has reminded us that she's free for dinner
between now and then.

I've cleaned pretty much every corner of the house, buffed and polished, donated stuff, reorganized things in the basement, gotten the toxics ready for proper disposal and recycled the recyclables.

FYI, saving paint for 20+ years is a fool's errand. I pried the top off a can thinking I'd touch up bits of the dining room and inhaled a swirl of air that may have had chunky brown bits in it. When we'd sealed the can, the paint was liquid and approaching forest green. It's congealed into a sludge in shades of brown and black and gray. I don't know what the shelf life on paint is, but it's not 20 years.

So yeah, it's time to go out and have fun. We joined the AMC movie club as a way to encourage date night. It's a crazy deal: you can see up to three movies A WEEK for something like $20 a person per month. We like movies. We may need to bike there or do some power walking in the mall to justify the sitting and potential snacks. But it should be fun for a while.

Add in Bunco and Book Club and I'm going to be out more than I'm in.

I'm seeing Bombshell with some friends tomorrow. This isn't a situation where I'm going in blind.  I know all about those FOX ladies and have enough journalism background and #MeToo situations to be eager to see it. Doesn't matter, though. I'm going out with friends. It'll be fun.


I'm not going to go totally crazy. Thanks to my brother-in-law, James, I'm poised for me time in the tub with a book and a bit of bubbly. And thanks to my sister, Donna, I'm primed for reading outside the tub as well.

So watch your inbox for an invite from me. I'll be squeaky clean and ready for movies, music, walks around the neighborhood, you name it. It's going to be a fun year. Be ready to say "yes."

The last day... but not the LAST day

Today is the last day Jeff and I have no work obligations and still have Ali home with us. Full work days return tomorrow, and I'll take her back to Purdue this weekend. I'm trying not call too much attention to it, just enjoy the time.

It's been pretty awesome.

• Christmas in Maine, check.
• De-Christmasing upon our return, check.
• New Year's Eve party, check.
• Gatherings with friends, check.
• Impromptu brunch at The Gallery, check. 

Since we've been home, we've been hanging out, reading, purging and cleaning (in my case) painting, playing online games, streaming old shows (in Ali's case) shopping and cooking (in Jeff's case.) It's been low-key but super fun.

While getting ready for NYE, I remembered that we came home from Maine in July with a collection of Avon lead crystal glassware with an etched hummingbird motif. I ended up with it because my mom had left me with a collection of the stuff, and sets+ of another Avon glassware collection went home with Jen and James.

What's funny about the glasses is my parents didn't drink alcohol and Jeff's folks weren't big drinkers. I don't think the glasses were ever used, and most were in their original boxes, the little stickers proclaiming their bona fides were still on them. The Maine ones were handy in the basement, but my mom's have languished in the attic since we moved here circa 1998. There're plates, bowls, a bud vase, a pitcher and a platter as well. Salt and pepper shakers too.

Jeff had gotten into the attic checking to check on a troublesome roof leak, so I asked him to bring down my mom's hummingbird glass just to see what we have. With it, he found more of another set of glassware from Marian that I'd seen used on an old Mad Men re-run. It took me a few hours to inventory everything, repackage and store it downstairs where it'll be easier to find/use.

 He also found a box of dishes labeled (he claims in my hand writing): "In case of divorce." His outrage blew down from afar like sparks on the wind, but Ali and I thought it was hilarious. 

I have no memory of that box, and he didn't open it, so I don't know what's really in there. I suspect it's his old dishes, or maybe Mrs. Reed 1.0, because I know where my old dishes are.  They're set aside downstairs for Ali's first apartment.

Today, Ali and I decided we'd cook dinner -- primary item French onion soup -- and while we were getting things together, Jeff remembered that while he was on his tour of the attic, he'd seen a set of bowls and a Dutch oven he'd bought when he lived in Europe. We sent him back up; they're beautiful and perfect for our soup. But their arrival will mean a trip to Goodwill and a goodbye to other bowls we've used for years and have the chips to prove it.

My goal is to donate or scrap at least one item for every new thing that comes into our house this year. Discovering "new" stuff already here is a bit of a wrinkle, but I'll cope. The purge is definitely on.

On a prednisone high, I cleaned Jeff's work area down in the basement and lightened a bit of that load. The workbench had been littered with all kinds of crap for months. Projects that will never be finished, containers of things opened but not returned to their spot, pens, packing material.

That corner is just about the last vestige of stuff left by the former owners mingled with some of our own junk. If you ever need a screw, a nail, a washer, a tool, old doorknobs, wall anchoring supplies, sandpaper, etc... we probably have what you need no matter the size or color. Some of it dates back to the 1950s. Nails and screws, man, they don't perish. Seriously. Amil Gelb was a keeper.

Clearing some of it away is a tiny step toward convincing Jeff to make that corner a wine/beer/liquor cellar.  All of that will have to find its way to the garage or shed. Even on prednisone, I'm not up to that task

Yesterday, we took a trip to a Vintage store near our house where the first Saturday of the month, everything is half off. Even in a purge, bargains must be reviewed. The most flagrant purchase was Ali's. "I'm so tired of being short on campus," she claimed as she clutched a pair of 4-inch boots to her chest. Doubtful she would realistically wear them, I tried to dissuade her but gave in.

She put them on in the car as we finished our trip with the library, Target and Lowe's. She and I went to Target and then walked over to Lowe's to meet Jeff. On our walk, she said, "When we went into Target a group of ladies looked at me and said, "That girl is going to break her ankles." I just turned up my headphones.

I laughed, remembered my days of always wearing heels, and said, "They're just jealous. Heck, I'm jealous."

She laughed and said, "Right?! I saw my legs in these things. I'm never taking them off."

Right now, the house is full of cooking smells and music. I sou-cheffed for a while, then Jeff took over, but now it's just Ali puttering around in the kitchen, me on the couch and Jeff downstairs with a game on.

It's our last day together unencumbered with other responsibilities. It's a good day.

Itchy, scratchy but working through it

Somewhere in the usually fabulous state of Maine, I encountered something that irritated 97 percent of my skin. Not in a mildly annoyed way. In a full-on I-am-going-to-make-you-beg-for-death kind of way.

Dermatitis was the diagnosis. It's not contagious, but it's dug in deep. Prednisone is supposed to help it, and lucky for me, CVS delivered on that pretty fast.

Four days in, I'm better, but Ali woke up the day after Christmas with a sore throat and snotted up the friendly skies while I scratched my way home. It was a good thing we had an all-Reed set of seats.

Ali's sneezing was a come-and-go thing while my itching was fairly constant. Despite her illness, she and the Captain also feel compelled to instruct me on how to behave in public. Mostly it started with two words whispered loudly, followed by a command and then them falling against each other laughing. 

“Stop scratching!”

• You look like you’re in need of more crack.
• You look like you’re masturbating.
• You look like you’re a girl just released from a convent trying to talk to the first man she sees.
• You look like a 5-year-old who has to pee.

Later, as we waited at a restaurant for our connecting flight, Ali ran out of Kleenex but not snot.

"We can buy you NyQuil and Kleenex," I said.

"I don’t want NyQuil and I have napkins," she said.

I pick up my napkin, from which I had torn a sliver for myself and given the rest to her because she’d used up all the napkins within reach.

"I have napkin," she said.

We both cracked up in delirium.

Jeff wanted to walk to another terminal to get ice cream. Sweet Jesus Ice Cream. A favorite that Ali and I have had for breakfast on prior flights.  We both declined. That’s how you know how bad we were feeling.

Jeff peeled off searching for ice cream and, let's face it, a deserved break from us. Ali and I leaned against each other and struggled to the appropriate gate.

"Mom, I want to die."

"I want to die with you."

We discuss how to get killed in an airport. I said I wanted it to be a quick death and was concerned that nothing we did would result in a quick shot to the head. She said I was too demanding. Before the prednisone took effect, I could feel myself swelling up - especially my eyes. There for a while, I thought I might swell up like Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and float home. 

We got home about midnight and Jeff sent us to showers and bed, agreeing to drag in all our suitcases and stuff.  For the first time since I can remember, I didn't unpack right away. Ali and I spent yesterday on separate couches. I don't think I did one productive thing except apply calamine lotion and take the drugs. 

Today, the swelling is down, the itching is better and Ali is better, too. I'm halfway to getting the tree taken down. Jeff is off shopping so we'll have fun stuff for New Year's Eve. I should be back to near normal by then.

Prednisone is supposed to make you really energetic. I'm looking forward to that.

Christmas wasn't all itchy and scratchy. Gary crushed Jeff at cribbage. Ali had her fill of crab legs at our annual trip to the China Buffet.

We took a great walk up Jen's mountain-like hill and ended up with a postcard-like photo of Team Chase and Ali. We also met Mary's new love, the puppy Rory, who is super cute and about the size of a dust mop.

Rory is also suspect No. 1 for the source of my dermatitis. (Sorry, Mary.) Jeff and Ali have cat allergies, but I haven't had such issues before. 

We had lobster rolls at Allagash Brewing and drowned each other in gifts and food.

  It was a great trip and will be -- overall -- a great holiday break.

Happy New Year!

 

.

All I want for Christmas is some willpower

Not as in Will Power the race car driver. (He couldn't handle me.) But as in will power.

My pants already don't fit. A couple weeks ago, I grabbed the wrong pair of jeans, struggled into them and hoped they'd stretch. They didn't, and I'm pretty sure I sported a camel toe the rest of the day. This wasn't a muffin top situation. It was more like an overstuffed bratwurst that's been on the grill so long it's split open and oozing its stuffing.

My pants held that day, but barely. Had my waist button not managed to stay attached, it would have put someone's eye out, or embedded itself like one of those ninja stars had it sprung free like it was trying to.

Anyway, Ali is home from Purdue, which makes me happy regardless of my size.

She's baking coconut macaroons today and will soon dip them in dark chocolate. For my Book Club on Friday, she dipped strawberries in chocolate. And this is just the beginning.

She's been separated from the Kitchen Aid for weeks now. She has visions of cupcakes and cookies for her friends and the neighbors. I'm going to have to go work in an office to escape sampling and stealing licks from the bowls.

This morning after she cleared the cobwebs from mixer and it was humming happily in tune with her iPhone music, she said, "Oh I've missed that sound." Later, she signed and said: "It's good to be in a kitchen again."

It's not just my child who's contributing to my growth. There's a pile of cookies and popcorn and chocolate everywhere I go these days. I thought I'd save some calories by not drinking until Christmas.

But today, the Captain came back from Kroger with 10 bottles of great wine that he found in a bargain bin to add to the Advent calendar of wine Tracy and Eric Wiseman dropped off just after Thanksgiving. And of course you can't have Book Club without some champagne. And Bree's Book Club lasagna was so good I almost ate more of it than the damn strawberries.

Have I mentioned that I'm a weak, weak person?

I should just give up now and amend my Christmas list to elastic-waist pants and oversized shirts. I'm definitely staying away from the colors red and green this year for fear of being mistaken for Santa's largest elf.

Oh well, that's what resolutions are for, right? And everyone knows you can't start working on a resolution until the new year. We're starting a new decade come January 1 -- so it's probably good to have a meaty challenge for it.

Looks like it's leggings for me for the rest of the year.

The picture of Jeff isn't of him with his Kroger treasure, but him yesterday preparing to deliver craft beer to his friends before we set out for the Kahn's champagne tasting where we found Kate, Niki and Shelly there to sample as well.

Today, if I can wrest her away from the kitchen, maybe Ali and I will drop by the gym. That'll work off a bite or two...