blaugra

Barbie Butt

My cousin recently moved from San Diego to Tucson, where he is shacked up in an RV park with his husband.  Years ago, he kicked cancer and I said this, quoting Mystikal. 

Now, he has cancer again, in nearly the same place. And he has to have a terrifying surgery. Part of the surgery will be sewing his butt shut. The surgeon said he will have a Barbie butt. I mean, could we have said, Ken butt? Same thing. I had never heard of this surgery, it astounds me.

Anyway, I'm really happy that his cancer had not spread, but the aftermath of the surgery is going to be one hell of a mountain to climb. I think he can do it, though. And hopefully enjoy the warm sunshine in the desert while regaining his life.

 

You won't find this deliciously moist chocolate cake on Pinterest!

Why?  Because 1) the photo below is TERRIBLE. and 2) it's an old family recipe.

I just baked this for my mom's 81st birthday. All she wants for her birthday now are some lottery scratch-offs, a nice dinner, and for someone else to bake her a cake. This is our favorite cake recipe. You can't screw it up. Believe me, I've tried!  And it's so moist you can probably enjoy it without frosting. Here it is, the best chocolate cake you'll ever make! (the secret is the coffee!)

Mix together:

    2 cups flour

    2 cups sugar

    3/4 cup cocoa

    1/2 tsp. salt

    2 tsp. baking soda

    1 tsp. baking powder

Then add:

    2 eggs

    1/2 cup oil

    1 cup coffee

    1 cup milk

Bake at 350 degrees.  30 minutes for a 9x13 pan, 25 minutes for two rounds.

 

 

Fancy Like

I've been listening to a lot of country radio lately. I love it, I hate it. That Applebee's song comes on and I hate it then I love it. I want tequila-little time with you. Hair piled high big hoops. He ain't mine but he's my boy. Sittin here, drinkin beer, talkin God Amen, where the peaches grow.

The picture it paints is just simplicity, good old American life, partying, and a few happy tears. A long gone fairy tale.

People. This is what Covid has pushed me to. The brink of top 25 country commercial radio.

Just turn it off, you say. No. I have this old dial radio in my kitchen. It was my Uncle John's. He would sit in his chair in his apartment in the Northern Liberties in Philly and listen to all kinds of stations. He was listening to it when he died in that chair. He wasn't found dead until days later. I told this story here.  Throwback to 2007! OMG!

This music just transports me out of my house/home office/sanctuary/prison into another world where we're all healthy, with glowing sunkist skin, a pair of jeans that fit just right, bare feet in the cool grass, big wine slushie in hand during a gorgeous sunset.

Maybe soon I'll turn the dial back to the classic rock station, when Salty D loses his mind because Fancy Like is played almost every hour. Until then I'll live in my sunny country fantasy.

So the old radio is playing the country music while I work and I just decided to blog again.

My dad's gift of gab

I talk to my dad every day. He's almost 82. 

Last week:

Dad:    Do you know Pat Boone?

Me:     Yes. 

Dad:     Well he's been around!

Me:     Yah, Debby Boone's dad.

Dad:     There's a TV ad with him selling TV Ears. They can save your marriage! I can't hear the TV, and your mother always says it's too loud. I thought I'd take Pat's advice. Although I think his wife is dead.

Me:    OK. Did you buy them?

Dad:    Well, here's what I did. I called their phone number and I talked to a "Jose" in San Diego. His name was Jose but he didn't have a Spanish accent, I could understand him, so I don't know if his name was really Jose or not...

Me:    Daaaaaaaaadddd...

Dad:     OK, so I said to Jose, are you really in San Diego? And he said yes. So I said, my sister lived in San Diego, in the College Heights neighborhood. Do you know it? And he did!  He doesn't live far from there. So that proves he's actually in San Diego. Ha! Well, we talked for a while about the city. Then I asked Jose if these TV Ears really worked the way Pat Boone says they do. And he assured me they do, and they're easy to set up. I asked him if they really do save marriages! Ha ha!

Me:     OK, so they're coming in the mail? And you can return them if they don't work out?

Dad:    Jose said they're on their way! I can't wait! They're coming by UPS.

This is basically how every interaction is between my dad and people he encounters, especially during lockdown while he's cooped up in the house most of the time. He loves talking to people. Got the gift of gab. I don't really have that gift. Maybe I'm not really his kid. Anyway, I wonder what Jose thought of my dad.

p.s. The TV Ears arrived and the set up was not what Dad expected, something got in the way, I don't know what, so he returned them. Something else will have to bring harmony to his marriage. 

 

Brief Intermission

My dad called me after watching Father of the Bride.

"Steve Martin and his daughter played basketball in the driveway. Did I ever play basketball with you?"

Me: "I don't think so. I think I mostly played with friends in the driveway."

Dad: "I'm sorry I never played basketball with you."

Me: "Um, that's OK, I'm pretty sure we played catch or Frisbee or something..."

Dad:  "Oh. OK. I'm glad I did that."

It was one of those moments that made me laugh and reminded me that I'll miss him when he's gone. Which hopefully won't be for a long time.

Winter Vacation, day 4

It's Christmas night and I just finished making ham salad out of leftovers from the big ass ham that Mom served.  Ham + mayo + sweet pickle relish chopped  in a food processor. Everyone likes it except me, I don't touch it. I don't know, I think it's the combo of mayonnaise and ham.  

And that was the most work I did all day. 

It was a Christmas like most Christmases before. Except for the one Christmas that I spent in Zihuatanejo, Mexico, which was pretty amazing. I know that someday I'll think of these ordinary home Christmases as amazing too.

Well, maybe I'll think that now. Dad makes pancakes and bacon. Mom cooks up a storm for dinner, including a family recipe for some dessert called "marshmallow creme."  And we get oodles of gifts even though we're all in our 40's and maybe we haven't been nice enough to get gifts that are marked "From Santa." We're together and fortunate to be comfortable on Christmas and it's all pretty amazing.

And another thing that's amazing are these Party Potatoes, another family recipe:

8-10 medium potatoes, cooked and mashed
Add to them: 1 8 oz. package cream cheese and 1 cup sour cream

Beat all until light and fluffy, then add salt, paprika and chives if you want. Spoon into a buttered casserole dish and then dot the top with butter bits. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. 

How to get out of hosting Thanksgiving dinner

I didn't start out wanting to get out of hosting Thanksgiving dinner.

As usual, in early October, my parents and my in-laws start asking about Thanksgiving. 

"What are we doing for Thanksgiving?" 

I remain annoyingly non-committal because the leaves haven't even started to change yet. I know it's expected, or at least anticipated, that I host my family and Salty D's family, together.

But preparing Thanksgiving dinner is such a pressure cooker.

It really should be just a fun dinner. Instead, it's an event that requires Help Lines be set up so people who are fretting about cooking times or table settings can call in for advice or validation.

Even though it takes something like 53 hours to plan and cook Thanksgiving dinner it's not the shopping and cooking parts that stress me out so much. It's the hosting and wanting everyone to get along and have a good time, and worrying about that while simultaneously timing all the dishes to be ready at once and serving them at a perfectly set table while also wishing I was a better interior decorator or that I had changed out of my yoga pants. It's not just putting out a tray of lasagna and a bucket of salad for friends.

It's opening up your home to being judged freely on the quality of your cheese tray or tabletop accessories.

Well.

D.'s mother can no longer prepare a turkey dinner.

My mother doesn't want to prepare a turkey dinner.

And I, given my anxiety of late, in October, didn't feel like I could successfully pull off a family summit without throwing hot gravy on the floor.

Salty and I talked about it and decided to make reservations instead of dinner. Problem solved, right?

Then his mother invited us to join his family at a restaurant. We declined. My aforementioned highway phobia (it's a 90 -minute drive over the river to their home) would really be in high gear on Thanksgiving. I'd be a mess. Not this year, we said.

Then I told my mother that we were going to make reservations for ourselves instead of dinner for all in our house.  To be fair, I said, D. and I were going to go to a restaurant, just the two of us. That way we wouldn't be with either family and also, I wouldn't be making a turkey for two. Nobody would feel slighted and I would have zero stress.

And then my mom jumped into action. She made reservations at a restaurant near her home and included us. She invited us over for appetizers before the restaurant and dessert after the restaurant.

My plan wasn't working out as planned. I kind of felt like a big jerk. I was also starting to feel guilty about eating in a restaurant on Thanksgiving. But I didn't have a firm alternative lined up, so I succumbed.

Now I'm negotiating with D. as to which segments we will participate in.  The latest settlement is that we won't have appetizers with my family, but we will meet them at the restaurant, and I will make a dessert because this restaurant's desserts are no good.

Now I'm trying to figure out what dessert to make, because half of us like apples and the other half like pumpkin and I'm not good at making pies so maybe I'll just go with chocolate.

*sigh* I miss drinking.

The last Thanksgiving I hosted I got so drunk before the two families dinner that it was a blur and I was staggering in and out of the kitchen. That's another problem with hosting.

Still, after discussing Thanksgiving IN THERAPY -- I mean who talks about Thanksgiving dinner in therapy?! This one! Right here! -- I found myself wondering if I could just put aside my neuroses, deep clean the house and pull together a two-family Thanksgiving dinner after all. It's just dinner, I keep telling myself. 

Well, next year I'll probably host. Or, go away. But this year, no.

Random bits of family closeness

My parents and my brother were without electricity after Hurricane Sandy hit, and I was amazingly with electricity and without any uprooted big maple trees, so they came over to my house for the day.

I didn't want my brother sleeping over, and my parents refused to sleep over (my housekeeping? I don't know!) so after they left I called up some powerless friends to see if they wanted the guest room. They did.

I have a very hard time being around my brother for longer than an hour. He's more manic depressive than I am, with even more assorted problems. As we sat down to eat lunch in my warm electrified home, I laid down the house rules:

1. Close the door when you go to the bathroom! (yes, I had to tell a 40-something man that)
2. No smoking in the house.
3. Wash your hands.

The brother listened attentively and then obeyed. I think he just needs structure.

I still can't stand him.

Still, I was told to be more sensitive toward him. "Be more understanding, he has a hard time processing these big weather events." 

Like, doesn't everyone? Especially this time around? No - "Especially him."

My dad was watching this reporter on CNN. 

"She has the most captivating eyes. Look at them! They're bedazzling! I mean, the makeup job is good, but her eyes....I'm riveted!"

My mother had to watch the same footage of the rollercoaster in the ocean at Seaside Heights, NJ, over and over again and we sat around remembering all the day trips or weeklong stays down the shore and how it would never be the same again.  Yep, the roller coaster hasn't moved since the last time the camera showed it. Still there. Some say its destruction is demonstration of God's wrath for the show Jersey Shore.

The family's routines had been disrupted. Dad couldn't go to his Walgreens, he wasn't comfortable in his cold house and he missed his own TV.  I tried to put things in perspective and talk about how lucky we were.  We've been inconvenienced and forced to spend time together.

It didn't help smooth out all the edginess in the room.

My mom and dad argued about salad mix and whether or not to stop at the only grocery store that had the best salad mix. Dad sighed and said, "Your mother really wants to stop for salad mix, so we'll be doing that on our way home. It's the best salad mix.  I mean, you have your Chevrolet salad mix, your Buick, and your Cadillac. She likes the Cadillac of lettuces so we have to get that specific kind."

Then Mom walked into the room and yelled his first name as she often does. "I do not need to stop for salad mix! I never said I wanted salad mix! Stop saying we're going to stop for salad mix!"

I don't know if they stopped for the salad mix.

I haven't a clue how we would have fared if we were in Staten Island or someplace like that because this stopping-for-salad-mix thing seemed to be a pretty big deal.

Pass the bottle, it's a family dinner!

Every once in a while, to make my parents happy, I spend time with my brother. This is hard for me because he's majorly mentally ill and there's a lot of bad history between us. Also some hilarity. Because with mental illness you have to have some hilarity.

 As long as I treat him like a 5-year-old I can almost deal with it. If I have some wine then I can totally deal with it.

For his birthday, he wanted all of us to go to dinner.

Dad:     Here we are, all together. Isn't this wonderful?

D: [stealthily fills my wine glass first]

Me:  Yup.

Dad:   Now, Laura, don't put this on the internet!

Me:  Oh, Dad....

Mom:  What should I get?  Everything is so rich...

Me: Get something that's not rich. How about a light wine sauce? You always order the wrong thing.

[Mom orders something in wine sauce and then hates it, saying, "I always order the wrong thing."]

Brother: I'm getting AlfredosaucewithscallopsIloveAlfredosauce [His speech is really rapid. Then the food comes and he shovels it in]  This is the BEST Alfredo I have ever had. These scallops are the bestIeverhad. Except they taste kindoffunny, theyhavea funnytaste when you first bite them. And they're crunchy.

That's a ringing endorsement for the scallops.

Brother talks about how he's going to get a job from some guy who took his number and said he would call him. Brother doesn't know he's pretty much unemployable these days and that some people would rather just be nice to him rather than tell him the truth. 

Sad for him, yes, because he wants to work and needs money. Sad for society because we're all paying for him to sit at home and do nothing. Yeah, we've tried to get him volunteer gigs but he doesn't last at them. The illness always gets in the way. Also sadly some people don't really want to be around him very much.

I am one of them. More wine please. 

At this moment I am calling him to ask that he work in my yard this weekend.  This work consists of me picking him up at his apartment, then telling him what to do, then cheerleading him on for a few hours, working alongside him, and then paying him way too much, putting money on account for him so he doesn't take the cash and immediately walk into a bar with it.

I shouldn't complain. It could be much worse. There are tons of mentally ill who can't work at all, who have no place to live, no opportunities, no support system, no older sister who braces herself and cheer-leads them on through her gritted teeth.

I could say it's not my problem and totally walk away but it is my problem. If it's not my problem, then it becomes even more of your problem.

It's a tough nut to crack. So to speak.

For the beauty of the earth

Most old church hymns take me back to being a little kid, dressed up in my best polyester dress, sweat running down my knees because the church wasn't air conditioned and poly don't breathe, accessorized with a straw purse containing lip gloss, a pair of white gloves that I had to take off because it was too damn hot, and a dollar for the offering plate. I then remember how I stopped going to church about a decade later and how my zealously-born-again Christian friends said to me, "Don't worry; once you're saved, you're saved." which was extrapolated from some bible verse in the New Testament. Saved from what, exactly?

Anyway, going to churchy events makes me a bit melancholy.

But at a memorial service with old hymns in a little chapel in the woods, I met up with two relatives who helped wipe the melancholia away.

First, my mother grabbed me and stage-whispered, "Make sure you introduce yourself to Father Ralph."

Who? "The priest. He's your cousin."  I'M related to a Catholic priest?