When in France....

For some unknown reason my kids don't like to be made fun of mentioned in my blog.

I'm fine with that.  I'll honor their ridiculous request.  Because that's what good Moms do.

Whatever.

So.  Um.  This post is not about Kimmy and Luke.  It has nothing to do with them.

This is simply a post with advice in case any of my readers travel to France.  

Not all French people are enamored with American tourists.  Many expect them to know their language.

So....if you happen to be visiting France, and wish to go out to dinner at a French restaurant, please consider the following words of wisdom:  

1. Learn one or two French words before your meal.  Besides baguette and Bordeaux.
2. Wait until the host seats you before marching into the restaurant and plopping down in a seat near the window.
3. If there is a candle on the table, and it is flickering, it is likely a real candle. With a flame.
4. Recognize that menus are flammable.
5. Do not set your menu on the candle.  It may burn.
6. If you notice your menu in flames, do not panic.  You may cause a scene.  Simply blow it out.
7. If you blow too hard you will feed the fire.  You may want to use water to extinguish the flames.
8. 
   If the menu sustains fire damage, do not set the rest of the menu on fire to hide the evidence.  You may set off the sprinkler system.  
9. When the waiter asks why you blew out the candle on your table, tell him, "No habla Franceis."  Do not show him the charred remains of the menu.
10. Even though it is not customary to tip in France, generously tip your waiter if you have destroyed his menu.

I hope you appreciate my advice, Luke and Kimmy readers.  Hopefully it will help prevent any more embarrassing situations in the future.

The Box

"Mom.  I found your box."

"What box?"

"You know what box.  And it's very disturbing."

I had been Face-timing Kimmy from a cruise port to see how everything was going at home.  And she apparently found my blog box.

"What was in the box?" I asked.  I wanted to be sure we were talking about the same box.

She may have found the box containing my school pictures, which also would have been disturbing.

Or the box containing my toenails.

Just kidding.

"Where do I begin?" Kimmy replied.  "Barbie doll heads, poop play dough, mustache bandages.  Here. I'll show you."  She walked into my bedroom where the box was atop the bed, its contents overflowing.

"That's my blog box," I said.  "Don't mess it up."

Which is pretty funny considering the fact that for the past seven years I've been shoving blog props into the box.  I have to sit on it to get the top to fasten.

"I should have known," she said, removing a very expensive item.  "Is this your wine bra?"  

"Yes!  That's my Wine Rack Sports Bra.  You can use it if you clean it afterwards."  

Kimmy looked closer at the cloudy, mold-infested wine bladder that is virtually impossible to clean.  "I think I'll pass," she said, wisely.

She asked how my cruise was going and I told her about Miles, the creepy senior citizen who kept telling me how "youthful" I looked and followed me around the ship like a puppy dog.

Kimmy returned her attention to the box and removed another treasure.  "Here's a Barbie doll with no feet.  She's got band aids around her stumps."

"Oh, that's Handicapped Barbie," I said.  "She donated her feet to my Barbie Doll Foot earrings.  Be nice to her."

"Right.  And what the heck are these?" she asked, holding up a pair of baby socks with dust mops sewn to the bottom.

"Those are Kevin's.  For when I want him to sweep the floor."

"No comment.  What the heck?" she said, holding up my inflatable bra inserts.  

She said she was glad I didn't bring them along on my cruise.  Miles might have had a stroke.

Kimmy then held up a can of Poop Freeze and I explained to her that it makes Kevin's poop easier to pick up when it's warm outside.

"Freezes it right on the spot," I added. 

Kimmy had nothing to say about my Poop Freeze. 

"What is this?" she asked, holding up what looked like an unraveled ball of black yarn.

"I'm not sure," I said.  "It looks familiar."

She examined it more closely.  "It looks like the yarn is attached to fishnets."

Of course.  My hairy leg fishnet hose.

Damn!  I should have packed those.

Miles might have been following around some other youthful guest.  

Who shaves.

My Toilet Paper Origami Groove

I honestly don't recall purchasing the Toilet Paper Origami book.  I had probably intended to "delight my guests with fancy folds."  But based on the folded up piece of toilet paper on page 15, I hadn't gotten very far.

But that was then and this is now.  And I am far more talented and crafty than I was when I purchased the book.  

Whenever the hell that was.

And Kimmy is working at a fancy-ass hotel in Maine this summer.  Maybe when I go visit her next month I can offer my services.

I could either create the origami toilet paper art myself or train her Housekeeping staff. Which ever they prefer.

That's how accommodating I am.

I started by making a rose. 

I have to admit, it was a little rough.  

Hey! I could have lied and said I started with a bunny rabbit who lost his bonnet.  But I didn't.

And did I give up?  Hell no!

Since the hotel is in Maine, I decided to create a sail boat.

That was so easy, I made a lovely maiden.

Then I started to get into my Toilet Paper Origami groove. The maiden needed a flower atop her head.  It was almost perfect.

But something was missing.  One more detail.  

I added Josh, one of my drinking buddies to the mix and achieved TOILET PAPER ORIGAMI PERFECTION.

I was so proud.  And happy.   Knowing just how blown away Kimmy and her Housekeeping staff will be when I offer my services next month.

But I was exhausted.  All that folding was way too much for my poor fingers.   

I thought again about about that fancy-ass Maine hotel. 

All those bathrooms. 

I may need to simplify my design if I have any chance of finishing up in time for Happy Hour.

The Greeting Card

I happened upon the soon to be closed Hallmark store by accident.   I would have walk past had I not noticed the "90% off Entire Store" sign in the window.

As you would imagine, the store was 1) a mad house and 2) completely picked over.

In fact, the remaining inventory was extremely targeted.  Cards like:

• Congrats on coming out!
• Get well after your brain surgery!
• Congrats on the birth of your triplet boys!

And, of course, the congrats on your dance recital card:

Was I discouraged?  Of course not.  I persevered in my search for 90% off cards that would some day be relevant to me.

I snatched up a sympathy card for losing your pet hamster.  My nephew had one.  It, surely, would not outlive me.  I passed on the 'Congrats on buying your new unicycle' card and the inspirational, 'You can beat Lime Disease' cards.

There were a few "normal" cards but they were well hidden.  I found an adorable baby card stuck between two 5,000 piece puzzles boxes and a retirement card in the 'Congrats on your Bris' section.

About 6 months later somebody at work had a baby and I went to my 90% off Hallmark card pile and found that baby card.  

Oops.

Alas, I had to drive to Food Lion and spend $4.00 on a baby card.

Fast forward several years and Kimmy texted a picture of the card to me with this note, "Just found this while looking for a blank card to give to Jenn.  Were you planning on giving it to Linda or me?"

And she added the most annoying emoticon.

I responded, "So, Linda didn't tell you?"

Kimmy, who clearly inherited my brains, and not my gullibility texted me, "So you didn't have your reading glasses with you on that shopping trip?"

Oh, well.  I'll get even with her.  I've got the perfect card:  "Sorry to hear that you've been cut out of the will."

Jeepers Creepers

Kimmy wasn't nearly as impressed with my new sunglasses as I was.  

"Where did you get those?" she asked.  '

"At a VERY upscale store in Snowmass Village," I said, a wee bit defensively.

"I hope you didn't pay too much," she said, just as Dave rounded the corner sporting his own pair, purchased from the same rack.

She groaned audibly.

"Dad.  You do know those are women's glasses, don't you?"

Dave shrugged his shoulders and said, "They were the cheapest ones on the rack."

"You look like an Aspen Drag Queen." she observed.  

I laughed.

"But they look better than Mom's,"

What?  Dave's Aspen Drag Queen women's sunglasses look better than my uber-cute big-ass Teal sunglasses? 

I had a flash back.  I was about ten years old and looked like this.

And I saw the cutest pair of sunglasses.  Ever.

I begged my Mom to buy them for me.

"They're silly, Mary Lou," my Mom said.   "Why would you want those?"

I told her they were the coolest sunglasses I had ever seen and I JUST. HAD. TO. HAVE. THEM.

And I begged and begged and begged and begged and begged and somehow I wore her down.

And I looked like this.

Wearing my miniature television screen sunglasses.

I didn't care if anyone else thought they were stupid. 

I loved them!

And I don't care if Kimmy doesn't like my new uber-cute big-ass Teal sunglasses.  I love them.

Perhaps she would prefer my other pair.

Don't Sit!!!!

Kimmy had just complemented Kevin on his pooping etiquette when the trouble began.  “He really is considerate in picking his spots,” she bragged.  I agreed, as the three of us watched Kevin find a remote patch on the U.S.C. Campus and assume pooping position.

He finished, and as  I pulled out a bag to clean up after him he abruptly resumed pooping position about a foot away from his original optimal spot.

“Here we go,” I groaned. 

“Oh, no,” said Kimmy.

“What?” asked Luke, who is relatively new to Kevin’s elimination enterprises.

“He needs more time,” I explained to Luke.  “It’s another reluctant turd.”

The three of us stared at Kevin, who looked away, embarrassed.  He then managed, somehow, while maintaining pooping position, to turn his body 15 degrees clockwise so we were no longer looking at him head on.

The pressure gets to him.  (Pooping is not a spectator sport.)  

The three of us turned our backs and sat down to give him a bit of privacy.  After several minutes I looked over my shoulder.  Kevin appeared to be done. 

“Good boy, Kevin!” I said and we all stood.  Kevin walked a few steps and resumed his pooping position.

I sighed, getting impatient.  “Come on, Kevin,” I urged. 

But apparently that was a bit TOO MUCH PRESSURE ON POOR KEVIN’S SENSITIVITY and he sat.

“NO!!!!!” I screamed.

But it was too late. 

His backside was smeared with #%$@&. 

I had a Kleenex in my pocket that I used in a valiant attempt to clean up.  And, to be clear, using that Kleenex on his tail was like putting out a stinkin’ forest fire with an eyedropper of water.

“Crap!” I said, ironically, emptying my pockets.  “No more Kleenex.”

Kimmy suggested I use one of the plastic bags.

However, I’d lost my composure by then and, in all the excitement, I didn’t consider putting my hand inside the bag.  Rather I folded the bag in half and incompetently dragged it down Kevin’s #%*$  fur trying to slide the  #%*$ off the ends of his filthy fluff. 

Except somehow the bag slipped away and with horror I realized my bare fingers were sliding through fluffy poo.    

I gagged.  Kimmy giggled.  Luke was just plain nauseated.  

But Kevin was feeling liberated.

The rest of the story is rather anticlimactic.  I wiped my hands all over the grass to clean off the #%$@& – as best I could-  and we went in search of a bathroom.   

We wandered through the deserted campus (it’s winter break), Kimmy holding the leash. Because it's impossible to hold a leash with jazz hands.

We ultimately ended up at a downtown theater that was rehearsing for an upcoming show.  The cast was oblivious to the real drama occurring between the lobby bathroom and the front porch.   

Where poor Kevin was enduring a sponge bath.  Using wet, soapy paper towels from the bathroom.

After nine trips in and out of the lobby bathroom Kevin's backside was relatively clean.  

But we still had to get home.  In my car.  And nobody wanted Kevin to sit on their lap.

“I’ll drive home,” I said.

“I’ll dirve,” said Kimmy.

“No, I’ll drive,” Luke said.

In the end, I won drove.  Kimmy remembered the bag of Good Will clothes in my trunk and pulled out a shirt to cover her lap on which Kevin parked his mostly clean, soapy butt for the drive home.  

But there’s definitely a lesson learned here.

Never pressure a pooping Pomeranian.

Trying New Food

I was disgusted when Dave told me what he'd bought.

"Yuck!  Why would they put pumpkin in Peanut Butter Cups?"  I asked.

"Why not?  It's probably good," he responded.

"Peanut Butter Cups should not be messed with ," I said.  "They are perfect."

The lecture began.  About me being closed minded when it comes to trying new food.

"I try new things," I said, defensively.  "I'm just not as brave as some people." 

"Yeah," says Dave.  "Some people,  as in 99% of the world."

That is just not true. 

The thing is, I really like pumpkin.  I do!   But I kind of OD'd on it last fall.   I was in a rare Julia Child mood and decided to experiment with pumpkin.  I made pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin soup, pumpkin muffins.... 

My family begged me to stop cooking after tasting my pumpkin fish sticks.

And now Dave has purchased stinkin' Pumpkin Peanut Butter Cups!

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!   My favorite candy in the world.  

They do not need pumpkin!

When I told Kimmy about the Pumpkin Peanut Butter Cups she told me I should try them.    She reminded me that I liked the Caramel Apple M&M's she bought me in New Zealand.

But I don't have the same affinity for M&Ms as I do for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. 

I thought about it and decided that maybe my family was right.  I am somewhat closed minded when it comes to trying new foods.  

I would taste the Pumpkin Peanut Butter Cups.  Privately.  No way was I going to have an audience for this experiment.

I casually walked past the counter and palmed one Pumpkin Peanut Butter Cup.  

I slowly unwrapped it and noticed that it was shaped like a pumpkin.  Cute.


I bravely took a bite.

OMG.

It was a regular Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.  Shaped like a pumpkin.  

Hence it's name.   

I ate the whole thing.

Then I casually strolled into the family room where Dave was watching football.  "I did it."

"What?"

"I tried the Pumpkin Peanut Butter Cup."

"Wow!  Good for you!  How was it?"

"It wasn't terrible," I said. 

"So get off my damn case about being so closed minded about trying new food," I said.

 As I returned to the kitchen to grab another one.

Coffee, Tea or Chardonnay?

“You should have seen those Air New Zealand flight attendants,” I told Kimmy and Luke as we were leaving the Queenstown airport in New Zealand last week. “They were so funny!”

“What do you mean?” asked Kimmy.  “What’d they do?”

“OMG.  They were hysterical,” I giggled. “After they turned the lights down for the flight, they changed into costumes!”

“What kind of costumes?” Kimmy asked.

“Snow White.  And Sleeping Beauty.  And other cartoon characters.”

Kimmy glanced at Luke and then back at me suspiciously. “Mom, are you sure?  Why would they do that?”

I then described in great detail the big wigs the flight attendants were donning to match their very colorful costumes. 

Kimmy, always the skeptic (like father, like daughter) asked if the flight attendants had changed into their costumes before or after I took my Ambien.

“Very funny,"  I said.   "I WAS NOT HALLUCINATING!”  I added, perhaps a little bit too defensively. 

“Mom,” Kimmy said, in a tone that I felt to be a bit condescending.  “Why would they wait until they lowered the lights before changing into their costumes?  It makes no sense.”    

“I don’t know… because they were fun.  They wanted us to enjoy our flight…”

“Did you have wine with your Ambien, Mom?”

“Google it,” I said, with conviction.  “You’ll see!  Somebody has to have written something about Air New Zealand flight attendants changing into Disney princess costumes with big wigs when the lights go down.”

Luke, who had remained quiet during our debate said, “I just did.”

“And?”

“Well, I found a couple articles about Air New Zealand's new uniforms.”

I grabbed my iPhone and frantically conducted my own search.  This was ridiculous.

My reputation and credibility were on the line here.  

 “Flying can be a terrifying experience for many people but who’d have thought the flight attendant’s uniforms would bring passengers out in a sweat?

The airline’s latest uniforms, which are likely to startle even the most seasoned of travellers, have come under fire from staff who say the shocking pink dresses makes them look like drag queens. The new outfits, which appear to have been inspired by Barbie’s flock wallpaper, were designed by New Zealand fashion designer Trelise Cooper."

OMG.   

The flight attendants were not wearing costumes.  They were wearing their Barbie Wallpaper Drag Queen Uniforms.

I must have been mistaken.  

Man......

I really hope Cinderella wasn’t insulted when I asked her to bring me my second glass of Chardonnay!

The Trash Can

Dave’s favorite Christmas present this year came from me.

Yep.  I bought him the hideous, plastic kitchen trash can. 

To replace my lovely stainless steel one.  With the foot pedal. 

You see, nobody in the house could figure out how to put in a new liner.  Except for me.

For two years I had heard nothing but complaints about that trash can. 

“It’s not that complicated,” I’d explain for the umpteenth time.  “You just tighten the bag around the top and then push the ties through the hole.”
Unfortunately, Dave and Linda were in the “special class.” 

They refused to deal with it.  I’d come home to this:

And this:

Then one day I noticed a plastic grocery bag sitting on the kitchen counter.  With trash in it.

“Ugh!  What is this??”

“Oh.  Your trash can was full and I couldn’t replace the bag.”

Somehow, it had become “my” trash can.  (Kind of like how Kevin is my dog when he’s naughty.)

I gave up.  You can’t train chimpanzees to jump on pogo sticks.  Similarly, you can’t train Dave and Linda to replace trash can liners in my perfectly functional and attractive stainless steel kitchen trash can.

Several weeks before Christmas I began my search for a replacement kitchen trash can.  I came home empty handed every time.   I just couldn’t bring myself to buy one.

I loved my trash can.  

On December 23rd I stood in front of an entire wall of trash cans at Bed, Bath and Beyond, a blue 20% off postcard dangling from my fingers. 

Not one of the twenty-seven trash cans on display looked better than my loyal trash can with the foot pedal.

And they all had the same sort of replacement bag system, which requires tightening the liner and pushing the ties through a hole. 

Except, of course, the (gulp) plastic ones.

I began hyperventilating. 

I called Kimmy.  “I can’t do it!”
“Can’t do what?”
“Buy a new kitchen trash can,” I said, my voice raising an octave.  
“Why not?”
“I need your help!!!” I wailed as I ran out of the store, the postcard fluttering to the ground where it landed in a cold dark puddle.  

Kimmy promised to go to Walmart with me the next day.

Christmas Eve at Walmart was a cacophony of craziness.  Last minute shoppers crowded every aisle buying gifts for their loved ones and hunting friends.  Thankfully, we were the only ones buying a last minute kitchen trash can.

“Look they all have the same replacement bag system!” I stated.  “The system that your Dad can’t master.” 

“Not the plastic ones,” Kimmy observed.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Suck it up, Mom.  This is for Dad, not you.”

We picked out a very ugly black plastic kitchen trash can.  

Kevin could replace its liners if he had opposable thumbs. 

The rest is history.

Except for one thing.  Dave can’t figure out how to fit the cover on the trash can over the liner.

And I’m not helping. 

Amber Alert from Hell

I woke up in a pool of sweat, my pulse racing.  Wow.  The dream seemed so real.  But it wasn't just a nightmare....   

It was a flashback to the mid-90's.

4-year old Kimmy was "lost" in a brightly colored hamster tube at Leaps 'N Bounds.  It had been 10 minutes since I'd last spotted her behind a steering wheel waving to me through a smudged-up window 2 stories above my head.  

I had motioned for her to come down, but she conveniently disappeared.   

I followed her trail from below, anticipating her moves.  A-ha!  I spotted her in the control room at the top of the twirly slide.

I stuck my head up the bottom of the brightly colored curley-cue, "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW, KIMMY WALT!" I barely got the "OR ELSE" out before I was hit in the lips by a pair of brightly colored socks.

Not hers.

I growled as I climbed up a purple ladder and yelled, "KIMMY!  I KNOW YOU HEAR ME!  COME DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"

I counted to 100.  She was still missing.  Damn!

I was going to have to go in after her. 

It's been over 20 years since I entered that hell hole and I recall it like it was yesterday. 

OMG!  The plastic was so hard.  My knees were killing me before I'd gone 10 feet.

And apparently I wasn't moving quite fast enough.  Terrorist todlers were tailgating me as I maneuvered through the tubes.  "Back off, Buster," I said to an unruly rugrat attempting an illegal pass on a curve.

It was so stinkin' hot.  And humid.  The aroma of sweaty children comingled with pizza and a hint of poopy diaper wafted around me.  And something else.  What was it?   

I rounded a corner and put my hand into the something else.  Puke.  It was all I could do to keep from adding to the collection.  I wanted to turn around, but the traffic jam of toddlers behind me prevented any change of course. 

I wiped my hand on the tube wall and did my best spider woman maneuver to get around the nastiness.

I was literally trapped like a rat in a maze.  I tottered down one tube after another, calling Kimmy's name.  The claustrophobia began to kick in as my panic intensified.

Then I saw the steering wheel.  She must be close!

I knimped (def: limp while crawling on hands and knees) my way to the smudged-up window to get my bearing.  I looked down only to see Kimmy looking up at me.

But she disappeared.  Was it a mirage? 

About 2 seconds later she was next to me.  My sweet, sweaty 4-year old Kimmy had come to my rescue.

I disembarked the curli-cue slide and considered kissing the ground, but decided against it considering the carpet's condition.  Then my day got even better.  The pimply-faced teen-aged bouncer told me that I was too big to go up in the tubes.

So I told him he smelled like farts.

The Reference

Why did I open my big fat mouth?  It was my own idea!

Kimmy  told me that she FINALLY found an apartment for rent in Jackson, Wyoming, where affordable apartments are as scarce as a zit on a Barbie doll.  She was completing the application and speculating about how competitive it was going to be to get that apartment.

She told me that they wanted references from her most recent landlord.
 

A light bulb went off in my head.  “You know, you could always put me down as your landlord", I said. “We do have different last names."

Did I really say that? 

Because, lo and behold, I got back from lunch on Thursday afternoon and there was a message from THE LANDLORD, wanting to talk to me about one of my former tenants: Kimmy Walt.

Did I mention what a horrible liar I am?  I have numerous blogs about my poker go fish face and my complete inability to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. 

How the heck could I have a phone conversation with THE LANDLORD about my former tenant, Kimmy Walt? 

I imagined the conversation.  It would start with an innocuous question like, “Do you remember a tenant named Kimmy Walt?”  My heart would start pounding. Sweat would pour down my face.   My voice would shake uncontrollably as I would attempt to choke out a feeble “yes”.   

He'd see right through me and Kimmy would never get the apartment.

I called Dave for advice. 

“Don’t go into any details,” Dave advised.  “Keep it very high level.  She paid her rent on time and left her apartment clean.  Period. ”

Her rent?   I sent her to Food Lion for me.   She was my ping pong opponent.  She drank wine with me and watched The Bachelor.

That was her rent. 

How could I tell him that I would have paid her rent to stay with us for 3 months?  And that I should be asking HIM for references?

But I am very crafty, indeed.   Being a nerd, I did the math.  If I waited until 2 pm EST to return the call, THE LANDLORD might be at lunch.

And he was.  Whew.  I confidently told his voice mail that Kimmy was an excellent tenant.  She stayed with us for 3 months after returning to the U.S. from Australia.  She paid her rent on time and left her apartment in pristine condition.

I didn’t mention how empty our house feels without her.

 
And guess what!   

She got the apartment!

Lucky for her I wasn’t on SKYPE!