So sue me.

My dad almost died after tripping down a flight of stairs and we didn't sue.

Actually, he did die over a year later as a result of his injuries and we still didn't sue.

He tripped on the premises of his insurance company. Guess what? We still didn't sue.

You want to know why? Because he was carrying a file cabinet down the stairs like a dummy and it was his own damn fault.

So we didn't sue.

Apparently, I'm missing out on the Great American Jackpot. If my local paper is to be believed, California should probably just scrap the lottery because people are going to figure out before very long that the legal system is a much surer bet.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not mad at my dad for dying. I'm mad at him for carrying the file cabinet but he was stubborn. Even though that fall put thirteen staples in his skull and cracked his neck, I still don't think he believed carrying it was that big a deal. I think after spending the entire summer in the hospital, including weeks in ICU and a few lovely days on life support, that he finally maybe got where I was coming from. My position was essentially, "You're 59 years old. Don't carry large filing cabinets down stairs, especially if your helper is also a senior citizen. Dummy."

He ultimately conceded I was right. Don't worry, I didn't use my eulogy at his funeral as one big "I told you so." I said nice things about him because I loved him and he was. . . well, kind of amazing. Incredibly amazing. Just hardheaded. And I didn't even say that. (But every single other person who got up during his funeral did, just so you can appreciate my restraint in not joining their very truthful chorus.) And I loved him even when I had to bully him for the last month before he slipped away just to get him to eat ice cream three times a day. He would grimace, eat it, complain that I was bothering him, and then grin at Kenny when I turned my back to show how much he enjoyed my equal hardheadness.

Anyway, there was nothing wrong with the stairs he fell down. If anything, it was his common sense that was in a temporary state of disrepair. So we didn't sue.

By contrast, in the last three weeks, people have sued the city of Huntington Beach for the following reasons:

*A woman misjudged the depth of the curb, tripped, and sued the city for not having the curb be the right height.
*A couple sued the city AND state after their toddler fell into a fire ring on the public beach and got burned.
*A 13-year-old sued the city after hurting himself while doing a skateboard trick in an alley maintained by the city.
*A family sued after one of them was hit in the head with a frisbee while they were at the park. WALKING BY THE ULTIMATE FRISBEE COURSE. (It's actually disc golf but that confuses people. It's basically frisbee.)

Or at least, these people have attempted to sue by pulling the arm of the slot machine they call the City Council. I bet some of you are thinking, "Sometimes it's right to sue."

Of course it is. Just not in any of these cases. For example, I bet you're all thinking about the toddler who fell into the fire ring. Although he'll be all right, it's sad that he got burned. But it's not the city's fault. The city is responsible for maintaining the fire rings when not in use. THE PARENTS are RESPONSIBLE for supervising THEIR OWN CHILD when he is playing by a fire ring that has a live fire THAT THEY BUILT. Not the city.

And I could make the same argument in every one of these other cases. My VERY CLOSE family members (who I won't specify because I don't know if the case is still pending) were sued because their tenant in a condo they owned locked himself out one day and then climbed up the rain gutter (while drunk) to the second floor to let himself in. Guess what? The rain gutter came loose and he got hurt. It wasn't bad but I'm guessing it was more than a sprain. But to SUE? Because YOU'RE an idiot?

I'd tell you a story about how I got sued once when my car was involved in an accident while I was 2000 miles away. Some first year law student thought he'd sue me as the insurance policy holder on the car by coming after me for $2500 due to some vague "emotional distress" claim. (There were no injuries and his car had $900 damage on the bumper). The judge told my insurance to pay $200 and laughed the guy out of court. But it caused me UNTOLD stress for months until the whole thing was resolved. I'd tell you that story except I get really mad every time I do.

I always use my hallmark for Litigation Stupidity to measure a new lawsuit I hear about: the lady who burned herself with hot coffee from McDonald's.

I won't even get started on that one, but if I read about a lawsuit that makes me think, "Coffee is hot, duh" . . . I'm probably not going to be sympathetic to whoever is suing.

It makes me so mad when people treat the legal system like an ATM instead of just being responsible for what they did. That's what the system is for: to hold people responsible, not shirk your responsibility and then get a pay day for it.

I ABSOLUTELY believe there are times when suing someone is the right thing to do. That time is when THEY are not meeting their responsibilities or being accountable for their actions. Definitely let the courts hold them responsible, then. I'll cheer the plaintiff on! Go, Erin Brokovich or small business owner who's jerk clients aren't paying up or patient whose doctor's name rhymes with "Schmonrad Schmurray."

But people who sue because they lack common sense?

Grrr....

At your service . . .

I bet you know people who would "give you the shirt off their backs," right?

Me, too. Except for I mean it literally. My husband did it for me the other day.

I have had three pregnancy-related meltdowns. Not bad for eight months. The first was when I slipped on a toy my kid left out and it scared the stuffing out of me. I had a PTSD flashback to the weekend before when I tripped on the way into a stadium and scraped up my knee pretty good. Or bad, as the case may be. But I had this horrible fear I would fall on the baby. I didn't, (hence the jacked up knee) but it was nasty flashback when I skidded across the living room floor a few days later.

The second was when one of my hospital tests was taking too long and I freaked out because I was afraid of making my visiting teacher late to pick up her daughter from school. (It turned out fine. She met me at her door with a mug of hot chocolate and a dismissive wave. "Quit worrying.")

The last one was this past Friday and it all went down due to a severe lack of sleep. I had gotten only four hours the night before and it was rough day. I vegged all morning until I felt like I could function. I tapped all my reserves to get through Cubs that afternoon (and yes, I'm a total rock star for even showing up while freakishly pregnant).

It was all gone, those reserves, when I got home. My boys weren't bad at all, just a little rambunctious. But there was something inside of me just waiting to break loose and I knew if it did, I'd start crying and somehow never stop. I felt my hold on my temper and sanity snapping thread by thread. It was this cartoonish sounding "sproing!" with each little fiber that popped.

Finally, in the interests of all our safety, I said to my ten-year-old, "Watch SpongeBob until your eyeballs fall out. Give your brother whatever he wants and for the love of all that is holy, if he cries, feed him chocolate."

Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and for the first time in the history of EVER, I barricaded it with a chair underneath the doorknob because my two-year-old can pop the lock. Then I watched Veronica Mars for an hour until my husband came home and jiggled the door handle.

"Honey?" he called. It must be said he sounded nervous.

I dragged myself off the bed and moved the chair, then crawled back into my pillows.

"Are you okay?" he asked from a safe distance.

I shook my head. I still had that watery sensation somewhere in my frontal lobe, dammed and waiting to flood out in a hysterical torrent. "I can't cope right now."

The nice thing about not melting down on a regular basis is that such a statement from me carries A LOT of weight. It's like a Def Con 5 warning even when said in a perfectly even tone of voice. Especially when said in a perfectly even tone of voice. 

"Okay," he said. And that was all. He changed into his hang out clothes and closed the door behind him. I stayed where I was through another two discs of Veronica Mars and only came out for a moment to say goodnight to Grant when Kenny put him to bed.

Then I went back to our room and proved that I was making some progress in my mood by taking the arm chair instead of crawling back into bed.

A minute later, he slipped in. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," I said. "I just felt like I was going to cry and never stop. I stayed up here so I wouldn't start."

Bless his heart, he nodded like this made sense.

I knew it didn't, so I explained. "It's just that stupid shirt." I pointed at the blue t-shirt now lying crumpled on top of the laundry basket next to a bottle of Spray-n-Wash. "I don't have any shirts that fit any more so I bought two yesterday for ten dollars each and I wore that one for an hour and it already got a stain on the front so then I had to wear this stupid shirt--" I pointed to a so-called maternity shirt that was almost four inches short of doing it's job "--and it made me mad."

And then I burst into tears.

Not cute, understandable pregnant lady tears.

Huge, gulping sobs. What Oprah calls the "ugly cry." I am not a pretty cryer. I look like I have hives the second I tear up. I sobbed, and I bawled, and I wailed. Kenny just sat on the floor by me and rubbed my leg. I recovered enough to say, "I hate not having any shirts that fit," and then that set off more wailing and gnashing of teeth.

He was very sad for me so he did the only thing he knew how. He said, "Here, take mine. I've barely worn it tonight and it will definitely fit you. It smells like me, but not in a bad way."

So I took it because I wanted him to feel like he was helping, not because I thought it would actually help. And while I was struggling out of my stupid maternity shirt and into his t-shirt he slipped out again. I sat down.

And I sniffled.

And I realized . . .

Him giving me the shirt off his back really did help. And so did the bowl of ice cream he had when he returned.

And that's why I love him.

He's not eager to please. He's just happy to serve. Me, or anyone.

But especially me.

Did I mention I love him? 

Beyond the Tide pen

UPDATE: The sofa is cured and everyone is still speaking. My crazy brother is still even going to babysit again next week. Thanks for all the tips!

You guys should be really sad that you don't get the amazing post I was going to do today. Seriously, it was fantastic. Hilarious and profound at the same time. There was a lot of wisdom in it. Oh, and recipes. Yeah, really good ones.

But instead of doing that post, I need to ask a question instead.

Anyone know how to get black ball point ink out of the arm of a twill sofa?

Because Grant was really busy at his uncle's house this morning.

Seriously, does anyone know?

I'd like to buy the world a Coke

Working in retail will make you hate humanity. It's a matter of if, not when. And I can easily prove this. Go to Costco on a Saturday, any Saturday, and tell me that you don't think measurably less of the collective IQ of everyone in the store by the time you leave. Then examine your feelings about their manners, parentage, and general hygiene.


Can you really tell me that after the even dozen (minimum) stupid things you witness people do during your little excursion to hell that the customer is always right?


HA.


HA HA.


HA HA HA HA.


Try it for 8 years. You'll see.

The thing is, I am convinced of the basic goodness of people. I really think that when disasters happen, far more people will dig down deep to help than loot. I think people want the best for each other and that I have rarely been in a moment of distress (car trouble, trying to lift something too heavy out of a grocery cart, etc.) that a stranger hasn't stepped into help without being asked.

People say kind things to me about my children and hold doors for me and smile when they don't need to. People step in during times of great need and reach outside of themselves when they see someone else who needs a hand.

I know all this.

But in order to not lose sight of that, in order to keep enjoying and liking humanity, I can't do the following things:

1. Work retail ever again. In any capacity. For any company.
2. Watch the local evening news.
3. Watch any of the MTV reality programs.
4. Go to Costco more than once a month.
5. Serve in the nursery at church.
6. Go to a cell phone store operated by my service provider.
7. Listen to any news about Spencer/Heidi or Tila Tequila.
8. Even acknowledge that Tila Tequila exists.
9. Sit near anyone opening a plastic wrapped candy in a theater.
10. Attend a movie where the audience may contain children under fourteen. Including my own.

If I stay away from all of those scenarios, I can generally maintain my love of humankind.

If by any chance I end up in one of these scenarios depsite my best intentions, there are only a couple of ways to restore my faith in people.

1. A hug from one of my little guys.
2. A conversation about anything with my husband.
3. Chocolate.

These sound like simple enough things but it's truly the difference between me being part of a very, very bad headline involving phrases like "snapped" and "went postal" and me liking the rest of the people that share this big rock.

To be honest, probably chocolate by itself would work. But the hugs and conversation are a super sweet bonus.

Eat with fava beans and chianti

Every blogger (or nearly so) seems to go through these periodic reflective spells where they do this meta-musing on what their blog is all about. Am I a lifestyle blogger? A humor blogger? Do I specialize in snarking? (Yes, I made up my own word. Is there a problem?)

It's normal. We do this same kind of reflecting about everything, probably. I went through this mini-blog identity crisis when I first started. You can kind of see it in the domain name of my blog. "Read and Write Stuff." Of course, mostly I just focus on the writing stuff part.

In the beginning, I thought I would blog about my writing journey and review books that I read. That lasted for a couple of months but I discovered quickly that as much I love both reading and writing, I can say only so much about writing and then I'm ready to move on. It's just not something I can talk about all the time. Sometimes, yes. But not for a year-and-a-half. Reading I could talk about forever, but I have a book group and Goodreads for that.

I got to thinking about this whole identity thing a couple of weeks ago when I think some of you wandering by thought I was having one of these blog identity crises. It was due to a post I did about how I feel guilty that I'm too shallow to spend much time on some of the deeper, richer blogs out there. Several commenters seemed to think that meant that I was thinking I felt I needed to get deeper and . . . stuff. A lot of you were like, "No! Please, continue to be shallow! We need more shallow in the world!"

Never fear. If you fall into deep waters around here, consider it a cosmic accident. Swimming in deep water is neither typical nor intentional on my part in my blog or life. I DO spend quite a bit of time in deep doo doo, but that's typical (although also not intentional). It's also literal more often than I'd like.

Anyway, I know my category and I know it well. I'm not a lifestyle blogger (and we'd be in a lot of trouble of I was. I'll post pictures of my house some time so you can see how much this would be a BAD idea) or a mommy blogger in the sense that I don't really focus on my kids (IN MY BLOG!). And I'm not a reviewer although I'll tell you when I love something. For example, I could tell you where to find some great lifestyle, mommy, and review blogs that I LOVE and read daily. And maybe I will later this week.

Maybe the closest is to say I'm a slice of life blogger. But I thought about that label and realized it didn't fit either so I found exactly the right one: I'm a slice of brain blogger. I just pluck out a cross section of my brain and plunk it down and it is what it is. This blog is my place to spew all the things that I had a talent for writing but no forum to write it in. And the comment box is my personal network of kindred spirits who stop by and confess to being equally crazy.

I love that I can find whatever I want in Blogland. I daily visit slice of lifers, funny ladies, deep thinkers, diligent mothers and reviewers. But for me, it's enough to have a space to dump out the random thoughts that regularly dart across my mental television screen like snippets of the sitcom that is my life or a sound bite from the arguments that occur when my multiple personalities gather in their own version of The View to bicker about . . . whatever.

Thanks for hanging in my neighborhood.

Choosy moms choose . . .

If I were a smarter and more creative woman, I'd make one of those little Cosmo quizzes where you could pick house options out multiple-choice style and then add up your total answers at the end and I'd tell you your personality type and we'd have great fun.

It would be something like this:

In a kitchen, the most important feature is:
     A. Tuscan style cabinetry with crackle glazing that can only be touched with gloved fingers
     B. White appliances, since they show the least amount of toddler fingerprints
     C. A fridge big enough to hold all the amazingly talented art work your above average children spew produce daily
     D. A locking cabinet high up that keeps your kids out of your chocolate stash
     E. A full-time cook

It would be kind of a hard quiz because every answer would CLEARLY be a tie between "D" and "E". Actually, let's try another one:

The most important room in a home is:
     A. The formal living room with down lighting to illuminate the objets d'arts you've accumulated in your world travels
     B. A play room not in direct line of sight of the front door so the chaos is hidden while you chat your home teachers up on the doorstep and leave them wondering why they weren't invited in.
     C. A conservatory/library/study where your children can practice their instrument/pre-Kindergarten SAT flashcards/encyclopedia reading skills
     D. The garage where you can send your husband to putter when he's "helping" by playing with the kids until every last one of them loses all volume modulation and sense of boundary
     E. Your own bedroom. The husband can share with the kids.

But I'm not that creative or clever, so I'll tell you in simple, straightforward terms what we're looking for: 2000+ square feet, a decent sized back yard, 4 bedrooms, a kitchen with decent storage, an open floor plan, and in general, minimal termite damage. And yes, it's HARD to find that in the city we've decided on. So wish us luck. I couldn't care less about the size of the master bedroom, whether the garage is 2 or 3 cars, I HATE formal living rooms and dining rooms, and proximity to the grocery store is a bonus but not a requirement.

So here we go . . . another week, another dozen houses to go through.

Our house in the middle of our street . . .

Hey, remember when I used to blog? And I don't mean just flinging my brain drippings here in this virtual space for people to wander by and gawk at. "Whoa. Look at that spatter. If you squint, doesn't that kind of look like--"

"An epileptic rooster? Totally."

No, I  mean blogging in the complete sense, like when I used to wander by your blogs and read them. And then sometimes say stuff. Remember that?

Me, either. I've been elbow deep in an editing project and since I'm very prone to procrastination, distraction, and other assorted slothfulness, I had to put blogging on hold for a few days to meet a deadline. But, I AM BACK. You have been warned.

I started catching up today. Even subtracting the approximately 4,327 news feeds in my blog reader, I still had 172 blogs to get to and I'm only at half that. By tomorrow, those remaining 86 unread items will have mated like bunnies on Viagra and become close to an even half million or so, but I'll get to them, too.

Anyway, even though for all intents and purposes my absence (yeah, I know, you totally didn't notice. It's fine) would suggest I'm in no way interested in your lives, I'm going to tell you about mine. Because there's a certain narcissism to a blog like mine and instead of rationalizing that, today I'm embracing it.

As to what we've been  up to. . .

House hunting.

Oh, my.

We don't plan to buy until this summer but we live in So Cal where the majority of homes are distressed sales, mainly of the short sale variety, and these can take their own sweet time to close. So you have to give yourself a 4-6 month window on any offers you make for those. We'd be happy to go with a more straight forward equity sale, but they're actually really hard to find. So we're doing what we gotta, which is wandering in and out of houses, my husband bouncing with excitement and me waddling gamely behind him. Based on the toddler's behavior today, we can expect him to find the largest room in the house and just run circles around it until we leave as if he's trying to outdistance the unholy stank of living in 1100 square feet when there are almost five of us.

Or else he's just burning off the energy he stores up while sitting stoned in his car seat. One or the other.

But the house hunting is interesting.

I'd like to take an unofficial poll here. How many of you think I'd be a picky house hunter? Raise your hand in the poll on the side bar. Here, I'll insert a random picture here so you don't skim down one line to cheat and see the answer.

That's Grant at about two weeks old. I know. We seriously make cute babies.

Uh-huh. I bet most of you think I'll be picky.


You're wrong. So wrong. It's partly due to having a real estate agent in his mid-twenties who plays guitar in my husband's band and says "Dude" a lot. You spend time with a guy like Tyler, you kind of just mellow about everything. It's a strange narcotic effect. But also it's partly because I'm just not super picky about most things. Shoes, yes. How finely my vegetables are chopped when I'm cooking, yes. Everything else? Not so much.

These initial house gawking trips have been about establishing a point of reference between Kenny and I in terms of what is acceptable to me and what isn't. That way he can pretty much do all the house hunting by himself with full confidence that he knows my tastes and I can sit at home and eat waxy Hostess chocolate donuts and watch The Biggest Loser and not even feel bad about the hypocrisy because I'm going to go on the END ALL crash diet and lose like like fifteen pounds overnight in about six weeks. Or in four weeks if I'm lucky and this baby loves her mama and comes early to see me.

So, yeah. I'm going to mull over what I'm figuring out about how what you value in a house reflects who you are (because I'm realizing that although there aren't many dealbreakers house-wise for me, my absolute insistence on a room large enough to house a small Filipino house boy says quite a bit about me. Or maybe a really old English butler).

Let's see . . . there was something else I was supposed to do today. Hmmm.

OH, YEAH! Someone won something. Like the awesome book My Ridiculous Romantic Obsessions and a Vosges Barcelona chocolate bar. And I need to announce it!

That person (per random.org) is:  STEPHANIE FARIS!

I'm actually super excited about that because I know she LOVES young adult fiction, and Stephanie, I must tell you. . . this is really, really good. So make sure I get your address and I'll get it out to you.

If you ever cook Rachel Ray's 30 minute recipes, check out my sidebar. I try a couple every week and grade them. You can click to get the details and see if there are any you want to try. But I don't post the recipe so you'll need to own the book already. This week's new entries: Dily of a Quesadilla and Mix and Match Enchiladas.

A giveaway, with love from me to you.

Know what I love?

My husband. My kids. A really good book.

I have a really good book for you. Possibly. I mean, possibly I have it for you. There's no question it's a good book. You're going to want to win it. And you can. We'll get to that. Just check out the cover. I bet I won't even have to tell you anything about it and you'll want to read it. I left it out the other night and my babysitter finished half of it by the time we got home. Here it is:

I know. Cute!

I loved this book and so just in time for Valentine's Day, I'm giving it away as part of a "Things I Love" giveaway! Yay!

Becca Wilhite, the author, is a friend of mine, and she gave me the copy to give away but that doesn't matter because I'll tell you the same thing I told her before I read it: You don't have to send me a copy. I'm going to buy one anyway.

Now I'll tell you what I told her after I read it: This book is a delight. It's utterly charming. It's fresh and fun and soooo relatable. It's funny and engrossing and I read it all in one night. You will love it; your teenage daughters will love it. Your girlfriends will love it. And it's only $8.99 on Amazon right now.

BUT.

You can get it for free. I'll choose a lucky winner on Friday to receive a brand new copy of Becca's book My Ridiculous Romantic Obsessions along with some ridiculously expensive and totally decadent Barcelona chocolate that is insanely good. I'm not even going to tell you about it except to say it is flip-your-eyeballs-back delicious!

It's easy to enter. Here's the thing: I'd love to be cynical about Valentine's Day. I know it's a greeting card holiday fueled by the evil retail brain trust. But I still love it like I love all holidays. Even Arbor Day. Or Flag Day. I throw a killer Flag Day party.

So all you have to do to enter is make a confession in the comment box and this is the confession I want: what's the one cheesy love song you generally won't admit listening to in public?

Mine: Groovy Kind of Love (Phil Collins) and Broken Road (Rascal Flatts). But I love them.

Okay, fess up to your favorite cheesy love schmaltz song confection and you're entered. Contest closes midnight on Thursday.

Getting a leg up.

This is a girls only post. Seriously, BOYS GO AWAY.

Ladies, I have to tell you that I did something yesterday that I have never done before. In fact, two days ago I'd have bet a thousand dollars that I never would have done this EVER. But I did.

I actually begged my midwife for a pelvic exam. (My HMO has white-jacketed midwives.)

Nothing's wrong. It's just that she told me on my visit two weeks ago that we'd be doing a routine one today and so (in the interests of being discreet) let's just say I spent some time making sure I was presentable. Given that this is the current state of my tummy, it was a wonder of contortions, gyrations, grunts, and possibly strategically placed mirrors:

I pretty much can't even find my razor in the winter because I have no idea why I would shave my legs when I own several pairs of sassy boots. Isn't that why boots were invented? And shaving my legs when I'm pregnant?

Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. Guffaw. Snort!

Suffice it to say, this is not a ritual I engage in lightly, gladly, or frequently. In fact, there's no way I'm doing that whole routine again until we're at a point that it's the last stop before the delivery room. Which is why, for the first time ever, I was disappointed when the nurse said, "Oh, no. We don't do that exam until your NEXT visit."

Um.

What?

That is NOT what I was told two weeks ago. I nearly grabbed a paper surgical drape and my ballpoint pen to draw her diagram of what getting ready for my appointment yesterday entailed. I think it would have been like when they do those white arrows on a football instant replay, only it would also have to involve some cantilevers and fulcrums to really convey what it took.

Finally, she checked the midwife's notes and yep, I was supposed to get that exam yesterday after all. She quirked an eyebrow at me like, "You're crazy for not taking the out I gave you." And I looked her right back in the eye underneath the quirked eyebrow and said, "You don't understand. I SHAVED MY LEGS. I will not go through this again in two weeks." She laughed. And laughed. And got the exam stuff out and then I heard her telling the other nurses about the crazy patient in Exam Room 3.

And here's the lesson: there are certain sentences you think you'll NEVER say, like "Please give me a pelvic exam." But trust me. . . all it takes is the right circumstance. Like a 45 minute wrestling match with a Lady Schick.

Now you know.

Hmmmm...

Do you ever read a blogger who normally has a lot to say on a day when they say very little at all and feel like you got a little gift?

Happy Wednesday.

You ought to know . . .

The Internets giveth and the Internets taketh away. I'm not exactly sure what it takes away (time, maybe?), but I definitely know what it giveth:

First, you can get Book 3 in the Sadie Hoffmiller series, iffn' you wanna. And I wanna. I've read and thoroughly enjoyed the first two. Spunky heroine, interesting mysteries, great recipes. It's a good Friday night. What more do you want? You can get a sample taste here if you want to read the first chapter, or if it looks so tasty you know you want to buy it (maybe you need a Valentine for a friend?) you can click right here and do that. Or just check out Josi's blog and enter to win a free copy.

Next...

One of my first and favorite blogs that I ever read was Sue over at Navel Gazing at Its Finest. I have been to her house, seen her cute children, witnessed her mad writing skillz and . . . I quite like her. A lot. You'll like her too when you find out what you can win: $100 Best Buy gift certificate. Just think, if you get it, she will have taken care of your man's Valentine's Day gift for you. See? Now you have a reason to read her, too.

Next to last...

Since I kicked anemia's trash, I actually feel like cooking again. However, I'm 33 weeks pregnant so it only goes so far. I busted out a copy of my 30 Minute Meals from Rachel Ray and I'm working my way through those. For no other reason than that I am a kind, generous, helpful and thoughtful person, I'm going to post my reviews of her recipes as I make them. You'll find a link in my sidebar where you can just click and go find the grade for the recipe and any notes about making it. I'm no plagiarist so I won't repost the recipes but if you have her book, hopefully it will help you make some dining decisions.

Last . . .

I'm glad so many of you felt my pain (okay, maybe more like aggravation) over the Big Love thing in yesterday's post. I did email the author and if you'd like to know what I said, then you can check it out here. I'm making it a seperate link since I figure it's probably not going to be that interesting to the general reading public.

Having said all that, may your Tuesday rock. I'm about to point Grant's stroller toward the beach. We'll eventually find our way to the pier where he will jump out and chase seagulls while I chase him. He will then proceed to make himself totally endearing to passing strangers which I will find so cute that I won't even be mad about chasing him. Much.

Is the Pope Catholic?

Every year, my mother-in-law takes me to this great library fundraiser called "Murder on the Menu." It's a luncheon where every table has a published mystery author and you get to visit with them and ask questions. They take turns participating in a panel discussion in between eating and drawing for door prizes. It's a really fun event.

The headliner this year was Joanne Fluke. She writes cozy mysteries where there's a murder, several recipes, and an amateur sleuth (the same one every time) that always solves it. I've read and enjoyed several of her books.

The first year I went, I was at the table with Stephen Cannell. You don't know him by name but you know him: the guy invented the A-Team t.v. show. How cool is that?

This year...

Well, I didn't sit with either of them. I sat with an author I hadn't heard of but her book seemed interesting. When she made her way to our table, my proud mother-in-law introduced me as a fellow published author (my books don't come out until next year but I thought that was cute). The author, named April, was suitably encouraging. "Oh, what do you write?" she asked.

The answer always earns me a fun reaction. "I write Mormon chick lit."

Now, in a roomful of Mormons, usually you get, "Oh, cool." In a room full of non-Mormons, it's either confusion, amusement, or blankness. I understand all of these reactions. I'm quite used to them. My favorite is when I get a laugh, because it's never mean-spirited. It's usually startled because the answer is so unexpected. It's fine. It's all fine.

But I got a new reaction yesterday. This April said, "What do you write?"

I said, "Mormon chick lit."

She said, "Oh." Then, "Well, it's great that there's a t.v. show out there to support that."

Uh . . . ?

This time I stared at her blankly.

"You know," she said. "Big Love."

Cue groaning and a mental head slap.

I thought about the eight thousand things I should have said. I thought of them all right at the moment. But we also had an entire table of people that made me think, "This may not be the time or place."

But if I'd been more on my game, I'd have said, "Big Love isn't about Mormons."

There are no such thing as Fundamentalist Mormons. They're just some people who do crazy stuff and then call themselves Mormon but the crazy stuff they do isn't anything like what Mormons do. It'd be like if I put on a glittery, conical hat and decided to call myself Catholic. Nay, the Pope.

You don't get to say it and have it be true.

So some time today I need to look up her website and send her an email making that gentle distinction. But for all of my non-LDS friends that come by here for visits: FLDS is just a name. It's got nothing to do with being Mormon. Big Love has even less to do with being Mormon. You can get a basic outline of our beliefs here.

But you know what really offends me? This lady clearly had no idea what chick lit is. I've seen the commercials for Big Love and there's no WAY that's chick lit.

No, think a chick flick, only in book form. And it has to be the kind of chick flick with a young, hot guy and a girl who either starts with great fashion sense or ends up with great fashion sense. There are lots of fantastic shoes and sassy girls and smooching of aforementioned hot guys. Not so much creepy polygamists.

Anyway, my psychic wounds were healed somewhat later that night when I got to go to the Monster Truck Jam. Because I asked my husband to get me tickets. And he did. Because he doesn't find it odd that one weekend I ask to go to the ballet and the next the truck show. And he takes me. Because he's the best. When I saw his online dating profile (that's how we met), it said he wanted: Someone who's kind, vivacious, and loves to learn about new things; who'd enjoy Shakespeare one evening and bluegrass at a downtown speakeasy the next.

And that's why we're married. So who is someone chirping about Big Love in the face of My Man and my kids at Monster Truck Jam? No one to worry about, that's who.