Not a dirty word...

When I posted my story about David's injured scrotum, I expected plenty of responses, because I ask you, is there anything funnier than a story about torn testicles as the result of hair removal gone wrong?

No, dear Internet, there is not.

I was surprised however, to find that a small group of readers were offended by my post.

No, it wasn't because of the slightly blue subject matter, it was because of one word.

"Housewives."

Several of the women with whom David dances were upset that I referred to them as housewives.

I was kind of shocked.

I am housewife. Most of my best friends are housewives. I love being a housewife!

I had no idea that being called a housewife was an insult. One woman wanted me to change the language. I tried explaining that when I used the term "housewives" it was in a story that had nothing to do with the women with whom he was dancing. It was a story about my husband being a idiot.

My point, I suppose, when I used the term "housewives" was that this is not a group of professional dancers, nor a group of young dancers (Not that they're old! I swear!). This a group of women, most of whom are wives and mothers, many of whom work outside of their homes, who get together for a dance class once a week and have a blast.

None of them have injured themselves because they are far too sensible for that. They dance, they have fun, they go home. They do not require ice packs and daily chiropractic care after their class.

Furthermore, the point which I was trying to humorously convey, is that my husband has managed to injure his favorite body parts, repeatedly and painfully, to appear in what should be a "fun" performance, not a "destroy your reproductive organs" performance.

So what have I learned from this experience?

That you should never call someone a housewife and that the removal of band-aid's from testicles causes swearing and weeping.

Live and learn.

I am an idiot: Exhibit A

This weekend is arguably one of the busiest weekends in recent memory. It is dance recital weekend and I am the only person in my family who is not dancing in this years show.

Rebecca had a dance team dress rehearsal tonight at 5:00.

Tomorrow, David, Rebecca, and Lily all have dress rehearsals during the day. Rebecca is dancing in the 4:00 show and both David and Rebecca are dancing in the 7:00 show. On Sunday the fun continues when all three of them dance at 3:00.

My head is spinning. So many places to be! At so many different times! I need my chocolate!

None of this stopped me from being a complete idiot today and completely rearranging all of the furniture in Rebecca's room. I also roasted a chicken and made a batch of chili so that we'd have food available throughout this crazy weekend.

The compulsion to rearrange Rebecca's furniture has been mounting all week. When I am trying to fall asleep at night I don't count sheep. I lay awake and redecorate my house. I imagine the lovely parts of my house made even more charming with a slightly altered arrangement of knick-knacks. I silently scorn the areas of my house which for whatever reason are driving me crazy.

This week all of that energy has been directed at Rebecca's rat hole room. I knew that it could be ignored no longer- the room needed me, and I, it.

I took it apart. The books were piled on the floor. All of the furniture was moved. The girls and I enjoyed a few lovely hours sitting among the books, sorting them and listening to the Harry Potter audio book. The windows were open and the warm breezes wafted through the room.

It would have continued to be loveliness had Lily not attempted to play in Rebecca's newly created American Girl nook, triggering a litany of injustice and misery being perpetrated upon her by the world in general and her family in particular. Eleven, I think I hate you. Please return my sensible child, our crazy child position is already filled.

Calming Rebecca took some time and before long it was time to take Lily to gymnastics. While Rebecca's room was finished, the rest of the house was utter squalor. There was overflow from Rebecca's room all over the floor of the hallway. Lily's room was a disaster. All of the blankets and pillows were on the floor, covered in sleeping animals who enjoyed finding cozy spots among the piles of books and stuffed animals.

My room was covered in things which needed to be taken to the attic and laundry which needed to be put away.

Meanwhile, the rest of the house noticed that I was occupied with the upstairs and took that as a sign to party. The dust bunnies tripled in size, shoes multiplied and the dirty dishes in the sink committed unspeakable acts. I cannot describe these acts here. Trust me.

After Lily and I returned from gymnastics I shifted into high gear and somehow put the house back together. The laundry is away, the dishwasher is full and the kitchen floor is mopped.

I can go to bed knowing that the house is clean, but that I am an idiot. On a day when I should have been buying bobby pins and hair nets, I trashed my house and put it back together.

Still....Wanna see some pictures of Rebecca's room?

Have you ever noticed that in home magazines you never see any toys in childrens rooms? Maybe an antique rocking horse in an empty corner or some vintage blocks stacked just so. Where the heck are the toys? Where are the stacks of books- not to mention all of the crap treasures which children accumulate and cannot part with? I see those pictures and imagine a huge pile of plastic Little Tikes toys stacked up in another room while the photo shoot is going on. Big colored bins of legos, clashing horribly with the tasteful and muted designer colors of Pottery Barn Kids.

I think I am a wee bit crabby and should probably go to bed before I start ranting about laundry rooms so full of decorative "laundry" items that there is no actual laundry.

Have a good weekend and do not be an idiot. Love, Your Most Idiotic Blogger

The Nutcracker!

This weekend was all Nutcracker all the time.

The dance studio where Rebecca and Lily dance performs the Nutcracker and both kids danced in it this weekend.

Friday night found us at the dress rehearsal.

Saturday night was the first performance of the Nutcracker. I love attending the Saturday night performance because it's a little like being on a date with David. I get all dressed up and then we watch our girls dance.

I adore watching all of the girls dance. The youngest dancers are four years old.

Do you have any idea how cute a bunch of four year old girls dressed as fairies are? I almost died from the cute.

The oldest dancers are seventeen. It is extraordinary to see the complete transformation of dancers. The youngest are led on stage and through their dances. As the older girls appear on stage you can see them becoming more focused and steady in their steps. By thirteen and fourteen they can dance and smile at the same time. Their movements are more confident.

The sixteen and seventeen year old's bring down the house. Some rise high en pointe. They smile and dance with a grace which appears effortless, yet every audience member knows that to stand on one's toes, to leap from ten short digits is the product of work, pain and dedication.

When the older girls dance onstage in solos, they are cheered from backstage by their friends.

Those whoops and shrieks of joy for each other bring me to tears each and every time.

It is a thrill to witness it.

I know that Christine, the owner of the dance studio reads this blog.

The rest of you should know that the reason her studio is so special is because of the culture she cultivates.

There are no demands that dancers be thin or plan on becoming professionals. She wants the children to love to dance and to love the people with whom they dance. She knows every dancer at her studio by name and at the end of the year everyone gets a medal.

Mothers sometimes tell me about what goes on at other studios. Dancing is work, form must be perfect; it can be a grim business.

I am so so grateful that my girls are part of such a great place, and look forward to moving their bodies, each year with a little more grace and a bit more confidence than the year before.

Thank you Christine and Lauren (Nutcracker in the picture and dance instructor) for loving my girls so much and for making sure that each year they keep on dancing.

Shiny Red Recipe and why I am going to hell Part 2...

It's nearly winter here in Boston. The car has been covered in frost the last few mornings and the dogs have been very quick to do their business.

You know that I love this weather and I especially love cooking some of my favorite comfort foods.

I needed some comfort food today because Lily has a cold that will not go away. It started Monday with a little cough. Each day the cough has gotten a little deeper and the nose a little drippier. She's still had plenty of energy until this morning when Lily's whining had reached a tenor that told me that she really wasn't feeling well.

Like most children, when Lily is sick she attaches herself to her mother and whines. Healing can only be achieved if a mother is driven to the brink of insanity.

If Lily follows her usual course of illness she will continue to malinger until Saturday morning when she will suddenly spike a fever and develop an ear infection which will require a special trip to the pediatrician on a weekend. Over the last ten years we have seen the pediatrician on countless Saturday's and Sunday's and at least three Christmas's.

Anyway, in an effort to provide some rich savory sustenance to my sick baby I made French Onion Soup.

It's very easy except for the part where you spend an hour caramelizing the onions.

Ingredients -

½ cup butter
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped
1 bay leaf
1 loaf French bread
¼ cup parsley, finely chopped
½ cup melted butter
½ lb gruyere cheese, sliced
6 yellow onions, finely sliced

2 quarts beef broth

1/2 cup sherry

Preparation:

Sauté the onions in the butter until they are soft in a 6 quart soup pot over a medium high heat.

When all the steam is gone, the onions will begin to caramelize, so turn the heat down to low and keep stirring them often, until they are dark brown.

Add the parsley, bay leaf, thyme, sherry and broth. Simmer the soup for 45 minutes.

Slice the bread into rounds, which just fit inside your soup bowls, then toast them.

Divide the French onion soup between 6 soup bowls and put a slice of toasted bread and some cheese on top of each one.

Broil until the cheese is golden brown.

It was splendidly delicious. Except that Lily didn't like it and Rebecca would barely taste it.

Since my children refused to properly praise my efforts I decided to prepare some for David and Dan who were working late out in the office.

Remember Dan?

He is such a sweet boy. He's also Jewish and keeps kosher. When I brought out the soup he asked what was in the soup and I assured him that it was kosher.

Since there is no pork or shellfish in the soup I figured, no problem.

I am an idiot.

It was only after I took the bowls back in the house that the fact that the broth was beef and that the cheese was dairy crossed my mind.

I led that sweet boy into the land of unclean traife. The rule of not mixing meat and dairy had been broken and there was no going back.

I apologized and apologized and then apologized again.

Dan was gracious and understanding. He's probably used to shiksa's breaking the rules of the tribe.

So for those keeping track, in addition to swearing at a nun, I have fed traife to a sweet boy who keeps kosher.

I am so getting coal in my stocking this Christmas.

I leave the house.

Many of you know that I am a homebody. Some might even call me a recluse. I wouldn't object. I love being home.

Sometimes, however, I find myself being persuaded to leave my hobbit hole and venture out into the world. Last night was that night.

Last night a sitter was hired, a strapless push-up bra was put on and David and I went out to see the Ultrasonic Rock Orchestra. They are an 18 piece rock and roll extravaganza. They play great songs from The Who, The Beatles, Queen, Led Zeppelin, and Fleetwood Mac.



I wish that they played Pink Floyd because I am still not over Pink Floyd. Michael Patterson got me hooked when I was 14, but that is another story.

The point of this story is that these guys brought down the house. They performed at the Stuart Street Playhouse which has been transformed, creating a mini-stadium feel. These guys are hardcore performers and their passion extends into every aspect of the show. The lights and fog create a rock and roll atmosphere, but it's the amount of talent on the stage that just had my jaw on the floor. There were at least eight different singers, each having their own musical specialty. Their version of Major Tom conveyed a sadness that I had never really grasped before and their version of Zeppelin's Black Dog had me rockin' out in the aisle.

I loved it, but David lost his mind. That man loves to dance, and readers, he danced like a wild man last night. By the time we left he was a sweating limping mess. Here he is before he got sweaty. So yummy.


After the show we hung out with this man.

His name is Alan Ware. He's the drummer and co-producer of the show. He's English and has one of those English accents that you just want to run away with. He's a bit of a rapscallion. He has a beautiful wife and three gorgeous boys who stayed up to watch. I bet those boys were cranky today. They were probably cranky until they heard Alan's accent and were calmed by its rascally sweetness.

There are only two more shows in Boston, June 20th and 27th. I liked that it started at 8pm and wrapped at 10:30. I'm too old to go see shows that don't start until 11pm. You should go see it- would make a great Father's Day gift for any classic rock loving dads out there. The quality will astound you and possibly make your ears ring if like me you decide that you are too cool for ear plugs. But that too, is another story.