There and Back Again (Spanish Edition)

Should I dye my hair a crazy color? Go on a fasting cleanse? Crawl into bed and pretend I am sick? Put on another layer of very dark liquid eyeliner? The world is my neurotic oyster.

A friend asked me if I am in my post-holiday crash, the one where you feel like throwing your life overboard and going on permanent vacation. Where will the funds come from for this vacation? Who knows, who cares?! I'm on vacation until the money runs out!

(It will run out real fast, Calamity Jane.)

I took my heart, and my nest egg, in my clicking hand and bought tickets to Spain last month. Just me and the children--also my sister and her two children, and perhaps my parents. It was scary (I hate spending money,) and also something I felt like we had to do.

It's been 11 years since my last trip to Spain to see my mother's family. I was pregnant with my oldest at the time and so, so sick. I spent the train ride back to Madrid from Galicia regularly vomiting as the diesel fumes wafted back to smack me in the face. With our family complete, and no more babies, it was time to return to the motherland, no matter what.

Isn't this worth it?

(The view from the kitchen window of the flat we stayed in.)

And also this?

I mean, as far as trips go, Spain will do.

The terrible jet lag there, the brutal jet lag when we returned, it was all worth it. Except maybe the part where I dragged my kids to Spain. 

I hope they remember it when they grow up and praise my name. A 10-year-old, a 7-year-old, and a 3-year-old aren't traveling companions to sneeze at; they are to be managed, cajoled, and forced to experience culture. My parents forced culture on us, it's high time my children also experienced the sore feet, dehydration, and exhaustion that comes from looking at a set of royal china in a royal palace in some European capital. Tradition!

My kids even got off easy. Since it was just me and my sister (and our combined five small children) with only occasional help from my parents, we skipped some of the major cathedrals and attractions. Next time, my pretties, we'll learn about Baroque, Rococo, Neo-Classical, Gothic, Velazquez, Picasso, Matisse, Monet, and El Greco until your feet fall off in the middle of the Prado. How we do.

Now we are back and my life is resting uneasily on my shoulders. Where is my tiny, manual transmission car? Why are the streets here to wide and accommodating? Where is my daily visit to the bakery for fresh bread and pastries? Where is the beach with crystal waters and the sunsets that go on for forever?

Instead I'm back in my real life, with 7:00 am wake-ups, homework every night, dinner and the dishes, demanding work commitments, with terrible Fanta, and absolutely, positively, no beach.

It's no wonder my Jet Set heart pines for more impossible vacations from my real life.

But really, should I dye my hair?

The California Life

When I was a kid all the cool kids went to California on vacation (or were from California.) But we were never the California vacation kind of family. When we left Utah, it was to fly to Europe, or the east coast, never north, never west.

So there was a preverse sort of childhood wish-making to take my children to San Clemente, and all points California. The piers, the ice cream, lazy pizza, the Pacific Coast Highway; it was days of 70 degrees, swimsuits, and flip flops.

One afternoon, my sisters and I left the kids and drove through the desert to Palm Springs.

Because houses like this are in Palm Springs:

  

 A giant Marilyn Monroe towered over the city square (California.)

We drove slowly through the pristine mid-century neighborhoods, obsessing over every perfect candy-color and white trim detail, tracing the angle of every butterfly roof.

I was ready to sell my house with its mansard roof and move directly to the foothills of San Jacinto for my own low slung ranch.

That yellow door--could you die? I wish you could see the giant brass chandelier in the entryway. These people need to be my friends. 

On the way out of town, and back to the children, I decided that while desert life wouldn't be so bad, it wasn't the life for me. The ocean pulls and calls us, but wouldn't living next to it be a sort of unsanctioned indulgence? California might be a beautiful place to vacation, but perhaps I am content with the high desert mountain valleys: the cool nights, dry air, and even mansard roofs.

At least I can always visit California.

Escape to California

I got this crazy idea to take the kids and go to California by myself.

And so I did.

(Remind me later how exhausting it was so I think twice about doing that ever again, OK?)


We stayed with my sister and her family. As you can see, Uncle Rich can jimmy rig a booster seat out of anything! Let's hear it for Canadian Scouts! (Is that a thing?)

I convinced my other sister to drive down with me, which was good, since she drove that 30 minutes somewhere between Cedar City and St. George. The kids were decent enough, I guess, although I do remember the last two times I drove down to Las Vegas as taking significantly less time and being profoundly quieter.

We ditched the Inland Empire for the beach as soon as possible. Oh, San Clemente, you're pretty good looking.

The whole point of all the rigamarole: get the kids to fall in love with the ocean so they, too, can spend half their lives pining for it.

Success, I'd say.

Let's run away to surf forever.

San Clemente is one of those tiny California beach towns that's still a little worn and sandy. Down the coast from gleaming Newport and Laguna, it trails the rest of Orange County with worn signs and narrow streets, more for beach bums than tourists. We stayed just off the beaches, south of the San Clemente Pier, and spent two days rolling in the sand and surf.

Anytime you wonder if the ten hour car trip was worth it, all you have to do is remember what it's like to dig to China. 

The Schmubbleyew

I'm in Atlanta for a few days at a small conference being hosted by Coca Cola, Live Positively. I've had the chance to connect with some old friends, new friends, and, presumably, make new enemies. More on the cool things I'm learning later.

We're staying at a hotel downtown that rhymes with schmubbleyew, and since Jen lives a mere 2 hours away, instead of 5 days away, she came to meet me for dinner. The hotel is so fancy, the shower is see through.

I am standing in the bedroom. You can see through the shower to the water closet. This is handy because I always hate not being able to see through the shower. The hotel is SO fancy that there are no doors on the shower. This would be perfect for a family vacation, is what I'm saying. If I could give the place one piece of feedback, I'd tell them that if you can see the TV through the shower, the remote should also be waterproof. That's a no brainer, hotel Science people.

I had to lighten the picture so you could sort of see Jen, because the room is dark gray, purple, and lavender. Good for hiding stains, I would guess. Or blood. Kid friendly!

Jen and I went to dinner at the Watershed. They served a bacon caramel popcorn ball, which we had to try.

It's been about 12 years since I've been to Atlanta. I always forget how beautiful the town is: rolling hills, giant trees, graceful homes, Waffle Houses...

City Face

Baby and I jetted off to New York last week for work. Well, I went to work, but Lulu went to play. She insisted on walking down to the Flatiron District. She also insisted that she should get hit by a cab on account of her being in New York, and became enraged when I refused. When she tried to dive off a subway platform I was similarly uncooperative. I'm the worst, really.

You and I might raise our eyebrows at $800 strollers, but pushing a perfectly adequate suburban stroller around the city for several days makes you realize that for some people, strollers are serious business. They have to negotiate rough walkways and yet collapse with a touch to get into a cab. They should support the weight of all our errands and groceries, but be easy enough to sling over your shoulder for a run down the stairs to catch the subway. Bless you city dwellers with the budgets for $1200 origami folding strollers with hydraulics, LED lighting, GPS, and matte racing stripes, for you need them.

Every time I go to New York I put on my City Face. 

Steps to City Face:

1. Wipe that smile off your face
2. Allow your mouth to settle into a natural scowl
3. Look straight ahead
4. DO NOT look people in the eye
5. LET ALONE greet people with a nod or, heaven forbid, a "Good morning!"
6. Assume you have a right to be everywhere
7. Walk faster
8. Walk around
9. Walk through

There! Now you're ready for New York! Just don't try to dive off a Subway platform, it's just not done (not even if you're Lulu.)

Traveling with Eric Dowdle

I got a phone call a little while ago from the producer of Traveling with Eric Dowdle: Would I like to come down to the studio and be on the program? Oh, and by the way, I'd be appearing on a travel trivia segment.

I think the right answer is YES! I didn't know that the topic would be on....Florida.

Oh, Florida! The state I married into!

When I told Joe that they were inviting me to talk about Key West, he gave me a funny look. "You're the expert on Key West in this house?" He asked, one eye squinting in unbelief.
"I'm the expert on everything," I answered, daring him to prove how his actual trips to the Keys were more relevant than my cursory study of the area and a mostly vague knowledge of some sort of Hemingway tie-in.

Besides, I had Eric's handy folk art painting of Key West to help me out, right? 

I had so much fun taping the show. Eric is a total character, he and his producers put on a great show about traveling to great locales. Dowdle travels all the world and creates a painting of his destination with landmarks and points of interest. I've seen his art all over, and it was great fun putting a face to a name. I hope they are kind enough to have me back someday. 

 E.G. came with me and was quiet as a mouse sitting in the studio while the rest of the guests and I competed on the trivia challenge. He had a capital time and keeps asking when we're going to do a radio show again!

You can listen to the Key West show here, or tune into Eric's show as it airs on Sirius XM radio 143 BYU Radio.

The People Magazine

Cheers from the Sunshine State!

Last week I braved the fear of the titans and flew across the country with all three kids by myself.

It was mostly OK, until I lost my temper somewhere over Kentucky when E.G. refused to listen to my instructions to stay buckled-in on take-off; I batted at him with my three-week-old People magazine with Steve Jobs on the cover.

Steve Jobs! Still abusive after death!

Speaking of People, it's not normally a magazine I buy. I didn't even buy this instrument of child torture, Allison did and then gave it to me (obviously her fault.) I did, however, buy one copy of the Toddlers and Tiaras Double Issue Special People for the flight I took to Hawaii two months ago. I needed a magazine to read while holding the baby on my lap, something to occupy my brain and yet light enough to easily handle. I opened the People to a really large section on fashion. OK. Sure. Lots of pictures of women in party dresses. Too many pictures of women in party dresses. An annoying number of women in party dresses. Articles that were sneeze-length. By that time I was on to the cover story, which took up about 2 paragraphs, I nearly threw the magazine down the aisle. I plowed through that People in about 15 minutes, reading it cover-to-cover, and then had the rest of the 5 hour flight to get angry about not having anything else accessible to read. I don't know why I thought I could get a People and be set. People is a dentist office magazine (US Weekly is for pedicures, US News and World Report is for doctors offices.*)

I don't know what I was expecting, that every magazine is like the New Yorker? Where articles are 17 you better believe it pages, interrupted only by pithy cartoons and intellectual poetry? It's my own fault. I can't expect People to be what I want it to be, I'm not their target market. Wait, yes, I am. I still reject their publication. I need tiny, tiny type that's been stuffed and kerned into a dozen columns on a quarter page. There are never enough words to jam into my needy brain.

Breakthrough! Perhaps I wasn't just angry at E.G. for disobeying as I was at myself for oh I'm bored with this post now that the 1/2 cup of Coke I drank earlier has worn off.

Goodbye and goodnight from the Sunshine State.



*Magazines By Location of Optimal Perusal:

Dentist Magazines:
People
Money
Newsweek

Pedicures:
US Weekly
Lucky
InStyle
InTouch/Hello

Doctor's Offices:
US News and World Report
The Economist
Time


Planes and Traveling:
New Yorker
Vanity Fair
Entertainment Weekly

Do you have a magazine location list?

Miss Lulu Says Vacations Should be Monthly

Miss Lulu and I were out of town (again) last week. J was lamenting that within her 5 month lifespan, Lulu will have been on four vacations and he will have been on none. I'm just preparing her for the life to which she should become accustomed.

Life with a Butler

I toted Lulu to a corporate retreat with some dear friends who happen to be co-workers. We spent three days at the St. Regis hotel in Deer Valley getting work done. Never stayed at a 5 star hotel? I recommend it. You should do that immediately. Stop reading this and go check yourself in. The suite we bunked in came with a butler.

A BUTLER.

Here's a surreptitious picture I snapped of him as he settled us into lunch:

He was Bavarian. I got a chance to use my sehr rusty German.  (Because he's MY butler!)

You can't even drive up to the lobby of the hotel, you have to drive to a lower level portico, valet your car, and then take the funicular up. Don't know how to pronounce "funicular"? Doesn't matter; it's fun no matter how you pronounce it. I would like a funicular installed to take me from my garage to the mailbox and back. I would also like one of those giant bathroom mirrors that are actually a TV. I discovered a remote hidden in our Egyptian cotton face cloths, behind the lavender scrub, and when the power was pressed, viola, TV in your marble bathroom. You get used to a certain way of living and it's hard to regress into the real world. The world without TVs in bathroom mirrors, porters, masseuses, and butlers.

Life Without a Butler

It was exceedingly sweet to see Lulu light up when she laid eyes on her long lost brothers. She giggled and chortled at all their entertaining antics. They compete to see who can make her laugh the hardest, performing jumping and karate-type moves to her extreme, hand-flapping delight. For all his serviceable glory, the butler never did that.

"What's that? My little finger? And who's wrapped around it again? That's what I thought, ALL OF YOU."

Brief Interviews with Important People

I got to interview Bob Iger, who I guess is kind of a big deal, being that he runs Disney. (All of it.) Tom Staggs was also present, and I accosted him with questions as well. Those boys can think on their feet, I tell you what! (They were sitting down at the time.)

Gratuitous sleepy Miss Lulu in Hawaii shot!

Pre-packed Clothes For When Mom Travels

One of my anxieties when I travel is what my children will look like when I'm gone. I have visions of barefoot, raggedy children whose hair hasn't been combed in a week and sport a perpetual orange Dortitos crust around their mouths.

During the summer it's no big deal, but I shudder to think about my children going to school looking, at best, like no one loves them and at worst, like Dickensian street urchins. J is a smart enough fellow, but he can barely dress himself in clothes that go, let alone the children. In any case, I'm pretty sure that pants are always optional when I'm gone.

So this time I devised a plan:

Step One: Write the name of the day on a paper bag for each day that I'd be gone. Wednesday was picture day at school so I was particularly concerned with what my kids would be sporting.

Step Two: Fill the bag with the complete outfits for each child, including socks and undies.

Step Three: Fold over the bag and set in a convenient location. Grab and go fashion!

This worked out well since J only had to grab the bag as he was about to drive the kids over to grandpa's house where they'd dress and spend the day while he worked. Nobody likes to have to think about outfits and find socks at 6:45am (well, no one in their right mind.)

Guess we'll see how this idea really worked out when we get the school pics back.

My Trip to Aulani

The Thursday before last Rachael called me up and said, "Dude." (She starts every sentence with "Dude".)

"Dude, do you want to go to Hawaii on Tuesday?"

Do I want to go to Hawaii?

DO I WANT TO GO TO HAWAII?

The answer is yes, I am always wanting to go to Hawaii. I was, however, nervous about how exactly I could make the trip. I asked J and he said "If someone asks you to go to Hawaii you have to go, those are the rules." So thanks to him and my sister Jeffiner for putting up with the boys while I jetted off with Miss Lulu to Honolulu.

You can read more about what I liked and didn't like about Disney's Aulani Resort and Spa over at Today's Mama. Here's a clue: it was Hawaii. Aloha.

Miss Lulu Says See You on Waikiki

"I feel like I haven't had a truly relaxing day in my entire life."

"I'm absolutely, positively, ready for vacation. We fly into Honolulu--well done on that name, Sandwich Isles!"

"Could I get a hand with my portmanteau? Bell boy? Anyone?"

"Oh, bother!"

A Tale of Manhattan and Friday The 13th

I’ve never subscribed to the notion of superstition, especially not numerical superstitions, but this last Friday the 13th was remarkable in its reinforcement. More than a week before, I'd taken a pregnancy test at the top of Rockefeller Center in New York and considered the result.

I looked at the two solid blue lines. I’d forgotten to bring the box or instructional diagram with me, tucking the test into my luggage on my way out the door just in case. Standing under the art deco facade, I made an executive ruling: I must have the kind of test that shows a cross-and-line when positive instead of the two-line positive. Two lines; it's surely negative. The Hackworths and I shared an “Ah, well” moment and moved closer to the glass that separated us from the rest of New York.

The Chrysler building gleamed in the morning sun and the city fell away from our feet. The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge punctuated the haze like a final signal before the Atlantic swallowed the rest of the sky. I turned from the hole in the sky in Lower Manhattan and slid the test into the garbage.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I was wrong.

I read Gina’s blog and saw a picture of her positive test. I sat for a moment. “Wait,” I thought, “That’s what my test looked like.” I drove to Target and walked quickly to the rows of pregnancy test in sterile white boxes. Two solid blue lines means you’re knocked up, honey.

And how did I not know?
1. I was exhausted, kept falling asleep, even during conversations (remember the Colbert Report?)
2. I was grumpy
3. I wanted lots of drinks with ice
4. Stuff hurt
5. Everything made me cry
6. That Halal cart was really, really good
7. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat anything.

Adding insult to stupidity, not two weeks previously I’d derided a TV commercial for asserting that 1 in 5 women can misread a pregnancy test. Who could those sad, illiterate people be? I laughed at the pathetic women who can’t read a diagram, what, did they tank their SATs/ACTs?

8. I MISREAD A PREGNANCY TEST

I am that sad and illiterate people.

Immediately I fell into the tumble of early pregnancy. I couldn’t stay awake, couldn’t hold my temper, couldn't hold a thought, and my clothes felt tighter. We were thrilled. Everything was right in the world. Well, everything except that Jeanne’s no longer in it.

I put on my best new black and flowered dress on the morning of Friday the 13th to go to Jeanne’s funeral. She lived her life, I’ll tell you. Modeling, singing all over the world, from the gondolas of the Venetian to command performances, playing her violin, making naughty jokes. She was a light. You would have loved her. She was 33.

Stupid cancer.

I walked into the chapel as a string ensemble played Barbar’s Adagio for Strings--which could make grown men sob. (Reminder: when I die, and I surely will, one Ravel’s Pavanne for a Dead Princess, OK? Deal?) Before the service started I went to powder my nose and realized that I was bleeding, and bleeding a lot.

Ah.

Miscarriage.

I couldn’t think of what else to do, so I went back to sit down for Jeanne’s funeral. The giggles were simmering under the surface. Honestly, how much more drama could be packed into a single morning? It was Friday the 13th. I was at a funeral. I was miscarrying a baby. I almost felt like Jeanne would be giggling with me, impressed with The Meaning of It All. And then I cried.

Taking the grief out of death is like taking love out of the world, said one eulogizer.

Ah.

I like that.

If you leave a comment telling me you’re sorry I’ll delete it. You’re only allowed to leave a comment with something funny, inappropriate, or interesting to say.

The Halal Cart on 53rd Street

There's always a line at the Halal cart outside the Hilton at BlogHer10.

No, I mean it, always a line. 9:00pm? Halfway down the block. 9:00am? Halfway down the block.

3:30am? Same.

Jenny went one night and when she got back to the hotel room I questioned her.

“What is that?”

“I saw a line and decided to wait in it.”

“What was it?”

“I have no idea. I still don’t know. I got up to the front and I think the man said ‘Combo?’ and I said ‘Sure.’”

“Is it good?”

“Uh, yeah, really good.”

I watched her eat the rice, meat (chicken?) and tzatziki (?) with obvious pleasure. I snacked on my knish (a pocket sliced into the side and filled with mustard, onions, and sauerkraut.) I decided I needed more of Jenny’s adventure.

The next day, finding myself at 11:30 pm without a meal in my belly and bereft of companionship, I walked down to the corner. The night was humid, still more than 90 degrees, and the smells of the August city wafted through the streets: human, fetid, sweet, metallic. And on this corner of midtown Manhattan, a spontaneous party was underway.

Cars parked around the block; one blasting pop music from Ethiopia, the other from Pakistan. A busker played his guitar on the steps near the fountain and a few people were dancing. Lights in the square reflected off the buildings and a steady hum of conversation in Czech, Swahili, Turkish, and English buzzed my ears. On line the people passed along what they knew about the cart:

“I’m not sure, but it’s famous.”

“I just saw the line.”

“Best gyro in the city.”

Once a breeze lifted my skirt a little and I thought about the subway train on its way to Brooklyn rumbling beneath the sidewalk. I slid forward in my wedges to listen to the couple on a first date in front of me. Her hair held elaborate braids with softly clicking beads; arms folded against the man making quiet advances on her right. She better guard her flanks, I thought, because that’s a breach in progress if I ever saw one.

The line moved and one of the men working the grill like a fiend crooked his finger at me and nodded. I asked for the lamb. “COMBO?” He said with a flat stare rapidly moving to disgust. I surrendered immediately and moved to the right. The tallest man with a long beard directed the cooks to double time their slinging, and then took my damp greenbacks. I accepted the round tin in return and stepped backward into the square.

The line was the same length as when I’d arrived: halfway down the block, as I knew it would be all night.

New York, I love you, can I stay?

Bears in Midtown!

I was waiting for the elevator to arrive on the 24th floor of the Hilton and talking to a tiny woman who lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Utah,” I answered with a gigantic Utah smile.
“Where is Utah?” She looked at me, expectantly.
“Oh you New Yorkers!” I laughed, “You think there’s nothing between New York and L.A.” She just looked at me.
“It’s between Colorado and Nevada,” I answered.
“Oh,” she said.

I don’t think that helped.

“Utah!” I responded to two cute girls, both from New York. It took them a couple minutes to ponder this statement.
“I couldn’t live anywhere,” said Eliana, “Where wild animals could just wander into my house.”
Wild animals...wild animals. I’d never thought of that as a legitimate complaint. I live in a city of half a million people, yet if I drive for 30 minutes, I could encounter a bear. Someone is regularly attacked or killed by a bear, or attacked by a mountain lion about once a year. Rattlesnakes? I don’t think that even makes the news. Probably happens a couple times a week, but only to people who a.) go into the wilderness b.) aren’t listening. I live five minutes from Costco and Nordstrom, but deer eat my plants.

I drew a mini-map for Eliana and Joanne that explained how I lived in a valley between two mountain spurs. “There’s just mountains all the way East until Denver,” I said, drawing little spiked peaks onto the back of a schedule. Eliana regarded me with kind disbelief, secure in the knowledge no elk would stride into her Brooklyn pied-à-terre and start knocking over the baking sheets and making a mess of the vanilla.

In full disclosure, I’ve never seen a bear, and it would take an hour of driving before I would be high enough to encounter an elk, but I think Westerners just live with the awareness that we could. I’ve been bitten by snakes; it’s really not a big deal. Mostly you get pissed off and try to shake the snake off your hand, while your friend gets upset because you could have broken its spine. It’s a SNAKE. It BIT me. When your brother comes home from playing in the sandy foothills with yet another tarantula in a jar, it’s kind of cool. Avoiding a bear attack isn’t hard: don’t sleep next to the food. Believe it or not, a bear isn’t checking the labels when it sticks its nose into your tent; you just smell like warmer, noisier food than the Pop Tarts. The idea that I live close the land is laughable, I really don’t. But I guess compared to Flatbush, I’m in the middle of the veldt.

On the plus side, bears really cut down on the homeless.

Cheesy New York Title Here!

I’m flying to New York tonight on the red eye to attend Blogher, work the Social Luxe Lounge, and I could not be more excited. Fact: Jenny has a flight at the same time that I do, only we’re on different airlines. This is our own personal Amazing Race where we'll race across the continental U.S. for absolutely no prizes! And also no Charla or Mirna (is that a plus or minus?) Bets on who will win? You had better bet on me or we’re not friends anymore. Hear that, Jenny? I’m creating a rift between our friends. FACE.

This is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, or so I’ve been told by MTV. I have also been promised that there’s nothing I can’t do now that I’m in New York (Jiu-Jitsu?) that these streets will make me feel brand new, that the big lights will inspire me. And if all of that doesn’t happen, I’m asking for a refund (only I don’t want to be ridden like a bus route.)

I have questions for you: how much do you want me to talk about the amazing, fun, crazy things I’m doing, or all the muggings I survive? Score your enthusiasm vs. your apathy; pick your own scale.

Second question: What should I not miss? And if your answer includes the word “Brooklyn” or “Staten Island” I’m not going to take your recommendation because I’m not moving to New York, I’m just visiting. If your answer includes the phrase “Statue of Liberty hat,” I’m listening...

On another scale of your choice, how awesome is the phrase “party in my pants”? Because I was thinking about using it in casual conversation on the subway (best to be on the offensive, right?)

Things I Will be Doing in New York:

1. Blogher

2. Social Luxe Lounge

3. Sparklecorn

4. MoMA/Guggenheim

5. Empire State Building*

6. Eating street food that is not hot dogs

7. Eating a lot of food, period

8. Canal Street (for, uhm, stuff)

9. A rock music show

10. Walking

11. Upright Citizen’s Brigade?

12. A suggestion of your choosing

Things I Will NOT be Doing in New York:

1. Sleeping

2. Visiting the outer boroughs (exception for River Cafe?)

3. Going to Sbarro’s/eating in Times Square at ALL

4. Voting

5. Taking pictures with the naked cowboy (please)

6. Wearing shorts and sneakers

7. Be involved in a bear attack

8. Stand outside The Today Show

9. Going to the Robyn/Kelis show, Arcade Fire, Interpol, or The National because they are all the same night as Social Luxe

10. Going to the Magnolia Bakery

11. Attending The Daily Show/Colbert Report (no tickets)

12. A suggestion of your choosing

*Word on the street is that the Empire State Building is for suckers, that Top of the Rock is better, or Ellis Island, or The Statue of Liberty. Confirm or deny!

EVO Conference Day Two: Wherein I Confess To The Fuzz

There was no revenge. I didn’t have it in me. I’m all talk.

When Jyl first described the keynote topic for Friday morning as social med

ia for causes I was indifferent. How foolish was I? Extremely. The Utah Make-a-Wish foundation addressed us, covering how social media and the Internet has changed the way the entire Make-a-Wish organization functions. In case you were unaware, Make-a-Wish helps sick children fulfill a personal Wish. You might think Wishes are all trips to Disneyland, and you’d be wrong. One kid wanted a corral in his backyard. One girl worked with a veterinarian for a day. Another boy got to “save” Seattle as a superhero--with hundreds of volunteers and a call from Spider-man. Wishes that used to take months to fulfill can now, with the help of social media and the Internet in general, be accomplished in days (Prince doesn’t know what the crap he’s talking about.)

The description of Wish-granting and how it changed the lives of these children left me in ruins. I wasn’t alone; there was not a dry eye in the house. People were sobbing in their seats. I got up and left the ballroom, found a bowl of napkins left from breakfast, and returned with a stack to hand out; it was brutal and incredible at the same time. The last half of the keynote was the Williams family, who brought their little girl Eliza, and talked about the difference the Make-a-Wish foundation made in their lives when her Wish of a Birthday Party was granted. Unreal. You couldn’t have kept it together either. Afterward, we went into a working session with the Utah Make-a-Wish where we came up with ideas of how they could improve their online presence and increase donations. That was really great, actually, hive mind wins.

That afternoon I attended the food blogging class. Allison has been begging me to start a food blog and I’ve been countering that I really do not have the time. The workshop did not help my cause because I had a ridiculously fun time. My roommate Helen did a marvelous job with her presentation. I spent an hour in the kitchen with Chef Clement learning how to cure and smoke a salmon.

Under his instruction we made grilled flatbread with creme fraiche, cured salmon, garnished with eggs, scallion, and caviar. Insanely delicious. I made Stephmodo take a bite and it accidentally spilled on her. I felt bad about that. Or did I like it? You decide (sorry Stephanie.)

picture taken by Jane but of my hand and creation

Later that night a few of us went for a cruise in the MKT that Lincoln lent Jane for the trip. I called shotgun because a new fancy car like that would certainly have an iPod jack, leaving me in control of the music. And did I ever control! I spun that wheel! Hip-hop, gangsta rap, Def Leppard, Justin Bieber, there was no limit to the selection! (Bieber was Kami’s selection.) At the end of Park City, we noticed a cop tailing us. After about a mile his lights went on and pulled us over. There was a rapid scramble to turn off the Tupac.

“Out having fun ladies?” he asked, flashing his light into the cabin. “I noticed you were hugging the white line.”

“Yes,” said a chorus of voices.

“Well, I don’t smell anything,” he said.

“We’re Mormons!” someone said.

“We don’t get out much!” said Allison,

“And this is water!” I contributed, raising the plastic cup with its pathetic condensation.

Immediately Marie asked if she could take his picture for Twitter. The officer shut down, completely refusing, and asked for Jane’s license and registration. We nervously waited for his return.

“Did you know that you have a warrant out for your arrest?” He asked. “Have you done anything you want to tell me about?”

“I got a speeding ticket two days ago,” Jane responded, her eyes widening in panic, “I thought I had more time to pay it!”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, and waved us off with a wink and a smile.

Untipsy Tuesday: The Real Shirley Temple Mocktail

I know I told you that we made a Shirley Temple the other week, but guess what, we didn't.

The original original Shirley Temple wasn't made the way it is today. The original is made of ginger ale, orange juice, grenadine, ice, garnished with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice. And that, that is what I made tonight.

And it was really, really good.

2 glasses
Ice
1 whole orange
Ginger ale
Grenadine


Each glass gets the juice of half an orange. Squeeze over the ice, add the ginger ale. The drink will be so pretty you won't want to add the grenadine; it's your house, I won't be angry if you stop. If you can persevere, the grenadine makes this mocktail downright gorgeous. Garnish, drink, repeat, take bad cell phone pictures to post on this blog because the rugrats have ferreted away the camera.

Your Untipsy Tuesday Mocktail: The Simlet

There are two kinds of gimlets, apparently, one made with Mother Russia's anesthetic of choice and the other with gin. Since you're an angelic mocktailer, you'll possess neither of those two firewaters in your bar. One thing that you will need, however, is some Rose's Sweetened Lime Juice. If you're going to be throwing mocktail parties, this chartreuse syrup should be an on-hand staple.

A few other things that you might need:

A cocktail shaker

A few different glass shapes

Ice

In the picture below is a martini glass (the one with a wide mouth) and a tumbler. A gimlet is usually served in a martini glass with a lime garnish. Also pictured are the three parts of a cocktail shaker. Don't fret, you can find two hundred cocktail shakers on clearance for probably five bucks at your local TJ Maxx. The point of a cocktail shaker is to combine a whole bunch of liquids, ingredients, and often ice, shaking them to combine and then straining with the built-in strainer.

For our simlet you'll need ice, sweetened lime juice, mineral water, and a sprig of fresh rosemary. You don't want a fizzy drink in this case, so no club soda. Put ice into the shaker, add about a cup of water, two-ish tablespoons of sweetened lime juice, and about an inch's worth of rosemary. Why rosemary? Because it gives just a hint of woodsy herb to the drink, kind of a similar feeling as gin (made from juniper berries) might impart. You can leave it out; your house, your rules. Put both tops back on your shaker. SHAKE.

Now pour.

See? The liquid is cold from being shaken around with the ice, yet the strainer leaves behind the extra ice, along with the rosemary or whatever else you decided to hide inside.

Garnish with a lime.

Make another one and share with your friend.


Bottoms up!

Hi It's My Birthday Hi (It's Becoming an Institution Around Here)

Dear Loves,

It's my birthday! The last day of April, the beginning of Spring, a final blizzard hug of Winter! No really, I was driven home very early this morning in a blizzard. Can you imagine? Snow flurries for the last two whole days of April. But let's reverse, and set the scene at early yesterday evening.

I was tucked into the front seat rocketing up the canyon while Susie confided in me her absolute distaste for this late-winter linger. "I should be in shorts," she insisted.
"You can wear shorts if you want to," I said, pointing out the obvious.
"I mean comfortably. Comfortably wear shorts," she clarified, her midwestern brow slightly drawn in consternation. We were on our way through the foggy canyons for a no holds barred night out. Tiffany arranged a Rock Star Birthday Party (another institution around here) and insisted on dinner in Park City with karaoke to immediately follow.

Oh, shoot, karaoke? Don't mind if I do.

My friends know how to party. We party so hard people think we're drunk. Nope, stone cold sober. Never had one lesson. Or one drink. Anne and Katrice, Laura and Susie, Tiffany and me. We ate like carnivores and washed it down with carbs. Too many sodas (I'm a social drinker) and the abandonment of restraint makes for a smashing evening.

We claimed the leather sectional in the basement bar and commandeered the song books: Journey, Heart, Justin Timberlake, The Killers, Rihanna, I may have sung them all. Plus Laura and I rocked them like a hurricane. And there was the Fall Out Boy incident of 10:34pm. We might need to discuss when Laura Got Back. And when Susie Shot Through Your Heart. Myleka and Anne were Dancing Queens. And Tiffany sang Tiffany.

And I? I was properly feted by all the crew. Our bartender gave us all plastic leis so that he could make that most overdone of puns. I'm pretty sure Tiffany showed us that you can take the girl out of Texas when she crooned some honky-tonky down-home country, and maybe even a boot-scootin' boogie. What can be said of our two new friends who were consuming alcoholic units yet they couldn't be tempted to hit the stage? I say it proves caffeine's mind-altering superiority over whiskey, at least in this focus group.

Laura, who must be invited to every karaoke party ever, even yours, even if you don't know her, owned the night. You can't stop her, she's a force of nature. I took requests and another sip of soda. Time to make my own request. "Oh please," I begged Susie, "Next year, you must put on a proper Derby party."
She, raised across the river from Churchhill Downs, nodded thoughtfully. I hoped it was a yes. The Derby is tomorrow, darlings, tune in to see those ponies fly. Next year? Juleps and hats. (Maybe even Dover.)

(But definitely more parties.)

For my birthday I want to hear the song you'd sing if you went to karaoke, don't be shy, and don't lie and tell me you wouldn't sing. Pretend you've already had your whiskey, your Diet Coke, your courage-enabling sugar high, and drop that track in a comment.

In case you missed it, cjane commissioned a post from me. Only three people took it seriously! (some sort of record in cjaneland, I'm sure.) And I'm serious about this tom-foolery, I assure you! Serious like a hangnail!