The Plan: Donny-style.

It's SO painful to watch. I want so badly to jump in, proclaim the sovereign state that is my kitchen and throw the blender down the basement stairs where, alas, it will meet it's untimely death. Three times a day, for the past seven days, I stand at my island, bite my tongue, clench my jaw and just wait for it all to be over. Until lunchtime. And then dinnertime. Oh, but then there's The Cleansing Day.

Because his jeans don't quite fit, Don has embarked upon a health regimen consisting of two protein shakes a day and a sensible meal at night. And with it comes the use of an appliance he has no business even knowing about. He's decided that he needs to lose 10 pounds. His pants don't fit, for heaven's sake. This, coming from a man who has proudly donned his 1979, 32-inch waist, button-up Levi's more times than any one wife should witness. A man, who, two years ago decided he was traveling down a road to inflexibility and thus took up Yoga and can now hold a Downward Dog and practically do the splits. THIS from a man who exercises daily, watches what he eats and isn't the least bit indulgent in thought, word, or dessert. Dude, my pants don't fit either....I'm up a solid ten, myself. What's so wrong with being fat and happy?

But this shake business is just fundamentally and aesthetically amiss. It's for someone who can achieve culinary perfection in leftovers from the bowels of the fridge. Someone who can accidentally drink the wine relegated to cooking and barely even notice. It's for someone who thinks Bud Light is downright delectable.

Someone kinda like, Don.

The whole process is just so comical, so, not the way I would do it and therefore it's just wrong. First, honey, you must cover all of the powder and fruit with a liquid. You can't put in half a cup of water and expect the whole mess to congeal into a delicious smoothie. Once you get enough liquid in there, sweetheart, then you must pulse it a few times to get it going. Then you can leave it on "whip" and walk away for seven and a half minutes while you do God-knows-what.

Given the chance, I'm certain I could create a shake for him that would knock his deerskin slippers right into oblivion. Though it would defeat the purpose of The Plan.

Still, I love his game face. His brave and satisfied look of: This is just one darn delicious meal I'm having here. With conviction and one eye twitching.

So, what this means is that each morning and afternoon there's a strange man in my kitchen...stumbling about, trying to look comfortable, taking up space and always, always leaving a path of dribbled shake in his wake. There is constant blender-presence in my area...be it in the sink, filled with soap and water, on the dish drainer or, (and this is my favorite)...precariously perched in the fridge with just a smidge of shake left in it. For me, the blender is an appliance that comes out when the kids request that once-a-year milkshake. Or in the summer, when a Pina Colada will just hit the spot. It's not a daily appliance. It's one of those appliances that you think you might have all the parts to.

Of course, with everthing that Don does, there are also the Donny rules that apply. One can absolutely not finish up a rousing game of platform tennis without an adult beverage (Mmm, not on The Plan). Tonight, on this sacred day of Cleanse, the non-blended portion of our dinner consisted of grilled Hangar Steak, (yeah, also, not on The Plan), risotto (SO not on the plan) and a green salad (this is the sensible part of The Plan). Surely the instructional DVD holds one caveat: If the wife is offering up something more sumptuous than this nasty cleansing juice, then, by all means, F the regimen for today.

So when all is said and done and he goes back to his nightly cocktail and multiple handfuls of mixed nuts, I suspect these sacred 10 pounds will be back. I suspect the inevitable return to a midnight scoop of sherbet will bring us both back to very familiar territory. Fat and Happy!

Words to Live By: Boost the mileage, lose ten pounds. It's that simple.

As The Freaky World Turns

Two years ago, on the first day of school in a brand new town, my then 8-year old returned home jubilant in the fact that he'd made a new friend on the bus! This friend, for matters of privacy, I'll call Billy. Turns out Billy lives just down the street, which in our neck of the woods or as the crow flies means: across a meadow, over a creek, through a stand of oak trees, through a smaller meadow and into the back forty of Billys property! A perfect trek for two 8 year old adventurers. This friendship blossomed as did the friendship of the four adults involved. Billy's dad was a wealth of information in all things country living. He owns a tractor, a truck, is as equally skilled with a table saw as he is with a golf club. Billy's mom, so I thought, was a like minded, no-nonsense mom with lots of referrals for the good doctors, dentists and grocery stores. (I turned a blind eye to her appreciation of white zinfandel.)

However, last summer, the phone calls stopped and the playdates came to a screeching halt. I thought perhaps they may have gone back home to "Ohio" for the summer or at least for an extended stay. There were several more attempts at making contact. Then, back at school in the fall, I finally saw my friend from across the courtyard at a school function. As I approached her she abruptly turned in the other direction and avoided my contact. Hmm. Curious, but I thought nothing of it; perhaps she just didn't see me.

It wasn't until my entire family was out for a walk. We strolled past their house and they were outside. There was a sudden feeling of complete clarity when Billy's father simply looked at us and offered what I call, The Carolina Nod. Nothing more than a simple acknowlegement that I was in his presence. No 'howdy-do, how was your summer? ' No 'beautiful day, ain't it?' None of the normalcies that one might encounter when passing by a neighbor who is standing a mere 4 feet away.

After a couple of sleepless nights over the blatant disregard, I decided to make the phone call. I left a simple message stating that clearly there was some animosity and that I'd like the opportunity to either explain myself or apologize. Graham misses Billy's friendship, so, for the sake of our sons won't she please tell me what we've done wrong?? I offered the opportunity to call me back, email me, or if it's completely unfixable then continue to ignore me.
The explanation has, so far, never come. Almost a full school year later, I still haven't the slightest idea why we are suddenly not on speaking or even acknowledging terms.

Then, in a turn of events this week, Graham came home with an invitation to Billy's sleepover birthday party. It's a printed invitation, with Graham's name, in adult handwriting. Surely, not an oversight or an unintended inclusion. Graham is beside himself with glee and excitement over a sleepover at Billy's. He knows of four other boys that will be there as well. Which, in my evil mind, is quite a relief. My over active imagination has already written, filmed and produced the horror movie that goes along with this scenario. Point is, while being true to myself and my dignity, how do I drop my son for a full 24 hour stay, in someone's home who is blatantly not speaking to me, or allowing our children to play together? Does she, like me, lay awake at night wondering just exactly what she'll say to me? Will I simply check my feelings and hurt at the door? Will I even be asked to walk through that door? And mostly am I condoning such behavior by the mere fact of ignoring it and pretending like all is right with our world? Life was supposed to be so simple when we left the hustle and bustle of Long Island.


Words to Live By:

As parents we have an obligation to model healthy and mature behaviors to our children. (Notwithstanding the occasional outburst of anger due to shoes left, once again, right in the middle of the entryway rather than in the shoe basket!)

Care for some coffee? It's in the spice drawer.

There it is. An entire pot of freshly brewed coffee, flowing from some unknown leak within the appliance, pooling across the counter top and then disappearing into the spice drawer.

Before my eyes were even open Don was in the kitchen beginning the coffee making duties. I suppose I should be thankful that my husband tries to help, tries to make my mornings go a little smoother. Coffee is, after all, the very first thing I think of upon opening my eyes each morn. And the urge is even stronger since my new venture into freshly ground coffee beans. I grind the beans each night before bed so as not to cause too much of a commotion in the morning. This new ritual allows me to barely contain myself for the excitement of my brew that awaits in a mere eight hours.

Six a.m. There it sits. Mr. Coffee.

Waiting, screaming for someone to simply pour in the water and push GO.

The thought never even crossed my mind, that I should tell Don that I had cleaned the coffee pot and all it's parts the night before. Because, after all, how do you not notice? Just like adding dirty dishes to a dishwasher filled with clean dishes...how do you not notice? When you retrieve the carafe from the dish drainer, don't you also see the other parts to the coffee maker there, too? How do you not notice the nifty little basket that holds the paper filter? Don't you notice that this integral piece, with the imperative drip-stop lever is missing? The filter doesn't quite fit right, the carafe doesn't quite slide in so snugly. How do you NOT notice? Can't you see it sitting in the dish rack, all nice and clean?

Well, when he goes to pour his first cup of coffee, surely he'll notice.... he'll notice that all the spices have been pulled from their drawer and placed atop the counter. He'll notice that he can simply place his coffee cup on the floor and wait for the coffee to now drip from said spice drawer and into his groovy Longaberger travel mug.

This minor lapse of awareness has added a full hour of cleanup to my day. I ought to toss every drowning spice jar into the garbage, but instead I dutifully line them up on the counter, drying and taking inventory. Why do I have three jars of cumin?

Words to Live By, Don.....Step away from my kitchen!