There are Night Owls and there are Morning People.  Morning People are infinitely more annoying than Night Owls, so I’m glad I’m not one of them.

Needless to say, the hubby IS  a Morning Person.  He springs out of bed as soon as his alarm goes off, and he is off to the races.  Just ready to get things done.  Motivated.  Inspired by the new day.  As I said, annoying.  HOWEVER,  20 years into the marriage, I have to say there ARE perks to being married to a Morning Person.  He always makes the coffee in the morning.  Plus he takes Princess out for her first walk/potty of the day.  As a Night Owl, I DO appreciate being able to ease into my morning, and slowly decide what’s worth doing now and what can be put off.

BUT.  There are times when I find myself actually waking up at the first ring of the alarm clock — forgoing my usual routine of 4 snooze alarm reminders — and looking toward my bedroom window, and thinking “Wow, am I ready to face the day RIGHT NOW or WHAT?”  (Please note that this NEVER occurs when the sun isn’t shining OR in the wintertime.)

Out of the bed I’ll spring, causing consternation on the part of Princess the Wonder Lab and the cats, all of whom are finely tuned to my usual sluggish morning routine.  This usually also brings a smirk to Sebastian’s face, as he watches me cast around trying to put all of the things I want to do RIGHT NOW in order.

This just so happened to me today.  As soon as my alarm went off, I turned toward my bedroom window and could tell how absolutely bright and sunny it already was.  A nice breeze was wafting (yes, wafting) through the open window.  I popped out of bed, put on my massage socks (yes, massage socks), and headed over to the window to open the shades.  Right outside my window are my herb pots, and this morning the herbs just seemed to look right at me and say “Don’t we look yummy?”

Those herbs were looking so good, I decided to write about them here.

And I was inspired to add a new recipe here. Delicious.  I hope you try it.

Needless to say, I also decided to spend a good portion of the day out in the sun, working on my Vitamin D intake. I may be a starving artist, but at least I’ll be tanned and fit, right?

Right on.

Check this out.

I knew it all along. Suppress your anger and you’ll die from inverted rage. My instincts always told me to let it all hang out when I had something to say.  After I read this, you bet I couldn’t wait to get home and tell the hubby.

“Yeah, no chance you’re gonna die from suppressing anything,” was his response.

Our trip last weekend to Frisco, Texas, put me in mind of that article.  In fact, after last weekend, I’m pretty sure both my husband and I, and our marriage, are going to live to a ripe old age.

What happened last weekend, you ask?

The hubby and I spent LARGE amounts of time in our car.  Alone.  Together.  In Frisco, Texas, a city we never drive in.  Trying to find multiple locations.  Plus the drives to Frisco and home from Frisco.

All this time in the car together began at 7AM on Friday and ended at 11:30PM on Sunday.

Our younger son’s basketball team was competing in the Next Level Ballers Basketball Tournament in Frisco.  The team had chartered a nice, new bus, and all the boys were riding the bus.  Parents were invited, too, but I sure wanted my own vehicle once we got to Texas.  Anyway, team bonding for Anthony and all.  He didn’t want his parents cramping his style.

Other than the fact that I was a complete insomniac the night before we left, the trip started off just fine.  We got up early, drove to Kansas City and dropped Anthony off with the bus.  Hit the nearest Starbucks for my dry grande cappucino WITH an extra shot of espresso plus a boring black coffee for Sebastian.

And we were on our way.

Due to the fact that Sebastian drove the whole way to Frisco, and then did pretty much all the driving once we got there, I suppose this post really should be about how grateful I am that he put up with all my griping.  But what would be the fun in that?  Why make him seem like some long-suffering hubby trapped in a car with a harpy for a wife?  Why make my own self out to be some unreasonable type-A control freak?  Oops.  Did I just say that?

To be truthful, the drive down to Frisco was relatively calm.  The only advice I had to give the hubby was to quit cruising in the left-hand lane.  Since he’s left-handed, he seems to think that the highway protocol for left-lane driving doesn’t apply to him.  He has no problem drifting into the left lane on the pretense that he’s going to pass someone and then just hanging out there while speedsters pile up impatiently behind us.

“Why don’t you get out of the passing lane?  Just speed up and pass.  There are cars behind us.”  I’d have to repeatedly remind him.

“I am passing.”

“No you’re not.  You’re coasting.”

“Carolyn.  I’m passing.”

“Whatever.  You know you can get a ticket for driving in the left lane?”

“Not in Oklahoma or Texas.”

“You don’t know that.  You’re just making that up.”

Really though, it was a beautiful Friday and the drive was easy.  Just one slow-down.  Actually, a standstill due to a wreck.  But okay.  We just opened the windows and listened to CDs while inching along.  We made it Frisco, went to dinner with the teams, coaches and parents.  There was early curfew for the boys, so we all tucked in pretty early.

I know what you’re thinking.  “What’s the big deal, Carolyn?  Where’s the drama?”

Well.  If you insist.  Things started to get dicey between the hubby and me  in the car on Saturday.  That’s when we had to start finding stuff.  Like a Starbucks — my lifeline — and multiple gym locations.

We had the Garmin with us — affectionately named “Garmina.”  How hard should it be?

Well, in Frisco, Texas, actually, it was pretty darned difficult.  Streets were not named what Garmina thought they should be named, and they weren’t quite where she thought they’re supposed to be.  So Garmina would lead us to the correct general location of a gym or a Starbucks, but then we were left to our own devices to figure out the specifics of getting to the actual locations.

We found ourselves second-guessing Garmina.  I found myself second-guessing my better half.

“Well, are you programming the address in right?”  I hinted.

“Carolyn.  I use a Garmin every day for work. I know how to program an address.”

“Just asking.”

We DID find the nearest Starbucks.   And we DID get to all the gyms, where we really enjoyed some great wins by our boys in their pool games.  But this was not accomplished without Sturm Und Drang. That’s German for what I could otherwise call a marital death match.

I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say that my husband was probably strongly considering driving off into the sunset without me the first time I dipped into a ladies room.

In looking back, I have to say that the funny part of our ongoing drama was the fact that we were able to call so many truces during the day.  We had a great time watching the games, visiting with the coaches and parents between games, even joking about arguing about driving.  We had a great lunch with Sebastian’s sister, who lives nearby.  But as soon as we got into the car, alone and together, the battle was on.

The pinnacle of our discord came after the last game of the day on Saturday, which was scheduled for 9:45PM.  Of course, the game didn’t actually start that early.  And it was 11:30PM by the time the game actually ended.

We had actually gotten to the gym for this game just fine — having earlier driven in several circles to find it for the first game of the day.  We enjoyed a hard fought game, which our team ultimately lost, but just barely.  All that was left to do was return to the hotel.

Not so easy.

At that point, Sebastian decided that he was tired of driving and tossed me the keys.

“So you want me to drive for the first time here at night?”

“Come on, Carolyn.  I’ve been driving all day.  I remember how to get back to the hotel.  I’ll help with the signs.  Plus we’ve got the Garmin.”

Famous last words, right?

It didn’t take three minutes before I missed an exit.

“Recalculating,” said Garmina.  That was the last word I wanted to hear at 11:30 at night.  It was a word I had heard WAY to often during the day.

“Wow.  I thought you were gonna tell me where to turn?” I snapped at Sebastian.

“The Garmin just told you which exit to take.”

“Well, she said Exit 448A and all I saw was Exit 448.  When I passed it she started recalculating.  You said you knew the turn.”

As we argued, of course, we were getting further off track and Garmina was furiously recalculating.

Suffice to say, this little spat ended with me pulling over and Sebastian taking over.  I stewed all the way back to the hotel, fearing that we were mysteriously being led further and further away from the hotel and my baby boy.  It was late.  I was tired.  I was sure that Sebastian and Garmina were plotting against me.

Sebastian was sure that I was being a HUGE baby, and was completely and totally exasperated with me.  He even said so.  Usually he just tunes me out and trains his focus on his inner peace when I’m venting.  But I guess every man has his breaking point, right.

Anyway, somehow or other, Sebastian and Garmina got us back to the hotel at about the same time as the bus. I was much relieved, and I think I managed a humble apology before dragging up to the room.

And I have to say that once we were all back in the room with Anthony, talking about the day’s games, everything seemed normal again.  I guess you can get that instant positive bounce-back when you’ve been married for going-on 20 years, right?

We woke up Sunday to another beautiful day in Frisco, Texas.  Despite our navigational turmoil in Frisco, I have to say that it is one pretty city.  In fact, it’s one of the cleanest cities I’ve ever been in, and the bright Texas sun just lit it up on Sunday morning.

I had somewhat braced myself for more driving drama.  But, as the day progressed, it appeared that the hubby and I come to a driving detente, instead.

In fact, we only had one gym to find on Sunday.  We already knew where the Starbucks was.  The charter bus driver gave us perfect directions to the gym.  We turned Garmina off, and found it all by ourselves!

That’s when I knew everything was gonna be fine.

After our teams’ games, we collected Anthony and took off for home.  Garmina tried to take us up Interstate 75 through Tulsa, but the hubby and I agreed (yes, actually) that we’d rather take the more familiar Interstate 35, and turned Garmina off again.  Anthony immediately fell asleep, and the hubby and I just chatted away until he woke up and asked us to find a Braum’s.

I took over driving for real for the first time all weekend after the Braum’s, and Sebastian dozed off for what was probably one of the most deserved naps of his life.

We made it home to the welcoming full-body tail wag of Princes the Wonder Lab.  Snacky and Quent were still up waiting for us.  Hugs from Snacky, a sort-of grunt/semi-welcome from Quent.

A snack.  A glass of wine.  Then bed.

And Monday?  Business as usual.  Marriage intact and none the worse for wear.

A couple of days ago, we were on our way to Sonic for Happy Hour limeades after a hot and sun-drenched two-hour hike around town.   Of course, two hours away from her phone is about the outer limit, so she was already busily chatting away with one of her friends as I drove.

Trapped in the car with her, I couldn’t help but overhear Quent’s conversation.  She was telling one of her friends about a mutual acquaintance who had posted some generalized offensive statements on her Facebook page about unnamed females she evidently didn’t like.

Quent was indignant:  “I know she doesn’t think she’s talking about us.  Just posting all sorts of stuff supposed to make her look hard.  She can’t even name anyone.  She’s just thuggin’ from afar.”

Thuggin from afar.  I liked it immediately.

However, it appeared that Quent’s friend needed the phrase broken down.

“Thuggin from afar.”  Pause.  “From afar.  You know, from a distance.  She’s thuggin from a distance,”  Quent helpfully elaborated for her buddy.

“You actually have to explain that?”  I asked.  “Wow.”

“Mom.”  She put her hand up to silence me.

“Well, keep talking then.   I’ll just order myself a limeade.”

My fear has only gotten worse as I get older.  Fear of the inevitable being too imminent, perhaps?  Fear of leaving behind a family that needs me? — Lord, I can only imagine the mass confusion my household would plummet into without me here to manage and direct.  I can’t even be gone for a day without all hell breaking loose on the home front — empty pet dishes, unmade beds, sink full of dishes.  For example:  there was a time in the not too distant past when I was in Arkansas with Anthony at a basketball tournament, and Snacky called me in desperation from the grocery store back home.  “Mom,” he groaned, “I’m at the store with dad and he doesn’t know what to get.  He’s getting all the wrong stuff, and I can’t stop him!”  Needless to say, I had to go to the grocery store the day after I got home and get all the stuff we ACTUALLY needed.

When it comes right down to it, I think more than likely it’s the control freak in me (grown somewhat out of control due to the responsibilities of motherhood) that keeps me out of airplanes.  Being up in the air, trapped in a flying machine, relegated to my seat and unable to see who’s at the controls or what they’re doing?  Not a happy feeling for Mama.  I’d really need to be up in the cockpit dispensing useful advice and counsel to the pilots in order for air flight to work at all for me anymore.

Since that hasn’t yet AND  isn’t going to happen any time soon, my family has been hostage to my phobia when it comes to any sort of family travel.  Sorry guys.

Family vacations and trips to the many basketball tournaments (Snacky and Anthony) and dance competitions (Quent) we’ve gone to over the years have all been turned into that family Adventure/Odyssey/Trial By Fire known as the Road Trip.  In the early days, we bought a mini-van so that everyone could have his/her own clearly demarcated territory on the road.  Other road trip necessities have been Ipods, cell phones, and mobile DVD players.   Fights still occurred — over who got the captain’s seats or the back bench in the van; over which movie they’d watch on the DVD player; over where we’d eat lunch.  But we had some pretty rousing games of geography (you name a geographical location, and the next person has to name another, different location that begins with the last letter of the place you just named, with no repeats), ABC (you have to take turns finding each letter of the alphabet on a road sign, in order — and you can’t use the same road signs), and License Plates (you have to find a license plate from every state while you’re on the road).

Our longest road trips have been to Orlando (dance and basketball); Boston (several times to see my sister and her family); and Houston (basketball).  My Road Trip Philosophy is simple:  stop and smell the roses.  I’m not one of those people who believe it’s a fun idea to get up at some ungodly early hour and drive straight through to your destination, stopping only for bathroom breaks, and eating whatever you packed in a cooler.  The hubby has actually suggested that we do this (I’m sure so he can save money on hotels and eating out).  I’ve explained gently to him that this is not an option.  Ever.  A road trip should be considered part of the vacation.  The road trip is not simply a means to an end — it’s a process.  To be appreciated and enjoyed.  No matter how many fights we have to break up.  On a proper road trip, you drive during the day, then stop and go out to eat and sleep in a hotel.  Get a good night’s sleep, and get up and do the same each day until you’re at your destination.

And, to be fair to myself, our road trips have actually been less expensive than air flight for a family of five, even with the eating out and the hotel rooms.  You’d think that would be enough to make Sebastian a fan of the family road trip forever.  Just an added bonus on top of the family togetherness.  And the exploration of our great country.  However, the hubby has a twice surgically repaired knee that he CLAIMS bothers him after being in a vehicle all day, or for two or three days.  Whiner.

So Sebastian has a history of drawing a line in the sand after a road trip.

“From now on, I’m flying anywhere it takes more than 5 hours to get to by car.”

“Okay.  I’ll meet you there,” has been my rebuttal.

“Okay, then.”

“Yeah.”

He had never actually gone ahead and bought himself a plane ticket to whatever destination we were headed to, though.  Until last summer.  Once again, we were heading to Boston, to visit my sister and her family.  We hadn’t done the Boston trip in a few years, and everyone was pretty excited to get out there.

Needless to say, I was driving.

“I’m flying this time, Carolyn.”

“Okay.  Guess what?  I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

So, for the first time ever, our family was divided along travelling lines.  Anthony wanted to come with me.  Quent insisted that we were “wack” for wanting to drive, and decided to fly with her father (a decision she would come to regret, as you’ll see a little later in my saga).  Snacky at first was going to fly, but then decided to hit the road with his brother and me (plus Anthony begged him!).

As I tell this tale, you can be the judge about which people in the family made the right decision and experienced possibly the Greatest Road Trip Ever, and which people spent some really boring time in an airplane and missed out on some Awesome Good Times.

Before I explain, though, let me weave in a little context.  Our house is divided up into three well-defined social segments.

The master suite is off by itself in the southeast corner of the house.  I was recently at a discussion group with a feng shui expert (by way of a good friend who’s into feng shui), and learned that this very southeast corner is considered very conducive to love and companionship.  Well, I’ll admit it, then.  I do love my husband.  He’s a pretty good guy — despite his refusal to let me be warm in the wintertime.

The common areas of the house are on the ground floor.  The living room/dining area/kitchen are all one big open space, and there’s a hallway leading to another living area.  Very social arrangement.  These are the areas, along with the front porch in good weather, where the family hangs out.  And we DO hang out a lot.

The upstairs is the kids’ territory.  Three bedrooms and a bathroom.  Just for them.  And their friends.

As you may imagine, I don’t spend a lot of time upstairs.  My forays into teenage territory mostly consist of putting laundry away, and delivering snacks to teenage boys intensely involved in the technological trinity of texting, facebooking, and gaming.  (Far be it from me to interrupt or otherwise interfere with the fine dance that is teenage social networking.)

Since the kids have all this space to themselves, I expect (foolishly, I might add) that they can keep their areas neat and clean.

Snacky’s door is always closed.  He’s a private guy and doesn’t like for people to be in his stuff (so I’m sure he’ll appreciate my telling the internet this story).  He likes to have things arranged JUST SO.  This you can tell just by looking at him.  Snacky is always well-dressed and well-groomed.  He has a wardrobe that would rival any diva’s, and a virtual museum of (very expensive) shoes.  Snacky never leaves the house without donning a well-chosen ensemble.  His room is likewise very tidily arranged.  Everything has a place.  Although I’m not sure why some things are in there — like empty shoe boxes and an old ACT registration packet (he took the ACT months ago) — I simply cannot deny that, in Snacky’s room, there is a place for everything and everything IS in it’s place.

That’s why walking into his room this morning caused me a moment of cognitive dissonance.  Everything was neat.  Everything was in it’s place.  BUT.

The dust!  The debris!  The little pieces of candy/gum/throat lozenge wrapper!  The entire room was coated with PARTICLES and PIECES of THINGS.

No wonder his “allergies” have been bothering him.  He’s been snorting dust.  I can’t believe he’s not trailing a cloud of it when he leaves his room.

I should have just waited for him when he gets home from school today.  Shoved a dust rag, Windex, and vacuum cleaner at him, and forced him to get to it.  But the mother in me took over.  Anything I want anyone to do can much more easily and efficiently — not to mention more COMPLETELY — accomplished if I do it myself.  So I’m pretty strategic about what I require the husband and kids to do around the house.  Plus I felt a little guilty that I had just now noticed what had to be several weeks worth of build-up.  A requirement of motherhood is that you feel responsible for pretty much anything having to do with your kids, whether you have the least bit to do with it or not.

Anyway.  For the sake of my son’s sinuses, and because I am the control-freak that I am, I re-entered his lair, armed with the supplies mentioned above, and within 20 minutes had it dust- and debris-free.  I’m not sure if he’ll notice on his own, but I’m planning to give him a tour of the newly-liberated surfaces in his room as soon as he gets home!

As my family will tell you, there’s nothing like Mama on a Mission.  Inspired by my own handiwork in Snacky’s room, I decided to tackle the kids’ bathroom.  One word:  UGH!  I won’t even think about detailing that endeavor.  You may well be sipping coffee, or snacking, as you’re reading my blog, and I don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s upset stomach.

Now, my house free of the most egregious dust and grime, I feel that I can get on with my day.  The sun is shining, things are blooming, and Mama Nature is calling me outside.  The domestic goddess in me tells me it’s time to plant some basil in the backyard pots. . .

Yesterday worked out wonderfully well.  I followed my plan with only a minor hitch.  The wine shop was out of my Moonbuzz Chardonnay.  No problem.  I got a bottle of Evolution 12 Edition, which is a really interesting wine by Sokol Blosser winery in Oregon.  It’s a blend of 9 different grapes, pressed separately, and each bottling has a slightly different tilt.  I actually wrote about it on another blog two years ago (there’s your handy review!), when I first discovered an earlier edition.  The creators of Evolution have by now become a little cagey about which 9 grapes they use, but I did find out that the 9 kinds of grapes (listed in my old posting) have not changed as each new edition comes out.  So I think we can trust the info I dug up in 2008.  Anyway.  I hadn’t had it since last summer, and remembered immediately why I like it.  Trust me, it’s good.  Try it.

So today the great weather continued, and I again took full advantage.  Once more, I was able to increase my body’s level of healthy, cancer-fighting vitamin D by soaking up some sun on the patio.  I took a run in the sun, and then went to the gym with Snacky.  I walked Princess (our beautiful lab-rottweiler) around the block four times.  Ate a salad.  I’m usually a person with healthy habits, but today I’m feeling uber-healthy.  So I also had a very virtuous, and nonetheless delicious, dinner tonight.

Seared Shrimp with Asparagus and Lemon Juice

I have 2 dozen peeled shrimp (tails still attached, because I like the tails) and 10 spears of asparagus.

Steam the asparagus until just tender and crisp.  Maybe 5-6 minutes.  But check to be sure.  Mushy asparagus is really not fun to eat.  When the asparagus is done, toss the spears into a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking.  When cool, remove from the water, dry it, and chop into bite-sized pieces.

Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a skillet until it is very hot.  Toss the shrimp in and let it sear for 1 minute on one side.  Turn the shrimp over and cook on the other side for 1 minute.  Remove pan from heat, cover, and let the shrimp continue to cook off the burner for a few minutes.

Add the asparagus to the shrimp, then spray both with the juice of one lemon.  Add about 1 tablespoon melted butter to thicken it up.  Toss.  Serve either alone or with some rice or couscous.

Tomorrow promises more of the same warm and sunny weather.  I’ll restrain myself from writing about it.  And I suppose I’ll stop acting like I’m on vacation — for at least part of the day — and get something productive accomplished.

Yay!  In fact, double Yay!

So what should I do today to celebrate hearing the chirping birds?

Iced Coffee

Yep.  Haven’t had one of these in QUITE SOME TIME.  Conveniently for me, the hubby had, as per usual, brewed a pot of coffee before heading off to work so much earlier than the rest of us have to get up.

The easiest way I’ve found to make iced coffee (without a special appliance) is to let a glass of regularly brewed coffee cool down.  If I’m in a hurry, I throw it in the freezer for a bit.  If not, I let it sit on the counter while I get a couple of things done.  I like sweet iced coffee, so I also put a couple of teaspoons of sugar in glass before pouring the coffee — that way it dissolves and spends some time sweetening.  Once the coffee is at room temperature, or pretty close to it, I add ice, give it a stir, and it’s ready to go.  I do a glass half-filled with coffee, and half-filled with ice.

Lounge in the Sun

Yes, indeed.  I’ve been reading that sun exposure is now thought to be good for you, as it increases your body’s vitamin D levels.  So the sun can now join dark chocolate and red wine on my list of Things I Have Good Excuses to Indulge In. All I know is that I feel good in the sun, and look better with a tan.  So I’m planning to indulge.  I have a lounge chair, some cooking magazines, and an ipod ready to go.

A Perfect Roasted Chicken and Fresh Greens Salad

I really love roast chicken.  I’m going to get a BIG chicken — maybe 6 pounds.  That way, there’ll be plenty for dinner and some left over for chicken salad for my guys.

I recently learned a little trick.  A chicken roasts more evenly inside and out if you let the chicken sit out at room temperature for about half an hour before roasting it.  So that’s what I’ll do.

If you want to roast your own chicken to perfection ala Carolyn, here is what you’ll need:

Your Big Chicken

8 Garlic Cloves, sliced lengthwise in half

2 Tablespoons Olive Oil and 4 Tablespoons Butter, Melted

1 Lemon — cut in half and squeeze the juice of one half into the melted oil and butter

Fresh Sage (or not if you don’t have fresh)

Salt and Pepper

To Prepare:  Preheat your oven to 425 degrees.  Rinse and dry your big chicken.

Slide six of the garlic halves under the chicken skin on the breast side,  spreading them out between the breast, leg and thigh.  Throw the rest of the garlic into the chicken cavity.  Slide three fresh sage leaves under the chicken skin in the same manner as the garlic, and stuff a few more leaves into the chicken cavity.  Add the lemon halves to the chicken cavity, and then sprinkle salt and pepper into the chicken cavity.

Next, rub the entire outside of the chicken with the oil/butter/lemon mixture.  You’ll probably have at least a couple of teaspoons left.

Place your big chicken on a wire rack inside a roasting pan and slide it into your oven.  Roast for about an hour and a half.  I like to spread the leftover oil/butter/lemon mixture on the chicken when it has about 20 minutes left to go.  When the chicken should be done, pierce the area between the breast and the leg with a knife, and the juices will run clear if your chicken is done.  If you’re like my husband, and insist on using a meat thermometer, your chicken breast temperature should read 180 degrees and the thigh temperature should read 190 degrees when done.

Fresh Greens Salad

So easy.  I’m going to throw together what I have on hand.  What I have is:

Fennel — I’ll slice about a cup really thin.

Arugula

Fresh Basil — I’ll tear a generous handful into bite-sized pieces

Red and Green Artisan Lettuce — purchased in a plastic carton at my neighborhood grocery store and otherwise known as Gem, Oak and Tango Lettuce.  None of which I’ve ever heard of, but they taste really good.

Fresh Chives, chopped

Toss all of the above together in a big salad bowl.  Mix a simple vinaigrette.  My favorite is:

2 Parts Olive Oil

1 Part White Wine Vinegar

1 Tablespoon Dijon Mustard

Ground Black Pepper

Mix your vinaigrette and toss the salad with it right before serving.

Moonbuzz Chardonnay

Our family has a tradition of sitting out on the front porch in the evenings when the weather gets warm.  We’ll visit, chat, argue about stupid and fun stuff, invite the neighbors over.   The boys might shoot hoops.  I’m hoping that this evening will be the first of the season that’s warm enough to sit outdoors.  And I plan to have a glass of Moonbuzz Chardonnay 2008 to toast our first of the season front porch chill-out.  It’s a nice wine.  And popular.  I hope my neighborhood wine shop hasn’t run out!

So far, I’ve only got the iced coffee under my belt.  I’ve got four indulgences to go.  So I’m off to shop before noon, which is my appointed sun-bathing time.  I’ll check in with you later, loyal readers, and let you know how the day went.

Don't Let the Smile Fool Ya

“Swag-Jacker” (short for “Swagger-Jacker”)

I’m sure I’m a little late to the party on this one, but I think it might be one of the best words I’ve ever heard.

I may be 45 years old, and a married mother of three, but you know I like to get my slang on. Sometimes no other type of language will do!  “Swag-jacker” is the ultimate in slang, combining two great slang words, “swag” and “jacking” into a highly descriptive compound slang word.  You will definitely catch me using it now that I know it.  After all, I already use “swag” and “jack,” so it’s just verbal evolution for me.

For those of you who don’t know, “swag”  (also “swagger”) refers to a person’s unique style — in fashion, art, music, sports, etc. — typically exhibited with self-confidence.  This exhibition of self-confidence may be slightly in-your-face, but not obnoxiously so.  “Swag,” or “swagger,” are exclusively used admiringly.  Believe me, you are being paid a high compliment if you’re referred to as a dude (or lady) with swag.

“Jacking” is stealing, as in car-jacking.  So someone who steals is a “jacker.”  You can pretty much “jack” anything:  cars, money, candy from a baby.  But you really don’t want to be caught swag-jacking.  It’s a sign of character weakness.  A clear indication that you don’t have what it takes to create your own swag, so you have to copy someone else’s style (their clothing, their lines, or their moves, to name a few examples).  In so doing, you are jacking that person’s swag, and thus exp0sing yourself as a swag-jacker.

Mind you, not all imitation is swag-jacking.  Sometimes, an act or action by someone (usually famous, but not always — after all this is the age of youtube) becomes so popular that the performing of it is more of a tribute than an actual attempt at jacking the swag of the creator.  A good example of non-swag-jacking imitation is the John Wall Dance Phenomenon. This is just an example of big love shown for Mr. Wall.  No swag-jacking intended.

Thanks to Quent for keeping me up to date.

Today, though, I got that glass-half-full feeling back. And as the day goes on, mood is swinging wildly upwards.

Why? You may well ask.

Because it’s a beautiful, sunny, 58-degree day as I write this. No other reason at all.

I intend to celebrate with the hubby tonight. We’ll have a very spring-like meal. We don’t even have to argue about the gas fireplace — because I clearly won’t be freezing my butt off.

My dad brought over some very pricey, very good quality salmon. Thanks Dad! So Sebastian will fire up the grill and take care of the fillets. I got some pretty decent looking asparagus at the store, too. I’ll steam that and pair it with lemon butter. Add some couscous on the side, and we’ll be good to go.

There you have it — my mood update. A mood so good I just had to write about it!

However, the hubby is still gainfully employed and helpfully paying all the bills.   Which means he keeps a hawk eye on the money he’s spending.  While this is plenty convenient in many ways, it has spawned one small, ongoing marital battle during this uncommonly and painfully long winter we’ve been forced to endure here in Lawrence, Kansas.

When we bought this house, one of the very first things I fell in love with was the gas-powered fireplace in the front living area.  Our kitchen, dining and living areas are one big, open space, and the fireplace makes the whole area SO nice and cozy when it’s cold.  There’s nothing I like better on the coldest of nights than sitting on my couch with a glass of red wine, with the fireplace going.  Absolute nirvana!

When the first big snowstorm hit us the day before Christmas, it was only fitting that I turned the fireplace on. After all, we WERE snowed in. And then the weather stayed cold, the snow hung around, more snow and ice came. . . In short, the cold hung on relentlessly.

I don’t do well with cold weather. It ruins my mood. And I’m already kind of moody, so that’s not good. My one solace while winter was slapping me upside the head was my fireplace. It created a cocoon of warmth, allowing me to . . . well, not exactly forget the cold. But at least ignore it temporarily.

Well. They say all good things come to an end. And this one came to a screeching halt about mid-January.

Sebastian had begun to voice a sneaking suspicion that our gas fireplace was driving up our gas bill during the winter months. He has a couple of buddies who work for the gas company, and he decided to run that theory by his buddies. These guys told him that running the gas fireplace does indeed hike up the gas bill.  These guys told him we should only use the fireplace sparingly.  This seems a little counter-intuitive to me.  If you work for the gas company, shouldn’t you be encouraging folks to buy MORE of your product and not LESS of it?

How smug is a husband with a little ammunition for his argument? Don’t even ask. Sebastian presented the testimonials of his buddies to me, and went on a little about how high the first winter gas bill was. Yawn.

Ultimately, he drew his line in the sand. He explained that HE pays the gas bill, so he gets to call this particular shot.  I suppose he has a point, but I won’t ever admit it to him.  I’ll lie quietly in wait.  Then, as soon as I start to bring in some real money, I’m taking over the gas bill. In the meantime, I’ve backed off. Mostly because it’s March and spring is around the corner . . . at least it better be.

Sebastian has (temporarily) won this battle. But, loyal readers, rest assured that I will inevitably win the war. It’s one of the things I do best!