Hughey Hill Unplugged (Or, This Freezer Really WAS Frost-Free!)

    I’ve lost count just how many times I’ve started to write about this experience. But, more than three years after the fact, I’m still trying to find the humor in it. I guess I still kind of blame the whole thing on my Daddy - never mind that he’d been quietly minding his own business in the family plot at Mt. View Cemetery for well over two years when disaster struck.

    But “safety first!” he always taught me. A lifetime spent as first a volunteer and later a fulltime, professional firefighter sparked a level of caution in Daddy reinforced by the hundreds of house fires he’d battled over the course of his career. With that kind of upbringing, it was only natural that every time we left the house for an extended period of time, I would unplug major (ok, and minor) electronics as well as every single lamp in the house. Almost nothing escaped notice; TVs, stereos, coffee-makers (Daddy always called them the biggest fire-risk in any home), the microwave, even the washer and dryer.

    So it was in that mode that I tore though the house, disconnecting every plug in sight as we prepared to leave for two weeks in Alaska. Satisfied I’d done everything in my power to make sure the house would still be there upon our return, I rolled my luggage to the car and left, absolutely, positively, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt certain the iron was turned off (and unplugged!).

    Fast forward two weeks and we were winging our way back from another successful Alaskan adventure. It was during that marathon flight that I contracted a particularly nasty case of the dreaded airplane crud - that flu-like scourge that travels through the tainted re-circulated air that ventilates airline passenger cabins around the globe. In it’s worst form, it can lay you out faster than an overzealous TSA agent and make death seem desirable. To make matters worse, as soon as we landed, we faced an hour’s drive back to where we’d picked up the group we escorted, followed by a nearly five-hour drive home. Hubby stopped and dropped a small fortune on every over-the-counter cold remedy known the man, dispatching me into a drug-induced coma while he drove us home.

    I regained consciousness as we arrived back on Hughey Hill and I dragged myself toward the still-standing house, hoping I could make it to the sofa. As I opened the back door, I was mentally patting myself on the back for thoroughly cleaning the house before we left, when I was stopped in my tracks by an overpowering stench. My first thought was a gas leak, but wait, it was August, so I knew the propane tank was bone-dry and the heaters were off. By now, Hubby was in the house and reeling from the smell, prompting him to bolt back outside and take a critter-count. With all dogs and cats accounted for and convinced nobody had crawled under the house and died during our absence, he returned and thus began the search for the source of the scent.

    Quickly canvassing upstairs, downstairs, kitchen and bathrooms, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Perplexed, we both retraced previously-searched areas again, to no avail. As almost an after-thought, he checked the laundry room and there, discovered a tell-tale trail of water that led straight to the door of our huge, upright freezer. No hum of the motor was audible and quickly it became apparent the appliance was DOA. We’d had the freezer for years, so it wasn’t unthinkable that it had simply reached the end of the road, mechanically. But, as I held my breath and walked into the laundry room to survey the damage, my eyeballs nearly separated from their sockets as I discovered the awful, undeniable truth. There it was, in all its glory - an electrical cord, removed from the wall socket and draped innocently over the top of the dryer. It wasn’t the noxious fumes responsible for the near nausea I felt as the truth slowly and horribly dawned. It hadn’t been the dryer I unplugged two weeks before, but the freezer - the packed-full-of-meat-fish-and-vegetables freezer.

    The phrase “gag-a-maggot” never seemed so appropriate.

    I closed the door, retreated to the sofa and waited on Hubby to figure out the Awful Truth for himself. Much later, he would tell friends that if I hadn’t been so sick, he would’ve gleefully killed me.

    I’ll spare all the gory details of the week that followed, including fumigation fun, like chained-shut-freezer-removal (which didn’t go well AT ALL), and wall scrubbing, all performed from behind industrial strength Home Depot-issued haz-mat masks. Ultimately, it all had to come out - flooring, appliances, everything. 

   All I know is that when it was all said and done, I wound up with a bright, shiny, state-of-the-art, brand new laundry room I never knew I wanted!

A Supa-Beauxl For The Ages! (& Definitely NOT The Age-d!)

So here I sit on Super Bowl Sunday, debating between buffalo or honey barbeque sauce for the wings that still sleep in the freezer and really not giving a rat's pa-tootey about the game, but looking forward to the commercials................

I am, however,  dreaming ahead to Super Bowl XLVII because it returns to my beloved New Orleans and the Super Dome and come hell or high water (wait, forget that last part), if the Saints go marching into that one, so will I!! It's actually taken that long for me to recover from the LAST time I did the Super Bowl in New Orleans - twenty-two years ago, to be exact!

Going to the biggest football game of the year was nowhere on my radar back in 1990, so when a former co-worker walked into my office that morning, wildly waving four Super Bowl tickets in my face and about to faint,  I absently smiled and congratulated her (yes, HER), waaaaay more concerned about the pile of annual report documents on my desk, screaming to get to the printer. Turns out, co-worker had more to offer, including the story of how those tickets came to be in her mail that morning. 

Now, this woman was the most ardent San Francisco 49'ers fanatic on the planet earth. Tennessee born and bred, it made no sense, but THE famous pass that Joe Montana connected with Dwight Clark back in 1981 apparently ignited her fever, which had failed to find an upper limit even nine years later. She followed the team, literally, to Atlanta (back then, the closest NFL franchise to us) when they played the Falcons and apparently, she bumped into team owner, Eddie Debartolo, Jr. (still in his glory days and that unfortunate Club Fed "vacation" nowhere on HIS radar) at the hotel bar. And there, over drinks, she charmed him out of Super Bowl tickets, should the Montana/Rice powerhouse get the team that far. Still, she was way more excited about charming her way onto the floor where the team was housed and managing to snag hallway pictures with the MAN himself. That would be Joe Montana. That picture remained framed on her desk for as long as we ever worked together.

Of course, when the 49ers won the NFC Championship that year, she thought about that fateful conversation with Debartolo. Still, never expecting him to actually make good on his promise, she nearly passed on when four tickets arrived in her office mail that magic morning. And here she stood at my desk, asking if Hubby & I wanted to go...................

In what had to be the most hastily-thrown-together trip in history, I managed to talk my mother into keeping the boys for the weekend, Hubby got a work buddy to take the fourth ticket and we departed Hughey Hill after work on Friday, landing in The French Quarter just shy of midnight - just as the party was getting cranked up. And, thus began a 72-hour non-stop throw-down, the likes of which I'd never experienced before and really never have come close to weathering again. I doubt we collectively napped more than four hours in the next three days and the funny thing is, my memories of that weekend are crystal clear all these years later. Even then, it seemed like a constant surge of adrenaline more than compensated for the alcohol consumption, because we kept going round-the-clock as football frenzy reached a fever pitch.

I'll never forget sitting in that dome, close enough to the sideline to have an unobstructed view of Joe (Montana) and Jerry (Rice) going through a series of warm-up passes before kickoff. Turns out, it was a blow-out as San Fran routed the Denver Broncos (near the height of their Elway era) 55-10. But, while hubby and work buddy left in search of refreshments by half-time, our ticket benefactor and I remained til the final snap, steadfastly screaming our lungs out for our quarterback hero to kick some Bronco a- 'er, butt, afraid that if we budged from our spot, it might actually throw the game and cause our team's defeat. Oy! At one point, the guy in front of us turned around and drunkenly asked us where we'd been all those years ago when he'd been searching for a wife. We turned him back around and propped him against a railing, lest we miss another first-and-ten.

The exhilaration of that weekend adventure took a long, long time to subside and every time we drive across Lake Pontchartrain. Hubby and I still laugh at how we all actually drove back to our Picayune, Mississippi motel (the closest lodging we could find) for a two-hour nap in the midst of all the melee'!

As of today, NOLA BFF and Football-Comrade-In-Arms Mary reminds me there's exactly 37 weeks left until we can once again spend our weekends e-mailing, texting and Facebook messaging each other our armchair coaching/quarterbacking wisdom during College Football Saturdays and NFL Sundays  (we start singing "It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year" every July in anticipation of the pre-season). That should give our home-boy Brees plenty of time to get his arm and his aim in shape.

And, that should give me just enough time to get my mojo cranked up enough to experience the Bowl that is Super in person one more time before I die! 

Come to think of it, with his hometown ties to The Big Easy, Eli Manning's participation in today's game is reason enough to root for the Giants, but in my heart, I'll really be thinking

GEAUX SAINTS!

A Nana By Any Other Name (or Mr. Baby Goes Bananas)

How does something as innocuous as bananas weave their way into a grandmother’s identity crisis?’
Very unexpectedly!
While neither I nor any of my BFFs are anywhere nearly old enough to be grandmothers, we have, nonetheless, been blessed with little grand-progeny at an alarming rate over the past couple of years. Some of us have zoomed from zero to two and even three in just twenty-four short months (the three thanks to the unexpected jolt - er. joy - of twins). It stands to reason, then, the favorite parlor game of late has become choosing what these munchkins will call us.
And, since Goldie Hawn snagged the very hippest handle of all (grandson Ryder famously calls her “Glam-Ma”), what’s been left to the rest of us mere mortals has run the gamut. In my circle of girlfriends alone, we have a GiGi, a Sasha, a CoCo, a Ghe, a Nana, a Nonnie, a NeNe, a Mai, a MiMi, a Grammy, a Gran………………(notice, if you will, there’s not a granny or even a grandma/grandmother in the bunch)! After test-driving several monikers, I settled on “Nana.” Though it may not have quite filled the bill as “too cool for school,”  still, I reasoned, it didn’t make me sound - or feel - too ancient. My own very adored grandmothers - Bubba and Nannie - would have approved, I decided.
In retrospect, just how deluded was I to think I really had the final say in this decision?
My new name became official on September 26, 2009 with the birth of our first grandchild, Julian Evin, and irrevocably sealed on February 11, 2011 with the arrival of his sister, Collins Joy. Or, so I thought.
As those early months quickly passed, and Mr. Baby (a nickname I bestowed on him shortly after we first met) progressed into the stages of cooing and babbling, I eagerly began coaching him to try out my new name. I mean, c’mon!  Nana is easily as entry-level as Dada and Mama. One syllable repeated repeatedly, so just how hard could it be?
So, imagine my euphoria when, during a weekend visit to see our Prince Precious and his parents, I awoke early one morning to the delightful, albeit insistent, sound of Nana! Nana! NaNA! NANA!! coming from the direction of the living room. Never mind that I’m not now, nor will I ever be, a morning person. I bolted from my bed and burst out of the guest room in response to this unrelenting summons from our little prince.
Rounding the corner, tearing through the living room and into the dining room, I found our Adorable Precious enthroned in his high chair (actually one of those plastic, strap-on, booster contraptions this generation tries to pass off as a respectable high chair), continuing his chant, NAAAAAAAAAAAA-NAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! Through cobwebbed eyes, I replied in froggy morning voice, “Nana’s here, baby!”
But, he had other ideas.
Peering backwards over the top of his chair, he was clearly calling “NaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaNaaaaaaaaaaaa” toward the direction of the kitchen. Out rushed his daddy, fumbling with a ba-nana, struggling to peel it quickly enough to break off a chunk and shove it into Mr. Baby’s chubby cheeks.
With a sheepish look, my son reluctantly explained that in the World ‘O Mr. Baby, NaNa indeed referred to a tropical Chaquita or Dole and not me.
So much for so carefully choosing my own name!
But, it wasn’t many weeks later, as I was talking on the phone with Mr. Baby, that he blurted out “NANNIE!” To me! On purpose. And, the next time we went to visit, he ran to me shouting “Nannie! Nannie!” as I got out of the car. At that point, he could’ve called me Dirt Bag and it would’ve been ok, because I’d never heard anything sweeter in my life! (I must admit it took time to shake off the sense of unworthiness at sharing the same name as one of my own precious grandmothers, but I’ve finally gotten over that).
So, from that moment, Nannie it was, Nannie it is and Nannie it will be!
Never let it be said that a grandmother EVER has the last word!

The "Shoe" Must Go On! (Or SJP I'll Never Be!)

Rumor has it that yet a third installment of the popular Sex & The City movie series is in the works. If that's true, no doubt the spotlight will shine on Sarah Jessica Parker's (hereinafter known as SJP) extensive wardrobe of Mahnolos, Weitzmans and Choos..........which reminds me of an incident when Mother Nature cruelly reminded me that I ain't 35 anymore!

Proving once again that fat and fashion don't mix, my efforts at appearing at least 25 pounds taller by donning a pair of uber-hot five-inch-heeled metallic bronze stilettos left me very nearly lame and only a hundred bucks lighter before everything was said and done. Yes, this escapade took me from stilettos to stability in a flash - and at a pretty (painful) price!

It was the first week of 2007.  This found the whole Hughey family in New Orleans and I was a blissfully happy camper for many reasons, because
a) I had just bid 2006 - my own personal version of Queen Elizabeth's "annus horribilus" - good riddance
b) I was in my favorite city on the planet earth with my three favorite men (Hubby and our two boys) for a deliciously long, rare stretch of family time, and
c) we were there to celebrate the wedding week of our "Baby Girl," Aynsley Fein and her dashing fiance, Jason LeBlanc and all its associated fun and festivity.

Our arrival coincided with the Sugar Bowl's triumphant return to the Big Easy for the first time since The Storm (aka Katrina) and the atmosphere was super-charged and jubilant. Coincidentally, LSU just happened to be one of the competing teams, which turned the whole thing into a "homecoming" of sorts and only added to the fun. Never mind that our son and our money had gone to the University of Tennessee, I enthusiastically donned my purple and gold Mid-City Lanes Rock & Bowl(ing) shirt and waded into the mob on Bourbon Street yelling "Geaux Tigers" as loudly as anyone else. Must've worked because the boys from Baton Rouge blew that Notre Dame yankee bunch back to South Bend to the tune of 41-14. What a great way to kick off a week of celebration!

Game won, we turned our attention to the serious business of the wedding revelry, which included the bridesmaids luncheon (for me), the rehearsal dinner (for the entire family), the wedding in St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square and a second-line parade to the gala reception at The Court of Two Sisters afterward. With that many social engagements, not to mention all our usual running around, I could have used an old-fashioned steamer trunk to accommodate all the clothes I hauled from home, complicated by the fact that I hadn't quite decided what to wear to the wedding.

Still coping with the consequences of a seriously ridiculous weight gain in 2006 (see my blog post, Puttin' On The Spanxx), I had managed to piece together all the necessary ensembles and was actually quite happy with what I had chosen to wear to the bridesmaid's luncheon at Arnaud's. Not wanting Baby Girl's and her mama, Mary's, friends to think they had imported Elly Mae from the backwoods, I put extra effort into looking my best. I was particularly proud of the killer high-heeled copper metallic pumps I had scored one heck of a bargain on just the week prior. They were the PERFECT way to accessorize my black pants and black & copper metallic jacket. Little did I realize when I paid next-to-nothing for them that "killer" would be the operative word when I tried to walk in them. Yes, the five-inch heels that made them so sharp-looking were significantly higher than I was used to wearing and yes, I had tried them on and yes, they fit. But in my haste, I hadn't bothered to actually stroll around the store in them. And that oversight would wind up costing me big-time.

The morning of the luncheon, I was up early. While I worked on getting ready, my guys were busily planning their own adventure, which meant they were headed to their favorite oyster dive bar out west of Metarie to throw back a few dozen on the half-shell while enjoying some serious football bowl action. Since Arnaud's was scarcely three blocks from our beloved Hotel St. Marie, I opted to walk. That was my second mistake.

Anybody familiar with The French Quarter knows the sidewalks in this vintage section of town aren't always the easiest to navigate -with or without excess beverage consumption. And, I'll readily admit it wasn't my usual habit to teeter around these cobbled, historic streets in stilettos, preferring to leave that to the "girls" who work at certain Bourbon Street establishments.

I made it across the hotel courtyard, through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk before I realized I was in some more serious trouble. The sensible thing at that moment would've been to turn right around, hobble back to the room and change into the black flats stored in my luggage. But, this was one of those times when determination (read "stubborness") won out over common sense and I haltingly trudged on, thinking if I passed a shoe store along the way, I might just look for a more suitable substitute.

Shuffling down the street at a pace similar to Tim Conway's Mr. Tudball character on the old Carol Burnett shows, panic set in when I realized I was going to have to do something fast, lest I pitch face-first into some mystery puddle in my path. I actually did pass a shoe store and bolted inside, scouring the inventory for rescue relief. To my amazement, the selection they offered made my hooker heels look like frumpy flats!

Back out on the streets, I was faced with a choice.. I was too far from the hotel to turn back now. I couldn't possibly show up at the restaurant in this predicament and where-in-the-French-Quarter was I going to find a real shoe store? Canal Place Shoppes hadn't opened yet, and besides, short of a cab ride, I knew I'd never make it that far. Whipping out my trusty cell phone, I activated the GPS and performed a shoe-store search,  and voila! A teeny-tiny, oh-so-exclusive little shoe boutique could be found on Chartres Street, just a few short blocks from where I was stuck. Getting there would prove to be another challenge.

Because time was running short, I had to resort to the unthinkable which was to doff the spikes and carry them, trotting through the thankfully deserted mid-morning streets until I got close enough to the shoe store to shove them back on and teeter my way in. Within seconds, I spotted a gorgeous pair of t-strap pumps with a SENSIBLE (but still stylish) heel in you-guessed-it, the exact same copper metallic. There was no doubt about it - the Lord just meant this to be! For the first time in my life, I didn't even look at the price (but being a brand I'd worn before, I figured they would surely be in my price-range). I just asked for my size and the clerk quickly fetched them and rang them up. A mild jolt of sticker-shock shot through me when I saw that my reprieve from tootsie-torture would set me back a cool C-note, but hey desperate times call for desperate purchases. I felt pretty sure that "no shoes, no service" would be the prevailing policy at Arnauds.

Not wanting to appear so redneck that I would actually wear my new purchase out of the chi-chi boutique, I hobbled across the street to a Community Coffee House. There, I quickly changed shoes and not wanting to show up at the luncheon hauling a large sack of shoebox, I placed the hooker heels in the box and left them on the ladies room counter for some fortunate soul to find later.

And,  I've looked for those shoes every time I've passed those certain clubs on Bourbon ever since!

What A Crock!

(Author's Note: As with all my blog postings, the story you're about to read is true. Truly. You can't make this stuff up!)

From even before they ever emit that first loud and lusty wail, our children forever change our lives. And, sons, in particular, just have a way of bringing out the inner Jewish Mother in us because for at least 18 years, our overriding daily concern for them is that they are not only happy and healthy, but also well-fed. Who, amongst us mothers-of-sons, hasn't experienced the phenomenon of watching our grocery bills literally triple overnight as we fight the losing battle to keep teen sons nourished?

It's a nagging worry that doesn't just leave with them when they head off to college, either. Even when both our boys lived on campus, armed to the teeth with full-ride meal tickets carrying unlimited breakfasts, lunches and dinners (and which, in retrospect, I'm sure they seldom used), I insisted on a grocery-store run each time we visited, just to make sure they had plenty of snacks on hand if nothing else.

And so, it was in that spirit that I hatched what I believed to be one of the most brilliant multi-tasking maneuvers ever attempted by any mom, anywhere!

Like so many of my goofy antics, this one was rooted in a road-trip. I was scheduled for a client meeting in East Tennessee and, on such occasions, First-Born Son graciously allowed me to crash at the Knoxville bachelor pad he had occupied since graduating Rocky Top (the University of Tennessee). Now, when he decided he'd had quite enough of the Animal House he and his three roommates had created and that his $7-an-hour first job at the Knoxville Zoo (we were an animal science major, after all!) would pay the rent for an apartment all his own, he moved - no, make that we moved a U-Haul full of furniture up I-40 - into his freshly-painted, newly-carpeted one-bedroom pad in West Knoxville.

As a conscientious mother, I made sure his place was impeccably decorated (we did a total safari theme in honor of that zoo job) and fully-equipped, meaning a kitchen that would rival Emeril's in terms of pots, pans, gadgets and pantry staples. That he had cookware, flatware, glassware, barware, serving-ware and matching dishes (not to mention every small appliance ever manufactured) was just a parent-provided-bonus I was sure he would come to appreciate once he started preparing himself all those home-cooked meals. Never mind that I hadn't ever exactly taught him how to cook!!

(I take that back. There was the time he got to missing his mama's deviled eggs - apparently his favorite food (who knew???) - and he called me - with a dozen fully-boiled eggs, peeled in the pan - asking, 'how do I make them taste like yours?' Touched to the bottom of my heart, I talked him through all the cutting, gutting, doctoring and restuffing only to find out later that he ate the entire 24 halves in one sitting. It was at least two more Easters before he could even look at a deviled egg without turning slightly green).

On each subsequent parental visit to The Pad, Dad would occupy himself making sure all the electronics were appropriately connected, while I would inventory pantry and 'frig and head to Wally-World or Kroger or Food City for provisions. But, after awhile, it became increasingly apparent that the food supply really wasn't diminishing all that much. We would take First-Born and whatever girlfriend-du-jour out to dinner and watch him devour his entree and the remains of ours like one of those starving Third World urchins, yet back at The Pad, his fully-stocked refrigerator, cabinets and pantry were approaching museum-type status. Can you say petrified??

So, I decided that perhaps a bit of inspiration was in order. And, that is how I struck upon the idea of taking my First Born Baby Boy a home-cooked dinner fresh from the farm. Planning around that upcoming road trip, I reasoned that I would finish my meeting in Sevierville and get back to The Pad in time to have a hot "meat and three" ready - and, what the hey, served on those as-yet-unused dishes on the as-yet-unused dining room table - when he got home from work! By proving to him that the stove did actually work , I hoped that seeing just how homey his place could be might motivate him to actually open one of those 10 boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese or Hamburger Helper and fix his own supper!

Dare to dream................

As is my custom, I was packing while watching the 10 PM news the night before my planned ETD (Estimated Time of Departure) at "dark-thirty" the next morning. I had fished a pot roast out of the freezer, thinking I might just let it partially cook before bedtime and I could finish it the next afternoon. But, at some point between the weather and sports, Eureka! - it dawned on me that, lurking somewhere in the back corner of a kitchen cabinet, was a Rival Crock Pot that hadn't seen action in years. And, that revelation is what convinced me I could just go on to bed and let that pot roast sleep in the freezer all night and I'd still be able to deliver it hot and ready-to-eat as planned.

Since my work makes me a road-hog to the tune of about 35,000 miles each year, my vehicle is tricked out with just about every kind of electronic gadget imaginable. Before wireless computing went mainstream, I once even rigged a system that allowed me to receive a fax on the road by hooking my cell-phone to my laptop in the passenger’s seat of my rolling office. With the advent of newer technology, I acquired a power converter that allowed me to plug in my laptop, erasing any possbility of a dead computer battery. Thinking about that long-forgotten crock pot, I connected some very dangerous dots in my brain that helped me "cook up" my hare-brained idea.

As Hubby followed me to the car the next morning, loading my suitcase into the trunk, he weighed in with his opinion while I fumbled with the plug adapter thingy and the crock pot cord. "Dingbat," (his charming term of endearment for me these last 33 years) "you've really lost it this time. There's no way that adapter is going to pull enough power to heat that crockpot, let alone cook a frozen roast!" (Honestly, sometimes, that man's habit of applying logic to everything drives me up a wall!)

"Why not?" I demanded, as I wedged the crock pot securely between my overstuffed briefcase and a box of brochures on the passenger's side floor. Without waiting for his answer, I defiantly popped the adapter plug into the car's cigarette lighter. This whole thing made perfect sense to me. In what I considered a brilliant example of multi-tasking efficiency, the crock pot could do its thing for the next 4.5 hours and once I reached Knoxville, I would drop it off at The Pad, toss in some potatoes, carrots and onions, connect it to a conventional plug, and head to my meeting, confident that dinner would be ready by the time I returned that evening.

Off I drove into the pre-dawn fog that had settled around Hughey Hill, watching Hubby in the rear view mirror as he rolled his eyes, shook his head and walked back into the house.

Taking my preferred backroads route, I was approaching the on-ramp to I-40 about 2.5 hours later, my plan progressing flawlessly (given that my little PT Cruiser smelled just like Arby's), when the cell phone rang. Hubby was checking in, certain that I was stranded on the side of the road somewhere waiting on the firetrucks to arrive.

"HA!" I bellowed into the phone as I careened up the ramp. "This is working like a charm! Why didn't I think of this before?" And it was at that exact moment I heard what I could've sworn was either a blown tire or a tractor trailer truck backfiring. The POP was so loud and startling, I was momentarily disoriented as I quickly checked every mirror to make sure another vehicle wasn't careening wildly out of control and in my direction. What I was NOT expecting to see as I merged into the right lane of Eastbound I-40 - cell phone in one hand, the other firmly gripping the wheel - was the impressive curl of black smoke wafting up from the adapter plug.

"Oh, no!" I shouted. "Gotta go!!!"

Instinctively, I grabbed the adapter out of the cigarette lighter and in doing so, literally experienced the definition of red-hot! Thus began a wild game of "hot potato" starring me, my cell phone and one molten hot electrical gadget. Thank God it was a straight stretch of interstate as I steered with my knee for a good two miles while this insane juggling act continued. Not sure I hadn't shorted out the car's entire electrical system or ignited a smoldering under-hood fire, I slowed to the speed limit, half-expecting the car to just up and die on me at any moment.

Of course, worse than worrying about any damage I'd done to the car, was the prospect of calling Hubby back to explain why I had so abruptly ended our earlier phone conversation. I despise giving him a reason to say, "Toldja so!"

I made it to The Pad without anything (else) blowing up. Once inside, I inspected the crock pot cord for signs of frazzling or melting, but it looked fine. Still, I wasn't about to plug it in and leave for any length of time and wind up torching an entire apartment complex in the process. I plunked the whole thing in the refrigerator and went off to my meeting. Much later that afternoon, I returned, plugged in the crock pot and watched it like a hawk while that stupid roast finished cooking. I figured if it didn't ignite after a couple of hours, it was safe to use.

And, that night, First Born Son walked into his apartment to find his dining room table set with matching dishes and a Hughey-Hill-raised-roast-beef as the centerpiece of a meal that included mashed potatoes, veggies, hot rolls and a pecan pie for dessert. Watching my son devour his dinner as he looked around appreciatively at his freshly-cleaned apartment, I realized my plan really DID come off without much of a hitch!

As for his petrified pantry and cabinet contents?

I left those for for his fiancee' to deal with when he moved out a year later.

Puttin' On The Spanxx!

Before I even begin, let me qualify this account by admitting my memories of it are a bit hazy given the amount of time the blood supply to my brain was cut off, but I digress........................

As I mentioned in a previous post, I managed to gain 70 pounds in a year, thanks in no small part to a tempermental thyroid and the onset of menopause, but mostly because of my two-fisted approach to midlife stress management: a fork in one hand, a cocktail in the other. On my rocket ride from a Size 8/10 to Size "Ate-Ten" (of everything), I orbited into the land of "plus-size fashion." Quicker than you can say "chili cheese fries," I watched my closet full of cute, fitted fashionable clothing morph into a pitiful home for the stretchy, roomy, mostly black, don't-touch-me-anywhere style of apparel designed by Omar The Tentmaker. I'm just saying that should my pregnant daughter-in-law have the need, she'll have plenty of fashion selection when her ninth month rolls around this fall..

Now, on my journey, I've relied heavily (total pun intended) on the waaaaay-too-forgiving, infinite stretchiness and camouflauging blackness of Chico's Traveler line of clothing to keep me clad a tad too comfortably as I traded up a new size about every two months. (It's easy to sail the river of "de-nile" when your outfit conveniently expands right along with you)! Fortunately, I have plenty of the collection's pieces since I travel so often for work. After all, this is the stuff you can wad into a ball, shove into your carry-on bag and survive a two-week trek to Europe - with room to spare.

I had continued along this clothing path until the inevitability of Wedding Season 2008 threw a serious monkey-wrench into my "style." When Firstborn Son married that March, it was David's Bridal to the rescue with their stunning array of sizes that climbed well into the high double-digits. From the moment the kids announced their engagement, I determined that I would not fall into the frumpy-schlumpy mother-of-the-groom trap. This mama wasn't putting on beige, no siree! I was totally thrilled with my choice of the burgundy, off-the-shoulder number that also allowed me the ultimate comfort of wearing regular underwear.

But, then came late June and with it, the ceremony that would unite the precious daughter of long-time family friends and her handsome betrothed. The afternoon hour selected for the nuptials, coupled with the fact that summers down here are hotter'n fourteen hells, precluded any thought of milking additional miles from the burgundy dress. So, I settled for an aqua, street-length, linen sheath that would have to do. It's somewhat straight design, however, wasn't the most forgiving to an ever-growing gut. And, I literally melted at the thought of wearing control-top pantyhose in late June.

What to do?

Why, count on Oprah - and Chico's - of course!

Everybody knows that Oprah put Chico's Urban slacks on the map when she famously renamed them the "butt jeans" on one of her "favorite things" shows. And, how better to make that butt look so fabulous, no matter the size? Why, a handy-dandy, featherweight little piece of under-armor (the real stuff - not to be confused with another clothing line of the same name) called SPANXX!

On my next foray through Chico-land, I picked up a pair of the Higher Power - the ones that extend from just below the boobs all the way to the knees. They guaranteed among other things to make the wearer look at least one-size smaller, all the while preventing "muffin top," that ugly spare-tire roll that squishes itself up and escapes over the nearest waistband. I took them home and tossed them into the lingerie drawer without another thought, never for once thinking I should've considered taking them on a test-drive before The Big Day.

Wedding week arrived and with it the frenzy of activity that accompanies welcoming and entertaining out-of-town guests. I was especially excited because Firstborn Son and his new bride had wrangled a rare weekend off work in order to come home for the festivities. Soon enough, The Big Day arrived and, at last, it was time to dress for the short ride to Nashville for the ceremony and reception.

The house was abuzz with four adults rushing around trying to get ready to get to the same place at the same time. As I sat at my dressing table, working on my make-up and pondering the definition of insanity ("doing the same thing over and over again and always expecting a different result"), Newly-Minted-Daughter-In-Law popped in several times, seeking comment on her choice of dress ("darling!"), her hairstyle ("precious!") or to poke through my jewelry drawer in search of perhaps a different pair of earrings. Having birthed and raised two sons, I was thoroughly enjoying this exchange. Finally confident that she was good to go, she headed downstairs while I headed to the lingerie drawer.

Anyone who has ever purchased a pair of Spanxx will agree that they are deceptively lightweight and airy feeling. Looking very much like an average pantyhose top, they offer no hint of the experience that awaits the novice wearer, i.e., the experience of actually getting into the stupid things. Can you say "contortionist?" I stepped into them and began pulling them up, panty-hose style, but when they reached the knees, we hit a snag. Make that a brick wall. They stopped. And when they stopped, they wrapped around each leg like a boa constrictor and began not-so-gently squeezing. That should've been my first red flag to stop the madness, but noooooo! I launched what would become a furious battle to beat - or at least tame - the bulge!

So, I pulled, and I pulled, trying to ignore the chain of stress-induced hot flashes my efforts triggered. (Most people don't know that I was born a natural red-head. In fact, my hair was so bright-orange at birth, my mother reportedly cried the first time she laid eyes on me (and boy-howdy is THAT another story!). While the red gradually turned into baby blonde and has dulled to the nondescript dishwater shade I sometimes wear today, the hard-headed determination ("stubbornness" is such an ugly word) inherent to most red-heads remains). When I finally coaxed them over my knees and half-way up my thighs, they locked up again, this time buckling my knees inward toward each other, making it virtually impossible to take a step in any direction. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, I grabbed a handful of Spanxx in each hand and began the furious tug northward over the biggest hurdles yet, which would be my aforementioned massive derriere and gut. Summoning every ounce of strength I could muster, I gave a mighty yank, causing them to lurch and land mid-tummy before they stopped yet again.

That's when I started seeing brown spots and the room began spinning. (And, no, alcohol was not involved). As my vision began to dim and the faint roaring in my ears grew louder, all I could think about in that moment was how humiliated I would be for Newly-Minted-Daughter-In-Law to come running when she heard the loud thud (once the house stopped shaking, that is) and find her Newly-Minted-Mother-In-Law unconscious on the floor, half-naked and - as my BFF Cheryl's late daddy used to say about her mother taking off her girdle - "looking like a can of biscuits that had just popped open!"

Struggling to remain conscious, I bunny-hopped my lock-kneed self (triggering a tremor that registered on the Richter Scale) over to the bed and braced myself against it to at least cushion the fall, should it happen. After all, no way was I sitting down. Not yet, anyway. Determined that I wasn't about to have suffered through this trauma for nothing, I vowed to continue the fight, deciding that finesse, not force, was the key to victory. And, it was about fifteen minutes later, with all that flesh stuffed and uniformly distributed within that long, beige Iron Maiden prison, and dress on, zipping nicely, that I made the mistake of finally sitting down.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you I have no head for math or science, but I have heard of something called PSI - or pounds per square inch. The hour-long ride to Nashville - seated - gave me ample time to ponder just exactly how much pressure or PSI it takes to cause organ damage.

By the end of the evening, my mid-section emerged from the shock and began to fight back. Whether cocktails and dinner contributed to this, I have no idea. Or maybe the hours of unrelenting pressure had taken its toll on that mega-resistant fabric. Either way, the Spanxx had slightly loosened their death grip on me, enabling me to get home and get out of them (see can-of-biscuit reference above) and feel, once again, the rush of blood to my feet and my brain.

You know how they say that once you see the precious face of your newborn baby, you instantly forget the hours of hellatious, agonizing labor you just endured to give them life? I guess the same premise applies here, because it wasn't long after my first battle with Spanxx that I bellied up to the drawer for more punishment. This time, it was to stuff myself into a business suit for a VIP (Very Important Presentation) before a client group in another state. And, leaving nothing to chance, like a glutton for punishment (among other things), I even put on a pair of control top pantyhose OVER the Spanxx. Can you imagine the support I felt?

Even though all that panty-power compressed my bladder to the thinness of a Pringles potato chip, I ardently avoided contact with the Ladies Room all day long. What had been pulled up that morning was not about to come down for any reason if I could help it. (Good thing I don't suffer from pre-speech nerves). And my plan was working well, thank you very much. That is, until just before I was to go "on," I felt something flapping and looked down to see that one of my t-strap pumps had come unbuckled.

Ducking into the powder room, I attempted to lift my foot to the bench near the vanity hoping to quickly buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. No such luck. So, I sat down, hoping to bend down to buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. Not happenin! I crossed my leg (with great effort and not much success), hoping to reach over and down and never mind the weird backwards angle, buckle my shoe and get back to the meeting. Nuh-uh. Trying not to panic, I tried every trick imaginable with plenty of hot flashes and no success. Imagine my humiliation as I flagged down one of my colleagues to come to my rescue and sheepishly asked her to re-buckle my pump, claiming a bad back as my pitiful excuse for needing help.

She was gracious, I was spared, and lived to give another speech.

Later that night, in the trash can of a convenience store ladies room somewhere along I-24, went one tired pair of control-top pantyhose. And the Spanxx? I'm waaay too cheap to throw something that expensive in the trash, but they came off and came home and are living in total obscurity somewhere in the bottom of my lingerie drawer.

But I can proudly say, "I fought the Spanxx and I WON!"

What's It All About?

So, this is supposed to be Mel's Musings. And, as a professional writer and someone who has never been accused of being quiet or introverted, blogging should be right up my alley. So why, then, have I avoided this forum like the plague? On any given day, my brain is like an RSS newsfeed of chapter titles and topics for that book I'm finally going to write someday (the boring bank manual I wrote ten years ago nothwithstanding). So when I sat down at the computer and actually took a stab at making a list of potential blogging topics, I hit a big wall.

What's up with that??

Maybe it's the fear of the unknown - audience, that is. It feels strangely vulnerable to, well, muse, to who-knows-who out there. I don't have a following - yet. The Girlfriend Factor seems to be getting off the ground finally. It took long enough to get this venture to the launch pad, after all.

Hmmmmm, now there's a topic. What's this Girlfriend Factor thing all about??

An idea that was birthed on - of all things - a girlfriend getaway in New Orleans, where we had gathered in celebration of a friend's 50th birthday, the seeds of what would become The Girlfriend Factor were planted over coffee and The Times-Picayune - as we enjoyed a lazy morning of staying in our pjs until 11 AM. Most of us had spent years "on the road" shepherding senior adult groups around the globe as bank travel club directors and/or tour operators. And, more than once, we had stolen away on what Girlfriend Brenda aptly described as "a boondoggle," meaning a few mental health days disguised as an erstwhile business trip. Why then, we wondered aloud, wouldn't the same group concept we had successfully applied to senior work just as well for girlfriends?

EUREKA!!!

Did I mention that was 2003? It would be four more years and an empty nest later before I would finally "name it and claim it" and breathe life into The Girlfriend Factor. During that time, more than few folks in the travel industry caught wind of this hot new trend (great minds think alike, right?) so I was a little behind the curve.

That "dash" (between 2003-2007) dealt me enough life-altering milestones (turning 50, watching the firstborn graduate college and the baby leave home to begin his own college career) and blows (my dad's death from an ugly two-year battle with degerative dementia, eleven changes of thyroid medication as menopause descended and led to my own 70-pound weight gain in a year as well as deeply personal issues that are just too painful to think about much less pound out on virutal paper) to bury a weaker person. Too much of that time was spent wondering if I had anything left to offer anyone. But, thank God for girlfriends because it was my own army of them that helped me see that we're all in the same boat: we've educated the kids and sent them out into the world to make their own way, we've watched them get married and are welcoming grandchildren (and the cycle begins again!), we've cared for aging parents, we've entered the world of hot-flashes and chronic insomnia and we've looked around and inward and asked ourselves "now what?"

When I think about it, in many ways, the decision to pull The Girlfriend Factor off the back-burner signaled my re-entry into the human race and a realization that "at 51, I'm far from done!"

So here we are - half-way through 2009 - and The Girlfriend Factor is LinkedIn with a sho-nuff website, a page on Facebook, a presence on Twitter (though I still haven't quite figured out why) and sending out e-newsletters with Constant Contact. (Am I wired or what?) And, oh yeah, I finally have a BLOG, along with the whole rest of the world, it seems!

With all those avenues of communication, it should be relatively easy to let girlfriends everywhere know that it's time to be "on the run and havin' fun" (a slogan I pirated years ago from my favorite opera diva - thanks Kacey-Lou!)! I mean, who knew our need for mental health days would be deeper once the kids were out of the house than when they were underfoot? As Wynonna so eloquently points out in those "alli" commercials - "it's time to put ME back on my list."

Why?

Cyndi Lauper said it best........ "Cause girls just wanna have fun!"