The perils of gym going PART ONE!

So, I joined the gym at my university… While I am glad I did, it has presented some problems. Because it is 45 minutes from home, I must plan ahead. Now this may seem straight forward, and experienced gym goers (Marleen I am talking to you) may be confused at my ineptitude. My first problem is I have to park on campus which means I have to park a mile away from everywhere. And I have no shoulders. I do not know why but, when I place a bag over my shoulder, it promptly falls off. When I look in the mirror I appear normal not, as the endless slipping bags and purses indicate, a 1920s circus freak. “Step right up ladies and gentlemen – see the terrifying, mind-bending freak lady with no shoulders!”

Anyway, so now I have to walk a mile with bags of clothes, shampoo, water bottle, three towels (one for the hair, one for the body and one for sweating). Plus various offerings to the beauty gods, such as: Hair dryer, straightener and, of course, Moroccan oil. Otherwise, no matter how much heat I apply to my hair, the beauty gods think it is funny to watch as the day progresses and my hair expands 'till I look like my daily job is checking electrical sockets are working. So, Moroccan oil to wrangle it into place.

Then I need my school bag. I am usually running late so I park and then take off jogging towards the gym. Now, the reason I joined the gym is because I hurt my Achilles tendon running so, about three steps into the jog, I must stop. But I am still late so now I look like a speed-walking homeless person with all my worldly goods slung over my non existent shoulders. People have to give me quite the wide berth as my various bags swing randomly from their perch and threaten them. I am angry at my shoulders at this point so people are also giving me a wide berth because I look like I might be trying to hit them with my wildly swinging bags. I arrive at the gym and throw all bags on the floor in front of reception. The young, large-shouldered, golden goddesses behind the counter look at me sideways, sure that I should not be this out of breath heading into the gym. I try to keep my expletives as quiet as possible as I fish my wallet from the very bottom of the school bag.

Finally I produce the entry card and stomp back to the changing rooms. Now I have ten minutes before spin class begins. This may seem like enough time but clearly you do not wear sports bras. I start by hopping around the gym with my toes lifted, to avoid the dreaded athlete’s foot, and to avoid dragging my pants on the ground while simultaneously pulling them on. Then, it is time for the bra. I like the kind that goes over your head… when they are on that is. I get it over my head and now handily absent shoulders but then I am stuck. To be fair, I have dumb arthritis elbows that don’t straighten, but still… So now it is balled up under my armpits and I am flinging my body around like I am trying to escape from a straight jacket. This is when I hear the outer door to the changing room open. I dive for cover into the shower stall, still balancing on my heels to keep my toes from touching the slimy floor. I keep flinging my body sideways, trying frantically to get the damn thing over my squished boobs. Then it occurs to me that, if I fell over in here and hit my head, it would appear to my rescuers that I had been strangled by my own bra. Determined not to be headline news “Woman strangled by sports bra” I wrestle with it determinedly until I finally triumph.

I am ten minutes late to class…

Crab, Chili and Mint Crostini 

So… I did catering. I must now bow to all caterers out there; you are a stronger breed than me. I agreed to this insanity during a meeting where many things were being asked for. You know, “Who can do this?’” and “Can someone take care of the thing in the place?” Most of the time I was not even sure that they were speaking English. I kept occasionally saying yes to jobs that sounded normal like “check this on the website”. Anyway, feeling particularly useless at one meeting the convener said the word “food”. Instantly I sat up, back straight and ready. I knew that word! It was a word in the English language AND I knew how to MAKE that word! Like the student in class who puts her hand up before the question was asked, I volunteered my and my friend’s (who was not present and could not stop me) services in the kitchen, creating food to make the event special.

I left the meeting finally feeling like I had contributed. As I began planning a menu it was only then it occurred to me to confirm the number of attendees. I say confirm but I had not bothered to ask at the time and had a solid number in my head of 30. I was sure 30 people would be coming. Because the max I have ever cooked for is 40 so I thought in my head how magnificent I would be with 30. Then came the email “we are expecting 80 to 100 but plan for 100”. Totally fine! I was all cocky and arrogant. I KNOW what I am doing and I will be amazing. I wrote back saying this in a slightly more humble tone. After the email was sent however, I did sort of black out for a while; I am not sure for how long but Amelia arrived home from school and pulled me out of the stupor. I recovered and set about planning the day. There were testing days with friends (the one I had already promised to use and her family), shopping days, and more shopping days.

Next, I was asked for a cost estimate. I stared at my computer for a while and then opened the Google page and typed in “What do I do when someone asks me for a catering quote?” Google tried to be helpful but I think it was confused because only an idiot would agree to do catering without knowing how to make a catering quote. Luckily Word saved the day and gave me a template. I chose the menu template first and filled out an entire menu including amazing writing descriptions like:

Caprese Skewers

A mini caprese salad on a stick

(This one took the longest, oddly. I kept staring at it because the title seemed self explanatory and I could not think of another way to explain it.... even though I'm, you know, trying to be a writer and all...) I did this with all of my dishes and then realized because “my clients” are used to professional caterers they probably just want an invoice. Which I then Googled and subsequently found a template for on Word. I could then arrive at the next meeting looking all professional and confident (thanks Word, if you are reading this, which would be hard not to since I am writing on you).

On the first testing day, I discovered that I do not have a sophisticated palate, when I tried to make crab crostini with actual crab. I cracked open the can and mixed all the ingredients carefully in to the bowl, placed it on my perfectly toasted crostini and spat it out. Apparently, you can take the girl out of Colorado, the land locked seafood deprived State, but she will never get over her aversion to eating a crustacean. (Much to the disappointment of my extremely classy sister, who continues to try and refine my taste.)  So, on the menu it remained but with fake crab made of fish and dyed with streaks of pink. Yum.

 

Two days before, I spend the entire night figuring out how to make chocolate cups. This ends with me covered in chocolate (picture a giant human version of the chocolate Easter bunny) a nice decorating of the carpet and couch with beautiful chocolate drips, and some misshapen cups which I hope no one will notice because at least they taste yummy.

Finally, after dreaming about roasted red peppers attacking me in my sleep and dreams about cooking at the event and having to run around the counter to rescue someone from anaphylactic shock because they had consumed an allergen in my food (yes, actual nurse-turned-caterer dream), the day before finally arrived. I spent the day with gallons of cream cheese and cursing my tiny sink, all the while reminding myself that people actually do this for a living and I should just snap out of it.

My husband arrived home to my chaos and I began to assign him some jobs. I find it best to give him one job at a time otherwise he ends up looking like one of those patients in the mental institution (in the movies) that paces back and forth and finds it particularly important to study the corner of the ceiling. So, one job at a time. Unfortunately, I usually lose track of how long it has been since I gave him the last job and mindlessly shout another one. At one point (we are nearing the ten pm mark) I yell “Arg, I asked you to chop the celery! What have you been doing!?” I turn to find him elbow deep in the dishes that I asked him to do after I asked him to cut the celery. And he responds “I have been doing the ten other things you asked me to do after you asked me to cut the celery.” He remains calm.

“Never mind,” I say, not bothering to apologize, “we really need to make the bruschetta.” And I go back to the chocolate cups. He says under his breath that “it is late and you really should get to bed” to which I snap “if I don’t get the bruschetta done, it’s over its ALL OVER, this whole thing is just a DISASTER.” Dutifully he starts slicing the bread and I set about conquering more chocolate cups. After the first batch is out of the oven he asks me to rub the garlic on top. As a side note, if you are making 400 pieces of bruschetta don’t balance them on top of the strainer which is balanced on top of the large stock pot because if you do you will send all of them to the ground. And you will swear a lot. In my defense there was nowhere else to put the tray… as you can see…

We get to bed at 3 am with 2/3 of the bruscetta (all of it was made but a third ended up on the floor.)

Day of, I ask my husband to go in late to work because I need help loading the car. I had planned to drive our van but unfortunately it needed a warrant (a New Zealand thing) which required new tires. So I am stuck with the toy yellow car with two doors and a moving truck worth of food. Also, as an added bonus, I had to go to class so everything had to be kept chilled and out of the sun for two hours (it's the middle of summer).

I arrive at the university and fall out of my clown car, picture my unwashed hair, crazed look in my eye. I look more like one of those clowns who live in their car and arrive to a children’s party with all their worldly possessions and completely drunk and are then “asked” to leave by a couple of the fathers present.

 

I then drive to my friend’s house to continue cooking because I live 45 minutes away. I take over her kitchen and boss my two best friends around for three hours then have to pack the clown car back up again. Then I drive back to University where the event is being held and fall out of the clown car while trying to keep everything else from falling out. Meanwhile, I am thinking this may have been a mistake and is there any way I could just cut up McDonald’s hamburgers and call it “retro”?

I have to get everything put together and plated in under one hour. I do not. I act like a Russian dictator (one of the bad ones, you know, from before...) to those assigned to help me.  The honored guests arrive (including several of my professors and the head of the English department) to find me trying to squirt mango sauce out of a receptacle that is now clogged with a piece of chili. In the end I went for Jackson Pollock-inspired plates called “Splattered chili mango”. Then they all watched (because the kitchen is in the middle of the room, you know like on a stage) as I tried to fill the afore mentioned chocolate cups with dairy free pudding. I was trying to use a cake decorating tube with a screw on lid. I would fill three and then the tube lid would explode off causing me to shout (under my breath of course) MOTHER ffffffffffffffff…dang it! And again MOTHER FFFFFFFFF… dang it!

I think the evening was a success… people were smiling and eating… I couldn’t really see straight... there is one picture of me at the event… I hope I don’t normally look like this… no one ate the celery…At the end of the night I found the 100 plates I had purchased for the event… apparently I didn’t notice people trying to balance food on napkins all night… I spent the next three days trying to convince my daughter that she liked crab, chili, mint, crostini because I went over budget and had to even it out by eating the leftovers instead of buying groceries. She does not like crab, chili, mint crostini, especially for breakfast strangely. But not wanting to be mean she would say with ultimate diplomacy, “I know it’s good I just… I just don’t want it right now…” This was usually followed by an uncontrolled sound like “ugh” as she gagged down the bite I begged her to try.

So hats off to all caterers I think it is safe to say your job is secure from me at least.

Musings of an Aging Mind PART TWO

More Birthday questions…

1.      Is it okay to let pandas starve in order to get a smart phone? If you are looking for money in your budget for a smart phone and you notice that the monthly payments to the WWF (World Wildlife Fund) is almost the exact amount you would have to pay to have a smart phone, could it be time to let the Pandas fend for themselves? I mean they have always been pretty good at finding food before. Can’t they just go back to eating bamboo? Do they have to have a three course meal every day? I know I am willing to go without food sometimes for the sake of my phone so maybe they will be fine…

2.      I always wondered if at my very core I am a terrible person who would take money from pandas and buy a smart phone. The jury is still out. I still have my kindergarten phone but I have made the trip to the shiny phone store twice now…it’s starting to look ominous for the pandas… maybe they could start saving up? Like those doomsday prepers?

3.      Can people stop saying ‘Thus sayeth the Lord?’ Stop talking for Him please and if you are quoting scripture you better be ready to give me the historical context and the original Greek and Hebrew otherwise shut up because your “thus sayeth the Lord” just became “thus sayeth Joe Blow” and I, for some strange reason, do not trust in Joe Blow or his Bible. Also, as a bonus, there is a 50/50 chance I won’t know the original Greek and Hebrew so you might win the argument. (It is unlikely though because if you are screaming hate I am likely to be laughing at you, which means I have already won. Or  I may be running away from you because you are scary for no reason. Like it would be okay if you were scary because you were saving kids from sex slavery or something but just scary because you are filled with hate is a definite red flag about pursuing a friendship with you.) Plus, your first clue you might be on the wrong track is you are still using “sayeth” instead of says or said or babbled or jabbered or tweeted!! (see I’m getting the hang of it now).

Maybe we could try interjecting comments like, “I don’t know, let me think about that before answering and say it is absolutely what God believes.” Just a thought, because people are getting really upset and yelling and making signs painted with hate and looking ridiculous and I thought the whole point is that we are NOT God, so, maybe in the future, we can just let Him speak for Himself (or insert a non-gender based word for God here. I could not come up with one because I am running late). And then maybe our collective IQ would go up a few points.

Musings of an aging mind PART ONE

I recently celebrated my birthday.  Every year around that time I get very pensive and often have some deep philosophical insights. This year I have found I have discovered fewer insights and more questions. I wonder if this is because I am getting more confused or smarter? Here are some examples:

1.      Can we be dressed feminists or do we all have to be naked?  Can we be liberated and dressed? Do we have to be naked, riding on construction equipment in order to show how liberated we are?  I want my daughter to grow up free, breaking through all the glass ceilings, and not sexually repressed but I would like her to be able to do this while dressed. Is this not possible?

2.      Why am I a sucker for shiny technology, even though I am pretty inept at using it? I like looking at it and pretending I know how to use it. I also say things like data and gigabyte and nod convincingly when others talk to me about these things. I have no idea what any of it actually means. Basically I just read their expressions: if they look happy, I smile, if they look sad or stressed, I frown. The only time this backfires is when my husband waves shiny technology in front of my face and then he and the sales guy do an interpretive dance about how my life will never be the same, and how I will rule over all computers and phones for only $1299.99! My eyes glaze over and I try to think of all the clever words I know, throwing in things like Pixels and storage capacity. They continue to spin and dance around me. I watch as the salesman’s eyes grow wide (and a little shinier, weirdly) as he can sense my weakness growing. His eyes dart between my husband and me as we argue. He and Alan seem to be following some sort of script from a scene in a Broadway musical (you know, the ones where the two evil geniuses sing songs of advice as they slink around the hero convincing her to become part of their diabolical plan even though she has no idea about their diabolical plan and they just keep singing “yes you can!” over and over as the orchestra builds until the hero is convinced that it is a solid plan and steps forward, arms raised to sing in declaration -  “YES I CAN!” and the evil villains slink off out of the spotlight, crouching and rubbing their beards in greedy anticipation of their crime and the utter demise of the Hero. You know; one of those scenes.) I finally cave and spend the money. But the heroine is bested in the end because even though the shiny technology is pretending to work for me  it is carrying a secret weapon innocuously named "Windows 8". Which suddenly decides while you are editing,  very important, world changing literature  that you would actually rather be looking at an alternative document. I yell and scream at my nemesis but it just smirks at me and reminds me that I asked for this when I purchased the computer, in the store, during a musical number, with two villains.  

Bad Parents, or Not just Any Given Sunday

So we had the complete and utter meltdown of diplomatic relations between our daughter and us on Sunday. You may be asking, what was the shot heard round the world? It was a shoe. Well, a pair of shoes to be exact. Shoes, I feel, have always been underrated in their role in diplomatic breakdown. I mean, shoes are SHOES and I think shoes are an integral part of your personality so if someone messes with your shoes it’s like messing with you. Not to mention the whole President Bush and the shoe throwing incident!

Also it is important to keep in mind when diplomatic relations break down, the last time everyone had some protein. Because we neglected to remember that our daughter had risen at six am and had gotten herself a bowl of cereal. Thus, at twelve pm, when the war started, she is ravenous. (This gives me pause about current crises around the world. Has anyone ever tried making everyone a sandwich with some chicken on it? Because people get REALLY angry and irrational without food and I’m just saying it could be worth a shot… not that I am naïve enough to think that the problems they are facing could be fixed with food, I am just saying that perhaps negotiations would go smoother if everyone was fed.) Anyway, wanting to be parents of integrity and intending to show that she could trust us and that our word meant something, (and because we still haven't figured out the food thing and because we are a little scared of the level of escalation and what that would look like in public) Alan decides to follow through with the threat that if she doesn’t change her shoes and her attitude we will not be going to see her best friends. We deliver the news after much deliberation. The tears come, the bargaining starts and we begin to think that we may have gone about it in the wrong way. Starting with, putting a consequence in place that not only punishes her but seven other people, including us who were looking forward to spending the day with our friends.

Our day now ruined, we embark on a walk. We discuss our failings as parents and how many years back we must have made our first error because such an epic war always begins years before. I think it can be traced back to my winning of the argument that I felt we could raise our daughter without spanking even though Alan and I had both been spanked and seemed to have survived. I decided that our children would be logical and we could always come up with creative ways to discipline without using spanking. Unfortunately, it seems, at times we are unprepared for the level of creativity required to come up with a new punishment every time diplomatic methods fail. Also, sometimes we underestimate the amount of illogical behavior a child can produce. We replay the last few weeks and realize we may have lost a few key battles which may have lead to the all out, guns blazing, war. This is what we are in deep discussion about when we notice that, up ahead, our daughter who is riding her bike, suddenly stops and dives into a ditch.

“Now what?” asks Alan with a sigh.

“Probably animal rescue…” I say, knowing that animal rescue is what would send my daughter into a dirty hole faster than anything. As we approach she motions angrily for us to quiet down.

“KITTENS!” she whispers, her eyes wild with excitement.

Sure enough, three little kittens are living in a storm drain. She and Alan begin trying to coax them out. I stand by, offering helpful hints like “Aww you just scared it!” and “Oh, shoot!” Finally, since I have been so helpful, they send me home for, now this is very important: “1. A box with a lid. 2. Milk. 3. Any leftover meat I can find.” I listen very carefully and head home. I find a clean box with a four sided lid, check. Milk with a bowl I don’t care about, check. And a container of the leftover chicken that, if you are following my blog you will remember, Alan forgot to put away and it sat out all night, check. I drive back and present my offering: Al says ‘aww you should have brought tuna…’ I say, ‘You didn’t say tuna. You said leftover meat, I thought tuna would have been good but you said leftover meat, you should remember this is my first “rescuing kittens scenario…”’ (I get a little snarky there at the end; please feel free to read it that way.)

Now, we have coaxed a kitten out with food (apparently they do like leftover left-out chicken so there!) and Amelia picks up the kitten by the neck and then drops it. It goes running into the bushes. Amelia freaks out but, like a true professional, she regroups and coaxes the next one out. This time she keeps hold and brings it to Dad who showers her with praise (I do as well while trying to back away with imperceptible steps. I should make a confession here that animals have always scared me. I blame it on not having pets growing up but it is probably just my distrusting nature. I mean, animals can turn on you in a second! Also, they were living in the drain pipe and as a self-professed germaphobe… well you see my dilemma.)

 Anyway, Alan then sees the box and says “Oh… this is not a good box, you should have brought a basket or something…” I then say, in a slightly more whiny voice than necessary “…but you didn’t say basket, you said box with a lid! So I went home and found a clean box with a lid.” He takes in my defiant face, nods and approaches the box. He attempts to place the kitten in the box and close all four lids. As it claws its way back out he mumbles “not the right box, shhh calm down… not the right box…” He finally succeeds in closing the lid on the terrified kitten who is now in the dark and sure he is being taken somewhere horrible. Amelia has coaxed the last one out of the drain pipe and brings it to Dad who praises her again and attempts to place it in the box with the first one. This causes the first kitten to claw its way out by digging its claws into Alan’s skin. Now he is trying to hold both and keeps yelling “NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX! NOT THE RIGHT BOX…MEL HELP!!” to which I respond (while backing away from the carnage) “What do you need?” he responds “Just help! I can’t…” Then he loses one, who skitters off down the street (I try and look like I am making a run for it while secretly hoping I won’t catch it)  “It’s the wrong box…” he finishes, still holding the frightened first one, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds on his forearms. We decide to go and get an appropriate basket… and rescue the other one still caught in the bushes.

In the end we have arrived home with two of the three kittens immediately named Marco and Gonzales by Amelia (which I find perfect because they BOTH liked the chicken with the jalapeños mixed in).  A little later, I find the two kittens sleeping on top of each other and promptly send Alan back out in the middle of the night to find the other one who is now alone. He comes home empty handed. I am not impressed and he is confused (because I have been so worried about the kittens up to this point). He explains that he tried but it was…dark and… the pipe is now… dark… because it is the middle of the night… All the while we are explaining to Amelia that we are not allowed pets in our rental to which she tries to put on a brave face. The next day Alan spends $75 on flea treatments, de-worming tablets, specialty kitten food and a litter box… because he says we definitely have to give them away…

Clearly we are parents who keep their word.

 

The Realities of Valentine’s Day

You should know this is an unusual post for me (also you should know I had another post all ready to go so if you don’t like this one stay tuned). I used to be a romantic and get mad at all the Valentine’s Day haters. But now I am starting to see that my dad may be right. He used to say, much to my annoyance, that he didn’t like Valentine’s because he didn’t like a huge corporation to tell him to show love. I was like “Oh come on Dad, join the party! Every party has a pooper…” But now that I am old and apparently  a little cynical, I am beginning to see the wisdom in my Dad’s words. (This has been happening for a while, for my dad is a very wise man, like if he had been alive when Jesus was born he definitely would have been following a star and bringing a gift. He is THAT wise. And most days I am aware of how blessed I am to have a dad that wise. Just yesterday while listening to one of his amazing teachings online it occurred to me I had my own direct line to him literally… I called him and he sorted out my current problem with in about 15 minutes) Anyway, now I think he may be on to something with this Valentine’s Day thing too. I have a lot of single friends and some of them don’t care about Valentine’s but for some it is very painful reminder that they don’t have a valentine and the throw-up of red and pink everywhere is just like slapping them in the face.

But let’s look at this from another angle... all of us “happy” people WITH Valentines. My Valentine’s Day started with a angry diatribe about my husband because he forgot to put the leftovers away last night AFTER he said he would. (You may be wondering why I didn’t just slip them into the fridge myself; this is not the point! Stick to the real issue please.) Why so angry, you may ask. Well you see when you HAVE a valentine, NOT putting the left-overs away is not just "not putting the left overs away". It is, “You don’t love me because you didn’t put the left-overs away! You don’t respect the hard work I put into that meal… (that was WAY too spicy for you AND you were allergic to several key ingredients but told me it was yummy anyway”. Stick to the point people this is MY story).

This may have all started when having a discussion about life on our couch the other day (see the key is, this happened Valentine's week.) Something caught Al’s eye. It was an unidentified bug crawling up over his shoulder from his back. He proceeded to scream like a little girl and THEN flick it off his shoulder DIRECTLY on to ME! So now we are both screaming but mainly I am screaming at him for flinging it at me. This leaves the 2014 woman in quite the conundrum by-the-way and fighting about this must be done very carefully. Because we want to be all equal opportunities and such, so really we should not be screaming when we have a bug on us. However, I had a loophole you see, because HE was screaming about the bug too. SO it was already a case of equality. So then my argument was NOT about chivalry it was about common courtesy… see? So you can’t say “I can’t believe you didn’t protect me from the bug!” but use the carefully chosen words “I can’t believe you flung a bug at me!” which any guy could say to another guy… See it is very technical… (Secretly, I would still like to be protected from bugs by someone not screaming but feministly I am perfectly capable of handling bugs.)

Anyway, so to all the single people out there who are sad I will not say you are better off because that is insulting if you are sad and I definitely don’t feel that way. ALL of you deserve a Valentine and I hope you find the love of your life very soon. I will say though, that once you have a Valentine there is no guarantee you will have a fun Valentine’s Day… because he couldn’t get a babysitter (to be fair it is a Friday and we have like one babysitter because we don’t trust anyone with our daughter), or you are still mad about the leftover thing, or the bug incident is still very confusing. So 16 years after getting your Valentine you will be sitting at home watching American Idol with a messy kitchen (because clearly HE has to clean the kitchen because he SAID he would put the leftovers away!).

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Super Bowl sad and Mother-in-law sad

I have a confession to make. I think I may have contributed to the Broncos’ hideous game-playing Sunday. You see, I was pretty homesick and, if the Broncos had won, it would have been WAY too bittersweet. Heavy on the bitter and light on the sweet. The last time Denver won the Super Bowl, my Dad, a happy-at-home, self-described non-partier drove into downtown Denver and, in conjunction with the thronging masses, tooted his car horn and yelled out his car window. I would have given almost anything to see that but I missed it, being Down Under and all… So, if the Broncos had won yesterday and I had once again been sequestered on this tiny island, about as far away from home as I could get, I may just have cried and cried. Then I would have felt terrible because, while so many of my Bronco-brethren would be happy and Peyton Manning would have another Super Bowl ring after his record breaking season, there would be me: all self pity and sad, thinking how mean the world is.

As it is though, they not only lost but lost… wow… badly. So my Dad can recover in solitude and I don’t feel like I have missed out on something amazing and historic. So thank you Denver Broncos because, while the game was painful to watch, it is clear you need me in the country in order to win (as evidenced by the AFC championship, won while I sat in my Aunt’s living room next to my Dad). I will  humbly accept a plane ticket and season tickets in order to ensure victory next year and you may as well throw in a job (it is a long season). I mean, when going for the big one, you really should leave nothing to chance. And after yesterday, can you really be sure my absence had NOTHING to do with it? I mean, it was CRAZY bad and I think you should consider flying me in to Denver, just to see if it helps next time. (I should state that I am not a finely tuned athlete working towards a huge goal all year so I have no right to comment. However, I am not positive but, it may help if you guys sort out who the Quarterback is before you start... just so there is no confusion when it is time to snap the ball. I am not sure, but I think it's pretty mean to tell a guy he can be quarterback at the Super Bowl and then just snap the ball when ever you feel like it. It confuses him. And then for the rest of the game he is like "I thought I was the quarterback... I got to be the quarterback all season... remember, I broke all those records and such... hmmm"; meanwhile the defense is running all over and blitzing. I don't know, it is just a thought and again I have no right to comment.)

Anyway, just to be clear, I am Super Bowl sad but still a diehard Bronco fan.

Unfortunately, I cannot properly process the Super Bowl loss because I just found out that my In Laws are arriving for an unexpected visit. Now, for many of you this would not hamper your post-game blues recovery effort but (because I am a below-par daughter-in-law) I must pick myself up, dust myself off and figure out what to wear, what to cook, and of course clean the house because “we always live like this.” “This” being: sparkling, dust-free shelves, meticulously vacuumed floors, mirrors that reflect with pinpoint accuracy (not covered in spittle from tooth brushing), perfectly matched dinner table set ready with the most neutral food. The food must not make an impression; it must be delicious, but not too rich and not too bland. They should remember being satisfied without recalling exactly what you made because that would require discussion about cooking, which I do not handle well. (If I get a “this is interesting...” comment I tend to get a little insecure. Then I start speaking rather loudly and making REALLY bad jokes that no one is laughing at but I am laughing at such a loud volume I don’t notice, meanwhile shoveling more of the "interesting" food into my mouth to prove it is not "interesting" but delicious and then I am talking and laughing way too loud with the "Interesting" food coming out of my mouth… just trust me: neutral food!) I must put all my intrinsic crazy on hold so that they do not continue to get confirmation that their pride and joy son married a neurotic, dream-chasing, messy American. (You should get a bitter taste in your mouth when you say the word American. But I say, at least I’m not from Auckland! Right, New Zealanders from small towns? You know what I am talking about!) Mind you, I am pretty sure that after 16 years they have all the confirmation they need. But I like to pretend that, as they pull out of my driveway, they have a little conversation that goes, “Wow, Mel seems more normal right?” “Oh yes, much more normal…”

Or, I could just leave the underwear on the floor, the dishes half done, and the bags packed. (I haven’t unpacked from our trip to Denver… it’s for real reasons… I was busy… It is all winter clothes… OK, fine, it’s because I am not ready to be “back”, so if my bag stays packed, I’m not back, see? I realize it is a bit irrational, as I stumble over them EVERY time I need to pee, but leave me alone.) I could show that usually half of our dining table is used as storage for socks with no matches, laundry that is just to difficult to put away and bike helmets.  (It's a big table so we just eat around these things.) Then maybe I could top it all off by letting Amelia tell them that we had hotdogs for dinner two nights in a row. Normally, she gets a pre-visit lecture about what is okay to tell the in-laws. For instance: Don’t tell them that Dad has to sleep in the spare room (See blog from 20^th of September before forming an opinion please) / Don’t tell them we sent you to your first day back at school with only half of your school supplies / Don’t tell them you were late on your first day back at school / Don’t tell them I put the left over hors d’ourves from the Super Bowl in your lunchbox and talked myself into believing it was a balanced lunch (there was, like, cream cheese which is goodish and, like, salsa which has, like, vegetables… you know, balanced). And please don’t tell them that I let you have unsupervised amounts of Coke, Fanta (because, you know, it's orange… team spirit!!) and endless bags of chips while I could not tear my eyes away from the train-wreck Super-Bowl, in order to actually parent.

Also, don’t tell them that when I told your Dad I needed to make his mother a birthday cake, he suggested I take the desiccated remains of the Bronco Super Bowl cake, put it into a smaller pan as if I had originally baked it in there and THEN rearrange the letters to say Happy Birthday instead of “GO Denver Broncos!” (This was particularly bad because I actually tried to fiddle with the frosting letters to see if I could do it…)

Maybe I will go for Daughter-in-law of the year next year AND the Broncos will win the Super Bowl…

But…probably not.