Tara Versus: Life Under the Big Top

It’s actually several days later, and I am again doing laundry before my offspring leave for 2 days with their dad. What I found in today’s laundry: a boy's belt, a door hanger with the word “Princess” on it, and a shirt on a hanger. This is my daughter – who tries on clothes like a teenager – and then tosses them on the floor. These then make their way to her hamper and I end up washing clothes that weren't even worn.

I’ve begun training the kids to deliver their hampers to the laundry room, with the ultimate intent of sorting their shit themselves and thus making mom’s job easier. We’re working on that. This reminds me of that old phrase I often employed when Todd and I would discuss the status of my life while I resided in the “marital” home – I’m working on it. Thank God he never seemed truly annoyed by it, though I purposely stopped using it because it would always give pause to every conversation we had where I used it.

Before we stray too far away from laundry, let me warn all you parents of soon-to-be-teenagers to no-not ever put your head inside your teenaged son’s laundry bag. You’re welcome. Anyway, Neph uses his laundry bag for both clean and dirty laundry – which, of course, we all did in college so no judgement there – but we are still working on his instincts to throw dirty clothes directly onto the laundry room floor or – even worse – into the washing machine to ferment until either he remembers they’re in there or I get pissed off and remove them. I bought him the laundry hamper to encourage proper use of it. And still.

I have no new pet transgressions to report. All three are keeping their food down, their paws to themselves, and eating with a certain level of manners.

Today I am wondering how we will fix the nails that have been pushed through the sheetrock in our bathroom after the roofers shook the house down. I’m also wondering how to talk Todd into wall-to-wall carpeting in the rec room. And why people must poop in public restrooms and ruin it for the rest of us. And how camaraderie can be established between two strangers peeing in adjacent stalls. And so the circus continues…

Even When You Think You’re Doing Everything Right

Saturday night we catered two private parties , and I hit the jackpot by catering the one that I’d done before and was in my old high school stomping grounds. It was only 20 people and so mom sent me with two other servers to run this party for 20. I worked both sides (translation: food prep and serving)… setting up the buffet with the food and butlering hors d’oevres . As I was unloading cambros and filling the chaffers, I pulled out the pork tenderloin that was to be drizzled with a whole-grain mustard sauce.

I asked Terri (one of the other servers) – where’s the mustard sauce? She grabbed a container filled with a yellowish substance , which I drizzled over the tenderloin like a professional chef (while noting how yellow it seemed). I dropped the pan into a chaffer on the kitchen table and went back to the kitchen for the next item to put out. I opened the cambro (a large box that maintains hot/cold food for catering) and pulled out the next item – truffled Brussels sprouts – and noticed the container behind it.

As I pulled this out, Terri was saying, where’s the fourth salad dressing? Where’s the fourth salad dressing? Terri was in charge of setting up the salad station, while simultaneously pouring drinks for the guests. The container in the hot cambro reads – “mustard sauce.” Oh. my. God. Because I just poured SALAD DRESSING all over a main course offering. Oh my God. Oh my God. I ruined my mom’s food. I ruined it.

Terri’s like, “it’s okay, we can fix it,” and rips off several paper towels to dab up the lime-cilantro dressing that was supposed to be whole-grain mustard sauce. The funniest part of the whole party? Everyone RAVED about this pork that “was amazing.” And every time someone commented about the fabulous pork, Denise and Terri would giggle like a couple of lunatics.

But the shenanigans didn’t end there. The pine greens and ribbons packed in a crate with silver candlesticks were for me to decorate the table around the chaffers. I did a fine job of it… except that I couldn’t find any tapers for the candlesticks. Turns out the 3 fancy red glass votives were supposed to be placed atop said candlesticks. Well, nobody told me that –so I just stuck the empty candlesticks in a corner in the kitchen…. and remembered them about a mile away from the restaurant on our way back.

I also cut the apple cake in slices instead of blocks (which would have been easier for picking up as finger food) and realized I’d cut only 16 slices, instead of 20. Shit! All told – the party was a huge success, the host was thrilled as usual and tipped a very generous tip, and my mom didn’t fire me for kicking her pork tenderloin up a notch. As IF.

A lot Can Happen in 20 Minutes in Justice…

Sunday was shopping day for Todd and me… Justice, bedazzled in pinks and blues and purples and with racks of clothing so close together only a 4-year-old could squeeze between, made Todd dizzy and claustrophobic, which only added to his hangriness. So he stepped outside and subsequently into the lair of the beautiful young woman selling nail buffers.

I sifted through the racks, occasionally glancing out the window to see Todd smiling and chatting amicably with her. Hearing her accent, he asked her where she was from – and she said Israel – and further conversation revealed to her that we celebrate Hanukah and Christmas… to which she said, you know about Hanukah? Yes, he said, I’m Jewish. She buffed out his nail with this device that did no better a job than my 99-cent buffer from Walmart, while simultaneously asking him if he had a girlfriend (he told her he was married) and then asking him how many wives he had, and then how many girlfriends.

We went to eat immediately afterwards, where Todd complained about his one shiny nail and I got carded for ordering a Stoli and cran. Either she was buttering up the wife for a good tip, or my new red hair just radiates youth. I’ll go with the latter.

Return to the Battle of Normandy…

Meanwhile, Mother Nature decided to take her pranks a little further than a 70-degree Christmas Day in the Northeast, and delivered a final insult to injury in the form of Aunt Flo. Aunt Flo apparently likes holidays, because this would be the third holiday in a row she arrived right on time. WHO has time for THAT?!