It Looks Good on You, Though

Even though I've spent the last 15+ years in suburbia surrounded by cul de sacs filled with houses painted every hue of taupe imaginable, I spent my childhood and high school years in Forest Lake, MN, which is a town about a half-hour north of either Minneapolis or St. Paul. Some people refer to Forest Lake as "that town on the way to Duluth," and I guess they're right, if "on the way" means "after passing Forest Lake and then driving another 140 miles, you end up in Duluth."

I moved to Minneapolis within a month after graduating from high school and have never moved back, which means that after I left, the minority population of the entire town could be counted on one hand. This could be why, except for the occasional dinner at my parents' red house on the circle, I haven't ever been motivated to spend much time there. So why I suddenly thought that spending this year's 4th of July wandering around Forest Lake seemed like a great idea is just slightly more than completely bewildering. Maybe I thought that since I haven't lived there for such a long time, things had progressed. And who knows, it might be fun for my kids to spend some time seeing where I grew up, listening to me be a dorky, cliche parent saying things like "See that baseball dugout over there? I used to sit in there and smoke" or "There's the high school where I skipped a lot of classes, especially political science."

After wandering around the "midway" for three minutes, I quickly realized that not only was I still the only Asian in the town, but now my whole family was involved in the list of "only's":

• We were the only people not smoking, although I could sense Zoe giving it strong consideration.
• I was the only girl over 18 without a tramp stamp. And who knows, maybe Zoe was the only girl under 18 without one.
• Doug was the only guy not wearing suspenders, tube socks, a sleeveless t-shirt with an eagle on the front, a mullet, a giant chain on his wallet, or any combination of the above.
• We were the only family not holding a tray of cheese curds.
• Doug and I were the only parents that weren't swearing at their kids.

I will admit that it was slightly fun to watch my boys jump back a little when they were on the receiving end of a carni's toothless smile, but most of the fun came from the people watching. I'm still shocked that Doug and I were able to keep track of our kids, considering how often one of our heads would whip around while we said "Holy shit, did you see that dude? What the hell!" over and over again. It got to the point where I realized that there was no way Doug was going to see everything and everybody, considering the excessive amount of time he was spending doubled over with laughter, so I did what any thoughtful, considerate wife would do: I started taking pictures so that he could look at them later.

You have to wonder what the rest of this guy's closet looks like. Does he have a large selection of jorts, suspenders in other colors, short-sleeve dress shirts in an assortment of patterns and crocs for every day of the week?

My 20-year class reunion is coming up and when I asked Doug, jokingly, if he wanted to go with me (because I already knew the answer was "hell no") his much more creative answer was "See that? I would rather wear that guy's outfit to the office for a week than go to your class reunion." This was a relief to hear, since I had just sent in my RSVP with payment for only one person.

Like I said, we were the only people not smoking. In addition, I kind of felt like a minority because I wasn't displaying any whale tail or muffin top.

"DAMMIT Frank! I told you to bring some chips to the picnic! And what about the dip? Who was supposed to bring the goddamn dip? We only have nine bags and six jars! We're going to run out! Oh, and let me just dig through this bucket of chicken and touch each and every piece before I put one on my plate, and then sit right by the chips because there isn't any room left after piling on 7 scoops of coleslaw."

This is a perfect example as to why I prefer places that enforce the "shirt and shoes required" policy. Where are the shattered glass shards when I need some!?

I feel like such a fool. All this time I thought that CMA stood for "Country Music Association" or "Cows Moo Absentmindedly." Who knew it stood for "Christian Motorcyclists Association." Hell, who even knew that there was a Christian Motorcyclists Association. Do they keep a Bible in their saddlebag? Do they pray before they rev the engines? Will she be forgiven for wearing that top?

You may think that, except for the boots, this person really doesn't look that bad. Well, just be glad I didn't take a picture of the front view. Feel free to use your imagination...

This is the bouncer. Doug was observant enough to point out that apparently no one got the memo saying that a bouncer should be strong, fast and be able to present himself as dominant, not just look big. And immobile. And passive.

Believe it or not, this girl wasn't on her lunch break from the Hulk Hogan/KISS/court jester side show. I'm thinking that maybe she was just trying to attract attention to herself so that people would then look at the person next to her and realize that Karin Housley is running for Senate in District 57. Karin isn't a typical politician and wants to bring "real life experience" to the Senate. In fact, she's determined to get this state "back on track" and is "passionate about budgets," believes we need to "create more jobs" and is determined to not let people look like morons by wearing red and black striped tights.

I was trying to take a picture of the lady in the sweet jeans playing Skeeball because she was really good and about to break the high score, but then this cowgirl do-si-doed right in front of my camera.

I'm going to put this picture on our refrigerator so that every time I tell one of my boys to go change his clothes and they say why, I can point at this kid and say because you don't want some freaky lady laughing at you, taking your picture and then posting it on her blog.

Happy Birthday Smelly Old Dog

Even though I am able to exterminate goldfish in a matter of hours, and despite the absence of canine therapists, nutritionists, psychics, holistic healers and massage therapists, as of today I have managed to keep our dog, Cosmo, alive for fifteen years.

I have written about our dog before (like here, here and here), and since his daily schedule is pretty consistent (wake up, eat, go outside, come in, fall asleep, walk around putting nose on people, fall asleep, eat, go outside, fall asleep, go outside 14 times until treat is issued, fall asleep) there aren't many new stories to share.

So instead of bitching (yet again) about the dog and his excessive body odor, bad breath and inability to always defecate outside, I'll just say thank you, Cosmo, for giving me a justifiable reason to party it up tonight. After all, everyone likes to see their friends and family members having fun on their birthday, right?! In fact, I'm pretty sure that if Cosmo could speak using something besides "Bark, Bark" he would say something like "If I had opposable digits, carried a wallet and understood the monetary system, I would buy that woman a drink because, unlike the goldfish Hank and Sophia, she hasn't killed me yet!"

Happy birthday, Smelly Old Dog. Maybe I'll find the time to give you a bath today so that, at least for a little while, you'll just be Old Dog.

Professionally Single

Even though my brother, Jess, is now married and has an almost-two-month-old baby, it wasn't that long ago that we all thought he would go through life as a professional single person. He was content to work weird hours, ride his motorcycle, buy toys, get together with friends for spontaneous games of volleyball on the weekends (or weeknights), celebrate holidays with only one family, take impromptu trips to London and, if he wanted to, spend entire Sundays watching football and napping.

It was during this phase of his life that Charlie declared that when he grew up, he wanted nothing more than to be exactly like his uncle. And considering how freely he hands out the anti-compliments to me, I don't think this is going to be a tough goal for him to achieve.

When Jess and Ali got married, they planned a small, casual ceremony that took place in their backyard, which is on a lake. Since I would rather shop for my own casket than shop for a dress that is comfortable, stylish and cheap, I started looking for one a couple months before the big day. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled on a great dress hanging on the sale rack at J.Crew. It wasn't slutty, too short, uncomfortable, over-priced or in need of alterations, and it was a summery shade of cantaloupe. Or maybe it was more tangerine. Or mango. Or, as Charlie informed me, it was prison-garb orange.

The day of the wedding arrived and as I was trying to figure out what shoes to wear with my sherbert-colored dress, Charlie looked at me and said something like "Hey mom, aren't you supposed to be picking up garbage in the ditches today? What crime did you commit to end up in prison anyway?" Wonderful. I looked like I was out of jail to do a stint of community service. Now, I don't know about you, but that's exactly the kind of confidence booster this non-dress-wearing girl needed before walking into a room filled with random friends and family members.

A couple days ago, I took advantage of some perfect weather to accumulate three very distinct layers of sweat: I did an early morning run, an afternoon way-too-fast-of-a-pace run while I chased Zoe on her bike and then played tennis with Charlie for an hour and a half. On our way home from the courts, I said "I'm tired, but at least I earned the right to put a slice of bacon on my burger tonight" and Charlie pulled out the keys to my heart by saying "Oh, that's a great idea. Workout all day burning calories and then just put them all right back on." After managing to not pummel him with my clenched fists before kicking him out of the car, I realized that not only had I earned my right to a couple slices of bacon, but had earned several beers too.

It's a magical moment like this and his wonderful way with words and flattery that assures me that Charlie may, in fact, never be in a long-term relationship. But there is a bright side to him remaining single forever: I won't ever have to worry about finding a mother-of-the-bride dress for his wedding. And if by some miracle he does end up finding that certain someone -- that very patient, independent, confident and funny someone -- I guess I wouldn't necessarily have to shop, because I can always just wear my prison garb.

I Prefer Fish 'n Chips

When Zoe was in kindergarten, one of the science units was about the life cycles of tadpoles and goldfish. The class was lucky enough to have real, live tadpoles and goldfish in the classroom, just in case one of the kids wasn't familiar with what these creatures looked like.

After the unit was completed Zoe brought a letter home, stating that there would be a drawing held to see who the critters would be sent home with and if you wanted your child to be considered as a potential goldfish or tadpole owner, please sign the form and send it back to school. Much to her disappointment, Zoe did not return a signed form.

Before you start thinking that I really am a mean mom for not letting my daughter bring home a free goldfish, please hear me out:

1. We were leaving on vacation the day after school got out, and while I am lucky enough to have someone that's willing to be responsible for the smelly old dog for a week, I'd feel like kind of a dork asking someone to come over every day to feed a goldfish. So, I told Zoe that since no one would be able to feed the fish for a week, it would die.
2. I dislike cleaning fishbowls. Wait...I take that back. I hate cleaning fishbowls. So, I told Zoe that since I completely lack time and desire to clean a bowl every four days, (which results in scummy, smelly water, which I hate even more then cleaning the bowl) the fish wouldn't have good living conditions, so it would probably die.
3. I am already responsible for: A) Keeping a dog alive by feeding it twice-a-day and; B) Preparing food for humans. I do not need to add C) Monitoring the nutrition of a goldfish. After all, leaving the responsibility of fish feeding to Zoe would probably result in an overfed fish and an unnecessarily dirty bowl, which would result in...yep, you guessed it: a dead fish.
4. The boys had a couple goldfish years ago and except for watching the boys go through their three minutes of initial excitement, I don't remember deriving one moment of joy from this experience. Except, of course, when the fish died.
5. The fishbowl that had been used in the past, after being cleaned out one final time, has been repurposed as a candy jar. Unfortunately, since this "candy jar" was recently (by the hands of Zach) dropped, promptly sending glass shards skittering across a limestone floor, it is no longer available for fish residence. If this doesn't say "Jody shouldn't care for pet fish," I don't know what does. Except, of course, for just saying "Jody shouldn't care for pet fish."
6. I really prefer my fish with tartar sauce, sometimes on a toasted bun, and always accompanied by fries.

Sure enough, ever since four other lucky kids brought home tadpoles and goldfish from school, one phrase I have heard from Zoe every day (besides "You're making me annoyed") is "So when am I going to get my pet fish? How many more sleeps?" You see, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to acquire a fish for her after we got back from Florida. Of course, she interpreted this as hell yeah baby, we're going to wait for our luggage on that carousel thing, hop in the car and on the way home from the airport, swing by Petco and pick up my fish! Kick ASS!!

I'd like to say that I could make this long story short by telling you that we bought a little two gallon tank, two fancy goldfish that were $2 each, some solution to make my tap water not kill the fish and some food that smells like three-week-camping-trip-no-indoor-plumbing-oh-no-we-forgot-a-bar-of-soap-too-ass, and now the fish are living happily ever after, but that would be a pretty boring blog post.

Instead, I'll tell you that I now own a two gallon tank (with royal blue trim because of course they were all out of black), outfitted with the ugliest gravel ever manufactured and a plant that looks faker than I thought a fake plant could look. I agreed to purchase a tank with a filter because I heard the magic phrase: You don't have to ever clean the thing, just switch out some water once in a while. SOLD to the lady in the running shorts!

I got the crap home, Zoe wouldn't stop jumping around, I followed all of the instructions and she named her new pets Hank and Sophia. They seemed happy enough in their new dwelling, except for some reason Hank wouldn't eat anything. And then he developed a lethargic demeanor, and then he just sort of hung out in a back corner, tipped at a precarious angle with a glossy look in his bugged out eyes. Things did not look promising for Hank. Sophia seemed fine, though, and just swam around lazy-ass Hank, hogging all the food that Zoe kept dropping in.

Wouldn't you know, I came downstairs at 6:00 am the next day, less than 24 hours after I bought these damn fish, to find: A) A puddle of dog pee on the floor, which made me instantly question whether or not this dog really is going to see his 15th birthday next week; B) Hank died and was floating; and (drum roll please...) C) Sophia was dead too! What the hell?! That, my friends, is a new record. I managed to extinguish two fish in one day, and I didn't even have to put a leech or a worm on a hook.

Since these fish came with a 15-day guarantee, I brought their slimy little bodies back to Petco and got my money back. Then, after letting the tank run for a day or so, we went back to Petco AGAIN and picked up a $0.29 goldfish that is usually only bought to be fed to bigger fish. Sounded perfect.

So far, this fish seems to be doing fine and every time Zoe walks by the tank she seems genuinely shocked to see him swimming around and happily shouts, "Cool! He's not dead yet!" Even though she's not going to allow herself to become too attached to him (which is probably a wise decision) she did, however, give him a name.

While telling a stranger about our recent fish ordeal, this patient lady asked Zoe what the new fish's name was. Zoe looked at her with a blank look, her mind suddenly going blank. She knew it wasn't Hank or Sophia because they were dead, so what was it? Oh, right... it's Goldy. Creatively challenged, probably soon-to-be dead, spared from the diet of a bigger fish Goldy.

Welcome to our family, Goldy. Since I'll most likely kill you before you see your two-week birthday, let me just go ahead and apologize in advance.

Summer, Please Slow Down

While I am more than happy to embrace the upcoming three-day weekend and submerge myself in beer, bratwurst and potato chips, watch some fireworks and remember the important rule of "Stop, drop and roll!" I am a little pissed off because typically, the 4th of July means two things: 1) Zoe will have a hard time going to bed because of the random fireworks that last until midnight; and 2) Summer is half-over.

Normally I'm an optimist that says things like "Yay, I still have half of a beer left" or "Mmm, someone left half a bag of jalapeno kettle chips, it must be my lucky day!" And some people will say something lame like oh boy, good sleeping weather is right around the corner! But half of the summer being over is just that: half of the summer. Oh-Ver.

In an attempt to put some sort of positive spin on the holiday and not dwell on the reality that some grocery stores are already stocking back-to-school supplies, I decided to find some new recipes to try. Nothing spectacular or fancy, just little additions here and there to help differentiate this weekend's cookout from the typical weeknight burgers on the grill.

The first thing I found was this macaroni salad. It's so good and reminds me of every neighborhood potluck that I used to attend as a kid, in the days before bringing a bag of chips was considered a suitable potluck contribution. Substitutions and fat-reductions are easily made, I've yet to use exact measurements and it always turns out the same: delicious. Please note, though: It makes a hell of a lot of salad, so unless there are ten people in your family and they all love macaroni salad, cutting the recipe in half is not a horrible idea.

Then I found an article in the paper promoting the benefits of making your own hot dog buns. According to the article, homemade buns "enhance whatever comes off the grill, elevate any cookout to a peak experience" and can become "a memorable part of your meal." Even though the thought of spending several hours in the kitchen to make hot dog buns that could be bought at the store in 42 seconds seemed completely stupid, the picture of the eggy, poppyseed-encrusted bun that accompanied the article did look good, and I imagined it would be even better paired up with an all-beef dog, sport peppers, onions, mustard and relish. So I read the recipe:

• 3 1/4 c. all-purpose flour
• 1/2 c. whole wheat flour
• 1 1/4 tsp. instant yeast
• 1 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1 1/2 c. room-temperature water
• 1 tbsp. honey
• 1/4 c. olive oil
• sesame, poppy or other seeds for the topping
• beaten egg for brushing the buns

Combine the dry stuff with a whisk, add the water, honey and oil and mix with a wooden spoon. The ball of dough will look a bit shaggy. (WTF is "shaggy?" Honesty, that adjective should never, ever be used to describe something that will at some point be eaten.)

Put it on a floured surface and knead the crap out of it, flouring only your hands if necessary, which will probably result in flouring the floor, the fridge handle, your hair, the phone and the dog. The dough should then pass the windowpane test, whatever the hell that is.

Put dough in a lightly oiled bowl, turning to coat. Cover with plastic wrap, or if you're out of plastic wrap, go to the store and buy a package of hot dog buns. If you did have plastic wrap, let rise 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until doubled and an indentation remains when you poke it with your finger. Poke it about as hard as you poke your kid when you're trying to get their attention and have said their name four times but they haven't responded so you reach over and poke that super-fleshy part of their arm.

Gently remove the dough from the bowl and put it on a lightly floured surface. Or, if it's stuck because you forgot to oil the bowl, tug the shit out of it. Shape it into a square, or something that sort of resembles a square, cut it in half, or as close to half as you can, then cut each half into four rectangles. At this point, you should have eight hunks of unrecognizable dough, that may or may not end up resembling hot dog buns.

There are more directions for shaping the dough into specific buns, which involves more kneading, pinching, squeezing, shaping, scraping and another hour of rising. When the dough eventually looks like something you think you'd want to jam a hunk of meat into, before you bake it brush it with the egg and dump on some seeds. At least I think this is what you're supposed to do, because I sort of lost interest.

It turns out that homemade buns, from start to finish, take about four hours. Now, I don't know about you, but I say fuck it to the concept of homemade buns. I think I'll continue to buy my buns, use booze to elevate my cookout to peak experience and I'm pretty sure the memorable part of the meal will be spending four hours watching drunk Uncle Mike fall out of the canoe before passing out on a picnic table, using the store-bought package of hot dog buns as a pillow.

Just when I thought that macaroni salad was going to be my only new addition, a hyper-intelligent person named Jennie, who somehow detected my lack of baking skills but sensed that I had excellent drinking skills, gave me a recipe for bourbon slush. Now this is a recipe that justifies having to lug an extra cooler to the cookout.

Bourbon Slush/Double Batch

2 cups boiling water

4 tea bags

7 c. water

1 1/2 c. sugar

1 1/2 c. bourbon

12 oz. frozen concentrate orange juice, thawed

12 oz. frozen concentrate lemonade, thawed

Club soda

Steep the tea bags in the boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. In a large, freezer-safe container mix together the tea, water and sugar until the sugar has dissolved. Add the bourbon, orange concentrate, and lemonade concentrate. Mix well, then cover and place in freezer.

Remove from freezer ten minutes before serving. Scrape with a spoon, fill glass about 3/4 full, then top with club soda and stir.

Or do like I'm planning and randomly grab hunks out of the freezer throughout the day and pop them straight into your mouth like ice cubes.