Family Trip To The Olive Garden

My family is in the process of finalizing our summer vacation plans, and thank God I convinced Sandy to go in August instead of May so I can have something to look forward to all summer. 

We are renting a villa property in Italy for a week called Gli Ulivi on the Amalfi Coast.  My dad seems unable to pronounce Gli Ulivi, so he has just been calling it the Olive Garden.  This is disappointing to me because normally he takes his best shot at pronouncing something in a different language and then just adds a bunch of foreign-person-type swirling hand gesticulations to make it seem authentic.  I hope he hasn't given up!

This is an email from Sandy I received today:

Hi, Everyone, I think we're firmed up on The Olive Garden for the week in August, so it's safe to make reservations.  Send me your passport numbers sometime.  They're going to ask me for them eventually. We are definitely taking out travel insurance.  The world is so uncertain now. My travel guides suggest you get an international driver's license if you're planning to rent a car.  And the rental cars all seem to have manual transmissions!  I'm glad Bill can drive those.  I'm not learning at this point in my life, and previous lessons have not gone well. I remember my father screaming - "Stop! No! Never do that!"  Well, I think he was yelling about my driving.  Maybe it was something else.

Keep in touch.  Love, Me

I'm not sure what risky thing my mom thinks might happen in Italy.  Too much cheese?  That's not uncertain though, that's just a given.  Or perhaps, more politically speaking, Prime Minister Berlusconi declares war on STDs thanks to all his run-ins with underage hookers?



This was drawn from my home computer.



Christmas Hiatus and Our First Drawering of Franco

We are super excited that Christmas break is finally upon us.  Derrick has one more final exam and then we're off to North Carolina to perfectly split our time equally between our two families!  You can't let anyone get jealous of anyone else so early in your marriage.  Remember that, ladies.

Part of our time is going to be spent holed up with Bill and Sandy H. off the Blue Ridge Parkway, minus internet, and the rest of our time will be spent eating Derrick's Mamaw's Balls of Fury.  Get your heads out of the gutter.  They're peanut butter-butterscotch balls, they're about 5,000 calories apiece, Christmas is incomplete without them, and you will die unhappy and unfulfilled if you never get to sink your teeth into one of Mamaw's balls.

It should be a really fun drive tomorrow.  12 wrapped gifts, 11 bottles of Leigh Ann's hair products (those points don't just happen, you know), 10 Christmas playlists that we hope Sandy H. won't deem obnoxious (Destiny's Child Christmas tunes, hello!  Classic!), 9 DVDs for when DirecTV gives out in the mountains, 8 extra pounds I've already gained since Thanksgiving, 7 weathermen predicting wintry mixes, and ... 6, 5, 4 of ... something, 3 bottles of Prosecco, 2 cat anxiety pills and 1 super fat and adorable cat who would eat the partridge and the pear tree if given the opportunity.

So... good-byes can be awkward, much like the number 2011.  Which is when we'll be back.  Seriously, 11, what's the deal?

Everybody Puts Baby In The Middle

I didn't vote yesterday. 

Sometimes the guilt of not bothering to vote can be overwhelming, thanks to the in-your-faceness of "VOTE VOTE VOTE!" brought to my senses by every Facebook status, every blog, and simply by being on a college campus, but then I shrug my shoulders and remember why I didn't vote in the first place: because.... meh.

I think my apathy political moderateness stems from being the baby of the H. family and always feeling stuck in the middle of hair-pulling arguments lively debates at holiday gatherings and meals.  Both of my parents are SUV-driving, Wal-Mart-shopping Fox News watchers very conservative and both of my siblings are Subaru-driving, co-op-shopping, non-air-conditioning-using granola crunchers very liberal. 

In the past, if I became too uncomfortable  people at other tables started glaring at us a discussion became too heated, Mom wouldn't be able to think of anything nice to say and didn't want to perpetuate the drama, so she would force a smile and say, "That's so great that you're so passionate about this issue!  What a great country we live in!" 

Then I take the opportunity to shout, "Did you all SEE what BRITNEY SPEARS did this weekend?  OMG, it was ALL over the news!  Crazy!  Gurl needs to get her SHIT together!!!"  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, and sometimes I replace Britney with Paris or Lindsay or some other troubled star.  If we were at a family gathering this week, it would be poor Demi.

Am I ashamed that I am more likely to have a knowledgeable and civilized discussion about celebrity gossip than I am about politics?  Meh.



I wonder if Britney voted yesterday.



It Doesn't Take Long For The H. Family Reputation To Make Itself Known

Sandy H. has just arrived in Portugal and writes:

"Greetings from Portugal!  This is the lovely view from our hotel room:

...And so begins the tour of eating and drinking. They already know us and wave when we walk by the hotel bar.  Fewer than 12 hours in town."

THIS JUST IN: White People Love Sweaters, Hate Unsanitary Living Conditions

Mom, Derrick and I had a delightful weekend doing all sorts of fun things that white people love doing: looking at art, going to Williams-Sonoma, wearing sweaters, eating overpriced cheese, and visiting Chinatown.  We even passed by a restaurant there that I hadn't yet noticed, and it was a great one for Sandy H. to see, since it was called The Dumpling House.  Mom has called me "Dumpling" for many years, but often just shortens it to "Dumps."  At least Bill H. makes up for this by calling me "Angel."

In other Cats in Baths news, Derrick found a fecal treasure last night left behind by yet another rodent roommate.  We have decided to take matters into our own hands and we're getting a black snake to release in the apartment.  If that doesn't work out, we are going to be welcoming a new feline friend into our family.  I found a cat on PetFinder named "Hunter."  I immediately knew this was the cat for us.  That's how shelters name their cats, like Native American tribes - did you know that?  You have to earn your name!  I don't want a cat named Sharpens Claws On Antique Oriental Rug or Uses Sleeping Owner's Hair As Litterbox.  I want a cat named Thirsts For Mouse Blood.

Hunter wasn't at the shelter we visited, but there was a play room that housed a stunning white cat with blue eyes and a sweet black cat whose brain stem was attached to his spinal cord with a paper clip.  He could hardly function and would randomly fall over since he didn't have control over any part of his body.  The stunning white cat would walk all the way across the room to swat at the poor handicapped cat for no reason and make him fall over.  I tried lecturing the stunning white cat about how not to treat those with head injuries, but instead of listening to me, she looked at Derrick as he was filling out an adoption application, and jumped onto the clipboard to use as a launching pad for her next destination.

The stunning white cat might just be enough of a jerk to fill the job opening!

Into the Pink

I am going to have pink eyes for the rest of my life.  I am going to die of pink eye.  What a humiliating obituary.

I am desperate for it to clear up so I can leave this apartment without terrifying people.  I am starting to feel the isolation akin to Christopher McCandless's Alaskan wilderness death wish depicted in Into The Wild, which I just spent two and a half excruciating hours watching.  It arrived in the mail through Netflix and I devoured the envelope as if it were the first pile of twigs and berries I had seen in weeks.  Finally!  Entertainment that isn't Jerry Springer!  Yep.  I feel just like Christopher McCandless except without all the pretentiousness and self-righteousness.  "UGH!  I'm so full of angst!  Parents just don't understand!  I'm going to burn this pile of money because it represents all of society's woes!  Ugh!"

On a side note, the movie had its highlights, including Hal Holbrook, who was married to Dixie Carter, who played Julia Sugarbaker, whom I adore.  Although the film also featured Kristen Stewart, so we'll call this one even.

Sandy H. is coming to visit this weekend and I am very excited to see her, although she is nervous that I will give her my disease.  When she found out I had it, she said, "You'd better not give it to me."  I told her I would make a mental note of that.  Bill H. also had helpful advice on how to prevent Derrick from catching it: "Well, you know, just tell Derrick not to touch anything you've touched."  I'll be sure to tell him, Dad.  Thanks.

My boss Lisbeth has been super nice during my absence from work and sent me this cute picture of an eye patch kitty!  It would be more accurate if it had two eye patches, but I just don't have the technology to make that happen.

When I Grow Up, I'm Going To Have A Chicken Farm, And The Chickens Will Be 100% Biscuit-Fed.

Sandy H. writes: "Loved yesterday's postings. Your dad is LOLing. 'She is such a good blogger!!' I don’t want you to think this is any less of a genuine compliment just because he’s never read a blog before yours."

In addition to introducing Dad to the wild world of Sitting In Front Of A Computer All Day, we also guided Dad through his first chicken biscuit experience while in North Carolina this weekend.  Bill H. is full of surprises.  After he asked what on earth a chicken biscuit was, I thought he would turn his nose up when I explained to him that it was literally a piece of fried chicken that someone brilliant, somewhere, one day decided to stick in the middle of a biscuit and declare it worthy as breakfast, lunch OR dinner, but instead he said, "That sounds great!"  And to think of all the times he said "UGH!" in response to whatever garbage I was eating as a child.  Maybe next time we'll take him for a Double Down to really test his limits.

Image Courtesy

Before and After

Bill and Sandy H. got married in August of 1968, and unfortunately for them, the frozen top of their wedding cake was destroyed during Hurricane Camille in August of 1969, so they were unable to enjoy it on their first anniversary.  This fueled Sandy H.'s desire to ensure that Derrick and I did not suffer through the same heartache on our first anniversary.  She had nurtured and cared for our cake top since July of 2009. 

What a beautiful cake in its infancy.  I remember dragging Derrick to a cake-tasting and his face just lit up like a school boy when he tasted it, like the first time I got him tanked and informed him that we would be dating.

Who came up with this tradition? Sandy H. thought that, post-thaw, it smelled like old feet.  And it didn't look much better either.  Sort of like a lopsided donut that had been frosted by blind parakeets using their walking sticks.  Seeing-eye sticks?  And then left to rot all summer on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike.

Luckily for Sandy H., my perpetually cheerful father thought it was the best cake he's ever eaten!  And he intends to eat the whole thing.

Cats in Hats

Up until 2002 when I met Derrick, I only had eyes for one special black guy.  My empty-nester parents are extremely attached to the now 18-year-old Georgie, placing him in a cryogenic preservation tank every night and spoon-feeding him steroids for his arthritis.  Aside from occasional bouts of kitty 'roid rage, his quality of life seems to be pretty high. 

His favorite pastimes include napping on the couch...

sleeping on the bed...

snoozing in a sunbeam on the back porch...

and generally giving up and succumbing to my snugs when I come home.

Our friends over at But Call Me Betsy are running a contest to see whose cat looks the cutest in this Puss-In-Boots conquistador hat.  Georgie is extremely difficult to photograph what with all the blackness.  Is that racist?

Here's me with Georgie on my 11th birthday when he was 8 weeks old.  I think I wore that pink and purple sweatband as a headband for about two years.  You can't see the shirt, but it has a teal horse jumping on it outlined in gold glitter glue.  I was pretty cool, just like I am now. 

One-Eyed Willy

According to Sandy H., the bluebloods at the yacht club on Lake Norman, NC, suddenly find plain old sailing to be as yawn-inducing as last season's wayfarers.  That's why they have finally succumbed to every white person's favorite tool for shaking out those ho-hum snooze blues: theme regattas.

This week's theme is "Dress Like a Pirate."  Check out my dad, Bill H., in his awesome pirate sailing gear:

Upon further inspection, Bill H. doesn't look too thrilled about having to dress up as a pirate and go sailing.  He looks more like a child on Halloween who would rather be dressed up as an Iron Man or an Avatar, but whose fun-loving father insisted that pirates were way cooler than any Buzz Lightyear get-up.  Sandy H. just thinks he looks more like Nick Nolte in his 2002 mug shot.

Image Courtesy

Happy Anniversary!

Do these two look old enough to have been married for 42 years?  No way, but they do look fabulous enough to have produced me.