I hate summer in the Cotton Bowl. Being landlocked in a crowded city where temperatures hover over one hundred degrees is miserable. I don’t want to go out into my garden. I don’t want to drive with the top down. I don’t want to hit golf balls or walk my pooch. I don’t want to leave my bed. I just want to vegetate in a dark air conditioned room until Autumn.

The worst part of my summer malaise is that my Spouse just doesn’t get it. He wants to be outside ALL THE TIME. I can remember how exasperated he’d get with me during our years in New England. During the winter, I wanted to be outside playing in the snow while he just wanted to hunker down and sulk. Now that we are in the land of perpetual sunshine, he is in his glory and for a few months out of the year, I’m a very cranky broad.

This past week we looked at lively, beautiful Myrtle Beach as a possible winter site for our Snowbird retirement. I was thrilled that he wanted to compromise with me by spending summers in Nova Scotia and winters on the Southern Atlantic. Then he dropped the bomb. “When I said we’d split our time, I thought you understood that I meant 6-8 weeks in the North and the rest of the year in the South.”

No. No, I didn’t. What kind of souless sun-worshiper wants to spend tulip season and leaf peeping season on a bustling boardwalk with sweaty tourists? This changes everything. I never considered divorcing my beloved Spouse, but as gawd is mah witness, I will not be denied my cool Northern solitude.

What’s more, if a cold front doesn’t come right here to THIS forsaken dustbowl soon, I’m packing my bags and moving out and he can retire to the beach alone. Or maybe I’ll just take another cold bath and rent some more extreme snowboarding videos. Either way, don’t bother looking for me outside. I always say if the Good Lord had wanted us to suffer in the heat, he wouldn’t have given us air conditioning.

The thing is, she would work until she lost track of time and collapsed in an exhausted heap. For us, this meant she skipped dinner and fed us McDonald’s at least twice a week, sometimes even four or five times! As a kid, this was Heaven.

I loved everything about McDonalds. I loved the ads with Mayor McCheese, Big Mac the cop and the Hamburglar. I loved the jingles: Mc Donald’s is your kind of place/ It’s such a happy place…. or as we kids sang it: McDonalds is your kind of place/Hamburgers in your face/ French fries beteween your toes/Green pickles up your nose…

I faithfully memorized the ingredient list for a Big Mac and ran every time the phone rang in hopes it was the contest man calling to give me a prize for reciting it in under 30 seconds. Two all beef patties,special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun!

I loved the the promotional gifts. The Happy Meal with a toy did not start until ‘79, but we had much better goodies than those back in the day.  We had painted drinking glasses full of lead, viewmaster reels of national parks and of course Ronald McDonald adventures, and dolls stuffed with sawdust that leaked everywhere with the slightest hug.

For me, it was never about the food. I’d scrape the nasty mustard and onions off my hamburger and toss most of the cardboard flavored bun away. I’d scoff down my fries and my orange milkshake- yes! back then they had Orange flavored shakes!-but I would never have asked for McDonalds if they did not have the coolest kid friendly marketing strategy ever.

Every so often today I will still get a hankering for an All American Meal: small hamburger, small fries and a soda. It’s 500 calories and more grease than Johnny Depp’s hair, but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and just plain happy.  According to some experts that is a big problem.

In Brazil, there is a movement afoot to ban Happy Meal toys from children’s fast food. A Sao Paolo Federal Prosecutor contends that the “abusive creation of emotional associations”, effectively brainwash children into becoming life long eaters of high fat, non-nutritious food that is linked to diabetes and other health concerns. I have to say from my own experience, there is something to that.

What say you? Do you think that aggresive marketing directly to children is unaceptable, or are Brazilian authorities all wet? Have Happy Meal toys run their course or are they an innocuous and pleasant part of everyday life? Should parents have to battle fast food chains for influence over their children’s eating habits?  Should fast food chains be penalized because individuals make bad eating choices? Chime in and let me know what you think. I’m very interestred in reading your responses.

First, thank you to all who sent e-mails, phone calls, comments and private messages regarding my last post.  Because of you, I’m back in control and feeling like myself again.

I spent the week hiding out and feeding my Spymaster addiction. I can’t tell you why this stupid game has turned me into a button pushing monkey- gimmie a treat, gimmie a treat, gimmie a treat, aww…no treat, gimmie a treat…, but obviously it is like crack to compulsive types  like me who enjoy fantasising about blowing things up.

When not otherwise involved in international assassination plots, I’ve been coping with thunderstorms, power failures, doggie seizures, over-enthusiatic yard guys (RIP my beloved Camellia), and planning for our vacation next week.

That’s right! Next week is beach week! Yay! My favorite (sshh, don’t tell the others I said that) niece is coming to stay here with or without her beau while we’re away. It’ll be good for her to have a few days privacy and good for our pets to have someone here with them. I’m not too thrilled about the beau, but what’s a cool aunt to do? I’ll tell you one thing, I may be cool but I’m also installing a keyed lock to our bedroom door and I won’t be giving her our alarm code. Her I trust. Her friends…

Today I went to Cross & Stressed For Less looking for a new sundress to pack, but no joy.  I tried on seven dresses and they either had severe gapiosis with flappy pits or they created three or four boobs where there should only be two. Feh. The worst one of all was a gorgeous maxi that clinged to every lump, bump and roll. I told Bunnie that I had no intention of wearing a girdle on vacation. She asked me what a girdle is!

What is wrong with girls’ PE teachers these days? Don’t they still tell teenagers that they should wear girdles to thwart potential rapists? Next thing you know they’ll stop telling them to keep a dime hidden in their shoes to call home in an emergency.  Tsk, tsk. I don’t know what this world’s coming to.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to transfer some more funds into my Swiss Bank account. There is a darling little Safe House in Barcelona I’m saving up for just as soon as I pay off my latest stash of high tech explosives. Just call me Mata Hari.

Bad habits are like zombies. Every so often, even when you think they are dead, old habits will rise up to consume you. I’m battling some old demons lately, and it’s hard to stuff ‘em back where they belong. I’ve told you before that I grew up in a house of women with eating disorders.

It’s no fun opening your Snoopy lunchbox to find half a tuna sandwich and a Tab while your classmates are gleefully sucking the cream filling from their Ho Hos and Devil Dogs and pounding back chocolate milks like it’s last call at a Shriners’ convention. To this day, the smell of chocolate makes me anxious.

I learned early about hiding food, crash dieting, and purging with laxatives and a toothbrush handle down the throat. I learned how to go for days on nothing but diet soda and handfuls of Tylenol. I learned how to feel worthless after eating and vowed every night before going to sleep that tomorrow would be a better day because I wouldn’t put food in my mouth.

As a teen I spent most of my weekends in bed with a book, afraid if I left my room I might go into the kitchen and eat. When I wasn’t reading, I was exercising- repeating tummy crunches over and over in hopes that my little pot belly would go away. It never did.

College came and I couldn’t keep hiding. I went jogging every morning and dancing every night. When I was told that I was too big to participate in a charity fashion show, I redoubled my efforts. I began putting laxatives in all my food and putting drugs up my nose to try to drop more weight.

And then I crashed.

Since then, I’ve been big and with the help of pregnancy, illness and yes, the prescription diet drug that killed my gallblader, I’ve been less big. I haven’t ever gone back to that teenage size 12. Right now, I’m big. The same big I’ve been for the last 8 years. The same big I am whether I go to the gym or sit on my bum. The same big I am whether I take my thyroid replacement pills or not. The same big I am whether I eat sensibly or treat myself. It’s disheartening.

So here I sit with diabetes and a goiter and bum knees and I start thinking about how much better my life would be if I just skipped eating for a few days. I wonder, do I have enough laxatives in the medicine chest? Ooh I feel uncomfortable after eating, I’ll bet my stomach would feel so much better if I just went into the bathroom and purged.

Then I remember the sounds of my childhood. I remember the bathroom doors locked for hours. I remember the sounds of gagging and heaving. I remember the crying and crying and crying. I’ll bet my mother thought she was keeping her purging a secret, too. I have a daughter. She has never seen or heard the sights and sounds of a house with eating disorders.

I think I’ll have a glass of water instead.

So Friday was the big night. Bear was already gone to rehearsal when I arrived home from work. My parents came to the house an hour early, worried that they would arrive too late. We headed off to the big theater up the way and had a very frightening time getting them up and down the bajillion steps with no railings leading to our seats. I sat next to Bear’s “twin cousin”, the one born just two weeks after him who lived with us for a few a months. They are very close and truthfully, I knew she wouldn’t set off my waterworks like Spouse or Daddy could.

As it was, I only teared a up a couple of times. Mostly I cried because my parents were with us and I know that the chances of both of them being with us when Bunny graduates are slim. It hurts to see them so frail, but I’m glad they were able to make it.

After the festivities we re-grouped here for champagne. The kids were delighted when Spouse made a big show of popping the corks and one flew so hard it knocked a dent in our wall paneling. They suggested we frame the dent as a keepsake of the occasion. I don’t think that’s such a bad idea.

So here’s to that little boy I put on the bus for the first time all those years ago.

On that first day of school I followed your bus and watched from a distance with binoculars! as your aide handed you over to your very first teacher with lots of smiles and hugs. I won’t be able to follow after you on the next step of your journey, but rest assured there will still be plenty of smiles and hugs.

Today is the last day of school. Bear is picking Bunny up at early dismissal and they are going to their favorite sushi joint to celebrate. Tomorrow Bear walks across the stage to collect his high school diploma. One kid down, one to go.

I have a little potluck tonight with girlfriends. I’m not sure what kind of company I’ll be. To say I’m distracted is a bit of an understatement. I’m bringing this pasta salad.

Can you tell I’ve been obsessing on food lately? It’s easier than sobbing constantly over my little baby boy graduating. Yes, after 15 years (including early intervention) of worrying, advocating and coping with red tape, I’m a little freaked out that the happy ending is finally here. I’m proud of him and at a total loss at the same time. How weird is that?

And Bunny! She  made my day yesterday. At dinner she told us how she found a $100 bill outside school. She turned it in immediately, even though she couldn’t help thinking finder’s keepers. That was some temptation for a teenager to overcome. I’m sure there was a very relieved child in the school office thanks to her good judgement. Now I ask you, how’d I get such great kids?

Not going to report on why I’ve been grinning like a fool all day, but if you want to know what we had for lunch, I’m over here today.

I’m giving away Nava Atlas’ funny new mock cookbook, Secret Recipes for the Modern Wife here.

This rich-tasting coffee cake is a wonderful eye-opener and a perfect way to jump start kids during these last few days of school. The cinnamon aroma is sure to put smiles on your family’s faces, too. Please pardon the blurry photograph, I’m having camera issues.

Buttery Blueberry Coffee Cake

Batter:

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/3 cup butter flavor shortening
• 1 beaten egg
• 1 cup buttermilk
• 1/2 cup blueberries (fresh or frozen)
• topping

1. Sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and soda.
2. Cut in shortening until mixture resembles coarse meal.
3. In a small bowl, combine egg and buttermilk; pour wet mixture into the dry and stir. You should have a very thick batter.
4. Turn batter into a greased and floured 8-inch square cake pan, toss in 1/2 cup of blueberries being careful not to stir and break the berries (you don’t want blue colored batter!), and spread to the edges of the pan.
5. Sprinkle with topping and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Topping:

• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• 2 tablespoons melted butter
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans

For more yummy recipes, vist Mouthwatering Mondays from A Southern Fairytale

My morning started with good intentions. I was up and at the computer first thing with the intention of writing the three or four posts I needed to crank out before I’ll be caught up. I thought I’d spend a quick 30 minutes noodling with my template, then get right to it. Six hours and one sidebar crash later, no posts. However, I do have a cute new Twitter button I made myself thank-you-very-much and I love it.

Tomorrow we are going to see the final round of the Colonial. I’m disappointed that no cameras are allowed on the grounds, so I won’t be able to share the sights with you. I’m sure I will have a delightful photo of a sunburn instead.

Now I’m off to slap together a couple dozen sammiches to take to church tomorrow for some sort of shelter. Is it horrible I didn’t ask who I would be making them for? Sometimes I feel like I get so caught up in tasks I forget why I’m doing them. Hrm…perhaps I need to try to be more mindful or I might just miss the good stuff.