From The Mouths Of Babes...

Yesterday, on my birthday, my seven year old niece, Ella asked me if I was pregnant. Well geez, thanks kid, happy birthday to me. I quickly deny that I'm preggers and ask her why she would ask me that.

She looks me up and down, up and down and finally answers, "Well, CeeCee, it's just that....well, you have boobs and Mommy only gets boobs like that when when she's gonna have a baby so I thought, well, you must be pregnant."

Now I feel bad for assuming she just thought I was fat (paranoid much?) and I explain that you can have "bigger" boobs without being pregnant. "Oh good, that's what I want then" (I'm sure her father will be thrilled to hear that). In the next breath, she asked me if I am coming to her kickball birthday party.

"I don't know Ella, first I've heard about it but it sounds like fun." As she runs off to play with her little brother she shouts back to me over her shoulder, "let me check the status of your invite and I'll get back to ya!"

So here I sit, on a Friday night, waiting to "hear the status" of my birthday party invite from a seven year old.

Yellow With Chocolate Frosting

My brother, Dad and I decided my Mom's 60th birthday was reason to celebrate. She's hard to surprise (and I'm really bad at keeping exciting news from people and nobody knows me better than my Mom so this one was going to be tough) but we figured we were up to the task.

The party was to be held at my house...50 invites went out....booze was bought...a tent was rented.....iPod loaded with oldies but goodies.....food ordered (you didn't actually think I was going to cook, did you?)....flowers bought....house cleaned....anticipation building.

On the day of her birthday (conveniently, a Saturday), people as far as NJ, Florida, Cape Cod, New York and California descended upon my home. My mother had no clue what awaited her. The ruse we used to get her to come over was that she and my Dad were to pick me up so we could go out to dinner. While en route, I called to inform them that I was running a few minutes late so if they didn't mind coming in, I would appreciate it. Rounding the corner, my Mom noted to my Dad how bustling the neighborhood was. As they pulled into the driveway, she commented further how nice it was that I let my neighbors bark in the rather large turnaround in my driveway (in truth, many older homes in my street don't have driveways at all and street parking can be tough so I do let people park in my driveway). To this day, I believe that my Mom had no clue what awaited her inside my house.

As she pushed open the door, she was greeted by a chorus of surprises and happy birthdays! She look overwhelmed, thrilled, excited, and on the verge of tears. As she saw more and more of her family and friends who traveled from near and far to celebrate with her, she became emotional and excited. As she sipped her Tanqueray and tonics (with a large hunk of lime, of course) she loosened up- laughter, eating and dancing abounded.

And then it was time for the cake.....

We position my Mom behind a large sheet cake which reads, Happy 60th Birthday to the best Mom, Wifey, Friend, Auntie, Sister we could ask for. My brother is holding a small video camera and can see my Mom is getting choked up so to lighten the moment, he tells her to express her love for the cake...in French. (My brother is fluent in french thanks to a language aptitude and studying a year abroad...I know, life is tough. Over several years, he would teach my Mom french alternatives for words you know, especially to express her "frustration" with people so him telling her to say she loves her cake in french wasn't too out of the ordinary.) My Mom agrees and asks him how to say it. he tells her the french word for cake is (coq - pronounced, COCK).

With a giant smile on her face, camcorder rolling, 50 people looking on, my Mom leans down over the sheet cake and declares, "I love coq". Rumbles of, "what did she say?" filters through the crowd and my brother tells my Mom she needs to say it louder as not everyone can hear. "I LOVE COQ" she hollers into the crowd.

My Mom looks perplexed as people start to laugh. Having taken several years of French in high school and college, I whisper into her ear, "the french word for cake is, gateau. You just told everyone that you love cock as in well, COCK." Always a good sport, she blew out her candles and proclaimed it, "time to eat gateau!"

Ps. for a good coq...errr, I mean yellow cake recipe, click the title. I'm home if you make it and want to share.

Lunch Is Served

At my office, we spend a lot of time discussing where we should have lunch that day. I've worked in the same place, same office, same location for seven years so I have eaten pretty much everywhere in and around the City but nonetheless, I can rarely think of exactly where I want to go. Luckily, this particular day, my friend Tim is in town for a meeting and calls to see if I want to meet him at the Cheesecake Factory. Of course I do (I mean not only is the Cheesecake Factory yummy but it is in the mall and within walking distance - the trifecta of perfection) and tell him I will be bringing a new girl in the office, Farrah, with me.

Farrah has just transfered in from Chicago and has been disappointed by our City - small and apparently unfriendly compared to Chicago - so I have taken her under my wing and showed her around and introduced her to people. Off we go...

She and I shove through the crowd waiting for tables to find Tim in a nearby booth. After introductions, drink orders and a mouthful of that fabulous brown bread, we al undertake the task of figuring out what to eat. The Cheesecake Factory menu is massive and instead of ordering my usual crab cake sandwich, I'm considering being adventurous. After several minutes the waitress comes to take our order - Tim gets the black and bleu burger, I go with Thai chicken and then it is Farrah's turn....

She's pointing to an item on the menu and with total sincerity asks the waitress, "umm, what's in the B.L.T?". The waitress questioningly looks at Tim and I who are looking at Farrah like she's crazy (asking what's in a BLT is like asking what's in PB&J)..."Well, that would be bacon, lettuce and tomato". Farrah thinks for a minute and says, "Yes, I see that in the description but anything else come on that?" The response, "a little bit of mayo." Tim isn't able to contain his laughter anymore and my shoulders are bobbing up and down as I try to contain my laughter.

Farrah's still going, "Well what about turkey or cheese or something?" Is this girl for real?!?! Wouldn't that be called a turkey sandwich or a club or something? Is she really continuing to ask for a definition of a BLT? (By the way, a good BLT is quite possibly the best sandwich created - I'm just sayin').

The waitress just stares at Farrah in disbelief. Finally Farrah declares, "I will have a BLT with turkey and cheese." The waitress huffs, turns on her heels and Farrah looks at Tim and I and ask why we are laughing. How do you even explain to someone that they're entire line of questioning was nuts.

When the bill comes, we see Farrah has only been charged $5.25 for her "BLT" as opposed to $9.50 for the turkey, cheese and bacon sandwich on the menu. Hmm, maybe Farrah isn't so clueless after all.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth

I met my parents and nieces, Ella (7) and Jess (5), for dinner at the local burger joint last night. Over my "Burger in the Rye" (a fabulous mixture of flame grilled beef, american cheeses, sauteed onions, a hint of mayo, lettuce and perfectly vine ripened tomato), Jess looks up at me and declares, "CeeCee, I'm the best reader in my class".

Nothing like a healthy ego on a five year old so I reply, "I'm sure you are", even if you do say so yourself is what I'm thinking but don't say. The kid is really smart and last weekend read me a 2nd grade level book about frogs but still......

As if reading my mind, Jess follows up by saying, "If it's the truth, then it's not bragging and it is ok to say so I'm just sayin', not braggin'."

I like this logic and think I will try it out.....
to my supervisor: I'm the best in the office at getting paid to help people so I want a raise....I'm just sayin'

to my fiance: Did you know I'm the best fiance you ever had? You're lucky to have me.....just sayin'

at JCrew: I have the perfect feet for these shoes....hey, I'm not braggin' - just sayin'

Nordstrom Is A Little Piece Of Heaven

When Alexander and I first started dating, his job "volunteered" him to work out of state for 60 days. We were right at those critical beginning weeks where we both knew we were in love but hadn't told each other yet. Having known I had finally met the "keeper" guy, I was heartsick about him leaving but trying to believe my friends when they said, "if he really is the keeper, you will both be fine apart for 60 days." Uh-huh, yea right, that's not how my life goes but ok....

Well, lucky for me, Alexander had it all figured out. On the night before he was to leave, he told me was going to get settled in but hoped that the following weekend, I would fly out to meet him with the plane ticket he had already bought for me. Yes, even me - potentially the most jaded, glass-is-half-empty kinda girl squealed in excitement and then got down to business.....I had nothing to wear for a whirlwind weekend with the man of my dreams...next stop, Nordstroms!

As I wandered around the shoe department debating which shoe would be the cutest but cause me the least amount of pain as we toured the Nations Capitol, a very nice salesperson, Lizzie, asked if she could help. Perhaps you've noticed that I'm not really one to hold much back so I blurted out my life story, my need for cute weekend worthy wear that would look like I made no effort but look gooood. Izzy was a dream. She grabbed stuff from every department, shoes, jeans, shirts, casual little jackets, accessories...it was heaven. We settled on a number of outfits and the most fabulous pair of red shoes (click the title of this blog and it should take you to a picture of them, you know, if you want the full effect). We worked a dinner date night outfit around those shoes which was good because Alexander emailed me to say he made us Saturday night dinner reservations. A little internet research on my part revealed it to be cozy and romantic. Yes, there was more excited squealing when I discovered that.

Izzy wished me luck and made me promise to return and tell her all about it.

Off I flew and our dinner night arrived. I applied make-up (yes, more than mascara and chapstick), flat ironed my hair, wore a simple black skirt, slightly ruffled trendy one-shouldered top, and slipped into my fabulous shoes. We took the metro to our restaurant stop (I know, it sounds so big city chic and I was feeling awesome. I mean, maybe fabulous things like this do happen to me and why shouldn't they?!?). Head high, full of confidence and excitement, Alexander and I started to cross the busy street to our restaurant when i strutted myself right off the curb, stumbled, and fell into the gutter. Alexander hadn't noticed and kept walking, thank goodness for that, so I popped up just as he turned back to see where I was.

"What happened, are you ok?" he asks. "What do you mean, what happened, I'm fine" is my overly eager response. Meanwhile my hand is aching (along with my ego), I just know the wet spot I feel on my thigh from the gutter has to be some homeless guy's urine, and my adorable pumps are scuffed and torn but I'm still thinking I can recover from this because he didn't see anything, right? Wrong, this is me.

"I'm wondering because there are leaves plastered all along your left side, there is some sort of water dripping down your leg and your hand that I'm holding appears to have gravel stuck to your palm. Also, your shoes are wrecked." Crap, so much for a grand cover up. I tell him what happen, we laugh, I get cleaned up in the bathroom and we proceed to have one of the best meals of my life. I leave knowing that Alexander and I will be fine for the next 60 days.

Upon my return to New England, I return to Nordstrom's to tell my tale of woe to Izzy. I bring my battered shoes with me but when I see her, she's so excited and wants everything to have gone wonderfully, I couldn't bear to tell her about the fall so all I say is, "the shoes didn't quite work out". She looks at them, looks at me... smiles and asks if I would like another pair or a refund.

Ah, dreams do come true right here in this little piece of heaven called Nordstrom.

Mama Drama

As our family expanded (thanks to my brother and sister-in-law pumping out three kids and my impending marriage), my parents decided to put an addition on the Cape house. Not only was I excited that my beloved summer cottage was getting a fantastic upgrade but it meant an opportunity to decorate more rooms, bathrooms, pick out bed linens and art for the walls. Curtains, and pillows, and rugs, oh my!

After a winter of building, summer arrives and my Mom and I decide on a "theme" to decorate - "seaside relaxed". Of course, this theme is dependent on my Mom being able to find everything she wants within a three town radius. Thirty summers at our Cape house and my Mom has never seen a reason to leave our town and the two surrounding towns. She can get to the post office, beach, CVS, book store, movies, Christmas Tree Shop, a few boutiques and plenty of yummy restaurants without "fighting the traffic" beyond her three town kingdom. Also, have I mentioned that my Mom hates computers and the internet and refuses to buy anything online because she "can't touch it and feel the quality". (How am I her daughter?!?! My garage s full of mail order boxes that need to be recycled!)

So, last summer, we venture off to a shop in town and she finds exactly the linens and summer quilts she wants. They are beautiful and unique washes of blues, yellows and whites. Perfect! We need enough for two twin beds and one king. You don't think they'd have everything we needed, do you? Of course not. They don't have the king bedspread but we are in luck as their Hyannis store has it. Phew, what a relief, right? I mean, my Mom is having company tomorrow so what a relief that this is going to work out. Not so fast...Hyannis is outside the tri-town area...it is a 20 minute ride down the dreaded Route 6. I convince her to be adventurous and even offer to drive. The shop owner calls and has them put it aside for us and before my mom can change her mind, I thrust her out into the world.

We arrive at Bedding Bliss in Hyannis. It is in an adorable plaza which might be fun to explore but my Mom is having none of it. We are on a mission. She wants her comforter and then wants to get back to the comfort of home base. We walk through the sliding doors, there are a couple registers up front with lines of people. We don't readily see customer service and I can see my Mom is ready to jack rabbit out of there and ditch the whole mission. I shove her past the registers where we see a young man stocking the shelves.

My Mom walks right up to him and starts explaining her saga. Yes, she considers it a saga. She's going on and on about the addition, her company, our seaside relaxed theme, her arms are flailing, she's saying she has a comforter on hold, explaining the long drive, and complaining that now that she has arrived, she can't find anyone to help her blah, blah, blah. (Clearly, I get my ability to talk and talk and talk from my Mom) After several attempts to interrupt her, I give up - she's on a role and when she's on a role, there is no stopping her.

As my Mom takes a breath, the stock boy mumbles something and walks away. Humph, Mama is not happy about that. For all in the store to hear, she bellows, "HELL-LOOOOO. I was talking to you. Are you getting my comforter? Am I supposed to follow you? HELLLL-O, do you even want the name it is on hold with?".

She turns to me and starts to lament about college kids and their summer jobs and how they have no pride in their work or customer service. She says to me, "I hope you provided better customer service in your summer job than this kid". (Let me think, I worked at a local donut shop where I rode my bike to at 5 am. My uniform consisted of flip flops, jean shorts and a Murphy's Donut t-shirt that had a picture of a Honey dipped donut over each of my boobs and said, Sink Your Teeth Into These - Best on The Cape. I can promise you, my customer service sucked and rarely did people actually get decaf coffee when they asked for it. But these are stories for another day.)

My Mom finally notices that people are staring at us and she asks me why. I finally have a chance to tell her what I wanted all those times I tried to interrupt her on her tirade with the stock boy. "Well, Mom, the kid you were just explaining all your drama to is wearing a large yellow button on his chest that reads, 'I'm deaf. I read lips. Please speak slowly and directly to me'. I'm guessing he missed just about everything you were saying at mock-10 speed while looking around, flailing you arms."

"You're lying. Please tell me you're lying" she says. No such luck and then we do the only thing we can do, laugh like maniacs and run for the door. Just as the exit doors slide open, we see the freedom of the parking lot and I'm promising never to take her out of the tri-town area again...we hear our last name shouted through the store. Crap, now all these people know our name. We turn around to find the stock boy (giant yellow button and all) holding our comforter. My mother slowly, clearly, loudly (odd, since he's deaf) and looking right at him, thanks him for his help.

It really is a lovely bedspread.

Is It Wrong That This Site is Like A Religion for Me?

I couldn't even tell you how I first stumbled upon the "What Would Tyler Durden Do?" website (www.wwtdd.com) but I have gone to this site more times than I have ever gone to church. Is that wrong?

I mean, is it wrong that I find his musings, sarcasm, and cutting wit about all things celebrity, hilarious? My whole career is treating everyone with compassion and kindness and celebrities are people so I should feel guilty, right? But I don't.

Be careful if you check out this website...you'll become hooked. Keep in mind, you've been warned.

"Hello, my name is CeeCee and I have an addiction......"

Scott Peterson and Me

Yes, as in the guy from California who murdered his wife.

Alexander and I had out first date the Friday night of Labor Day weekend. If you know me, you know that my parents have a summer home on the Cape where I have spent the last 30 summers of my life*. Memorial Day weekend signaled the beginning of summer and Labor Day weekend, the end of the season. I never missed either weekend on the Cape. Tradition. When I accepted the date with Alexander and told my parents I would be coming to the Cape on Saturday instead of Friday after work, they already knew that this guy rated higher than anyone else in my life ever had.

Alexander arrives on my doorstep with flowers in one hand and a book in the other. I love to read and he knew it so he brought flowers as a typical first date gift and the book because, "any guy can bring a girl flowers but only a guy who pays attention to conversation would bring you a book". Yup, I was smitten.

Off we went for our waterfront dinner where half way through our appetizer, chatting and laughing it struck me - I like this guy. As in really liked this guy. After dinner we walked around the quaint historical New England town, got ice cream, sat on a park bench and people watched. Friday night bled into Saturday morning on that seaside bench.

Alexander asked if I wanted to go for a hike on Saturday. I quickly agreed. Then we had dinner Saturday night, brunch Sunday, boating on Monday. Yes, all Labor Day weekend we hung out having a fantastic time, falling in love.

Of course my Mother, brother, and friends had been calling my cell and house phones all weekend to find out where the heck I was. They all knew I had the date Friday night but when I didn't call to say how it went or show up Saturday at the Cape - people started to panic. I didn't call because funny thing about falling in love - it is true that nothing much else matters. When I wasn't with Alexander that weekend, I was thinking about our dates and what I would wear the next time I saw him.

By Monday night, my Mom left me a voicemail, "CeeCee, this is ridiculous. Where are you and why aren't you answering the phone?!?!? I'm about to call the police and am going to tell them I'm afraid you got 'Scott Petersoned' but I can't remember your date's name and I don't want to be that woman on the nightly news who appears to have no idea what her daughter was up to." That's right, my Mom used Scoot Peterson as a verb - as in she thought my date murdered me and disposed of my body. Did I mention she watches a lot of Nancy Grace? Classic Mom.

So, before the search party was sent out for me, I called her with my exciting love tale and got an earful about her fearing me being Scott Petersoned. To this day, whenever Alexander and I are driving someplace new or he takes me on a different route I tell him not to get any ideas about Scott Petersoning me because my Mom will be all over it.

Good to know Mom's got my back.

*One hot summer day, if you find yourself on the Cape and want to teach your kids to water ski, need a place to park to go to the bay, need to use a bathroom, want to take a dip in the pond, kayak, or are in need of an afternoon gin and tonic waterside with some of the best conversation with the best neighbors and friends you'll ever find - call us. Once you experience my Cape life, you'll never want to leave. And yes, I am aware that I have a charmed life and how lucky I am.

To Tee Or Not To Tee, That Is The Question

My job has assigned me to a task in upstate NY for the last year. One week of every month, I head across New England, farther and farther away from the ocean, through the mountains to upstate NY. There was a time I looked forward to that week away from my usual duty station but recently, I have found myself questioning why NY can't find anyone who wants to get paid for being nice to people.

Anyway, last year, Alexander got me interested in playing golf. He bought me a nice beginner set of clubs and on the weekends, we would go to various driving ranges around our houses. I always considered golf to be a fairly boring sport of which I would be no good (hello, I was a soccer player most of my life - I'm like a bull in a china shop). Alexander was smart though as he stroked my ego every time we would go to the driving range..."wow, I know people who took years of lessons before they could hit that hard....you have a natural grip....awesome job, babe...". Of course I believed all of this to be true and quickly, the driving range became fun - so much fun that on occasion, after work, I would go on my own. What does this have to do with upstate NY, you ask?

Well, I decided that I would go to a driving range out there. This way I could get some fresh air and practice a bit after work. I went online and found a place close to my hotel. During a heat wave, I trek off to the driving range. It was called a "public country club" whatever that means. You would have thought, as I drove down the beautifully landscaped, mile long driveway, that I would have known this wasn't my typical mini golf/batting cages/driving range/ice cream/arcade places that I had been going to. But no, not me...I carried on. Heck, I even decided to get a medium basket of balls.

I followed the path to the driving range and what did I see....grass. No turf with a little rubber stand to put my ball on. Just grass. And no partitions between golfers...just grass between us. what else did I see...people staring at me like I was a stray cat off the road. Perhaps they were looking at me that way because the women wore golf skirts and little sweater vests, the men wore khakis with festive polo shirts. Everyone had clubs neatly lined up in their golf bags and had leather shoes with little spikes on the bottom. Oh, did I fail to mention my "look"?

I wore a pair of green Nike running shorts (circa 1991 gym class - at the time, I was just happy that they still fit this many years later), gym sneakers, my favorite LSU grey and navy faded t-shirt with a rip under the arm and a giant ink stain on the upper left shoulder. My hair was swirling around my head (why is it that I buy a hundred hair elastics but can never find one when I really need it?!?!), I had giant fashion (not sporty) sunglasses on, a blackberry in one hand, and in the other, 2 clubs with the medium basket of balls swinging on the end. That's right, I didn't even have my full bag of clubs - took up too much trunk space.

I decided to stay calm and just hit the balls. I find a place in line...step up...and see...grass! Where is the little rubber thingy to put my ball on like I have always used at the driving ranges at home?!?!!? Stay calm. I put the ball on the neatly manicured, perfectly green grass and swing. The ball takes off....with a chunk of grass. More stares. I recover the little chunk of grass and mound it up and put the next ball on it - like a makeshift tee. That ball takes off - along with the little patch of grass - it was like a green toupee flying through the air. That medium bucket of balls is growing but I can't retreat. What do I do??! Duh, I send a nasty text to Alexander and explain my circumstances and blame him for not preparing me for such a place. Naturally, this is somehow his fault, right? His response?

Wow, that's a much nicer place than I've ever brought you to. What you need are tees - no duh - and you mean you had an excuse to shop and buy a cute golf outfit and you didn't, I'm shocked - LOL.

I would have responded but now people were glaring at me. Texting, in addition to my outfit and lack of golfing knowledge, was apparently starting to really bug people. Just when I considered running out of there, the guy next to me offers me some tees which I gladly accept. Hitting the ball (sans grass) gets much easier after that. Of course, towards the end of the basket of balls (why, oh, why did I have to get the medium basket?) I have broken all the tees the nice guy has given me so I dig around my dirt/grass area for some "usable" broken ones and finish the basket. Phew, my humiliation has ended and I can leave.

As I gather my mish mash of crap, the guy who gave me the tees is cleaning the dirt from his clubs and neatly putting them back. He takes pity on me and offers to buy me a beer in the clubhouse overlooking the driving range. As we sit on the deck looking at all the perfect little golfers, they bring me a beer and a glass to pour it in. I decline the glass. Let's be honest, the day has proven that I'm a drink-it-from-the-bottle kind of girl.

In The Words Of...

...my 5 year old niece, "Habby Easta!"

Hey, cut the kid some slack, she has a New England accent.

Reminder

My blog stories are like the fabulous butterfly shoes I'm wearing right now...embellished.