And can you really say "Cream of Mushroom" and "gourmet" in the same sentence?

So the fabulous neighbors had us over the other night for pizza and beer. As usual, I spent too much time laughing to actually take any good pictures. And I will also report that there were no stories told that night that can be repeated on this blog. My urchins read this, people. My Aunt Carol Jean reads it! [Actually, my Aunt Carol Jean has been known to tell a bawdy tale or two . . . but we won't go there tonight.]

Let's just say that in this particular instance vulgarity and hilarity are integrally related. You can tell because of the look on my own street sister's face. Her eyes are closed because really, the pals are telling the most scandalous story, using words that are making me blush right now -- and I'm not even typing them; I'm just thinking them. But you do see that she is laughing her ass off, right?

Don't get me wrong -- it wasn't all genitalia jokes and strippers. Actually there were no strippers that I remember. And we did discuss the merits of various fine dining options. Some of us are enamored of "Cream of Something and Something Casserole" while others seem more intrigued by the new cuisine being touted these days, which consists of instant rice topped with a can of delicious Chunky Beef with Barley soup. Your thoughts?

Well, it was swell to get together with the fabulous neighbors -- it always is -- and I feel particularly honored that they wanted to bond with us, since the next morning he left for a year-long deployment to Afghanistan. You know how I feel about my fabulous neighbors, so you know how much I will miss my friend while he's gone. His wife is just as dear -- my wonderful pal, my earliest and staunchest blog supporter, and a heroine to all REAL real housewives of D.C. Just so you understand how hard she kicks ass, she will spend this coming year finishing her Master's degree. Suck on that, Michaele Salahi.

Well, if I were more eloquent I would offer a pithy and moving commentary about the bravery and selflessness of the men and women who volunteer to go to war for us -- and about the sacrifice we ask of their families as well. But really, all I pray for is for my friend to come home safely. So I guess that's what I would ask you to do, too. Pray for my friend. Or pray for someone you know and love. Pick a specific soldier, or marine, or sailor -- and pray.

Thanks.

And the best news is November is almost over!

So we had a lovely Thanksgiving this year -- as we always do. I'm telling you, there is something about a table decorated with pretties that have special meaning, filled to the point of collapse with comfort food, and surrounded by your dear ones, that brightens the melancholy soul. As you know, I find November to be a very tricky month, but these last few days have been filled with fabulous.

We had so many loved ones celebrating with us that we had to take two pictures to get 'em all captured for the scrapbooks. By loved ones I am of course including the fabulous neighbors as well as the fabulous green beans.

Also at our table were two grandmas and two kinds of cranberry sauce.

The husband's sister was with us, which was a special treat. Since she lives on the other side of the country, we don't get to see her nearly as often as we would like to. I love her for many reasons, but one is that she and I both love to slum it among the gossip magazines.

And our festive occasions are always better when the fabulous neighbors are around. Talk about dear ones!

tangent: I think it's a shame that the word neighbor does not convey the depth of love I feel for these wonderful friends. It is true that they live right next door, and that we can count on them to feed the cats and check our mail while we're away. But I also rely on them for advice, sympathy, rocking good fun, and so much more! How lucky are we to know them?!

The tall boy -- home for the holiday -- received some birthday loot as well. He is a truly good sport about the fact that his birthday is often collapsed into our Thanksgiving celebrating. Sometimes his actual birthday is on actual Thanksgiving. He could make this one more thing for me to feel guilty about, but he is mellow about it, as he is about so many other things. He even makes life easier by not particularly liking cake. He always requests birthday pie -- which is easy to come by at Thanksgiving!

And here is a gorgeous sight -- the ceremonial pot of turkey soup! The husband -- the master of the kitchen at our house -- started this bad boy simmering almost before we had finished eating. I think he might have taken a turkey leg out of the sunny girl's hand so he could add it to the pot.

I hope that, as it did for me, your Thanksgiving reminded you of how lucky and loved you are. When all is said and done, I feel so blessed!

Now I feel really old

So I went to my high school reunion this weekend and of course I had a fabulous time. But I cannot begin to tell you how neurotic and angsty I was about getting ready for it. My philosophy vis-a-vis reunions is that appearance is everything. I must look fabulous and yet like I don't care: No, this isn't a new dress. No, I didn't go to the fabulous Pincurls and get my hair glamorized for the event. Shoes? Am I even wearing shoes? I don't remember. People, shallow doesn't even begin to describe my approach to reunions.

So the traumatic event of the night for me occurred when I realized that I was completely unable to make a decision about the crucial choice between the fun-yet-casual sandals and the awesomely fabulous but pointy-to-the-point-of-witchiness pumps. I was paralyzed by the possible ramifications of a poor shoe choice. So I headed next door to get the fabulous neighbor to rescue me. She's awesome with the shoe psychology; she totally gets the importance of the decision, but can intervene from a more neutral point of view. She's like Dr. Drew, only for shoes.

Well, thank goodness for the fabulous neighbor -- but ask me sometime about how her husband slapped me with a piece of pizza, when I banged on his door and said, "I need the fabulous neighbor -- STAT!" Apparently my urgent tone made him think someone at my house had a bone sticking out or something. He just doesn't get the whole shoe thing, I guess.

So once I got to the event, I smiled graciously and strode confidently through the room and parked myself in the far corner. The husband brought me a glass of wine and said, "You know that you can't stand here all night, right?" He just didn't get that I couldn't mingle until Lisa was there to mingle with me. I was also slightly hyperventilating because across the room I saw the boy with a heart full of sweet whom I ditched meanly to go to the prom with a another boy, who ended up coming out to me -- at the prom. Neither of these boys is my husband, of course (with whom I also went to high school) -- and we're all approaching fifty and happily married. But still. The mind was reeling, and I had not had enough wine.

See what I mean about neurotic? People, you don't even know.

And by the way -- is it just me? I remember people, and I just assume they have no idea who I am. So I imagine saying a cheery hello to a high school pal, and having her look back at me with a blank stare. And I was one of those involved girls in high school -- so I don't know where this notion comes from. I sang; I acted in the school plays; I wrote for the yearbook; I acted like an idiot at pep rallies. A story for another day is how I broke my ankle at a pep rally, and then fell down a flight of stairs the next day and broke the other ankle; the point here would be that people knew who I was -- even if it was because I was widely regarded as a giant dork.

Anyway -- the reunion was fabulous, and so were all the charmingly fun people that I was so afraid of. Look how great we all turned out!

I hugged more people than I have since I don't know when. Seriously, hugging was the default greeting: at the door I was hugged by Dale, who sat next to me in French in 8th grade and dragged me toward a passing grade; and the hugs just kept on coming. Sometimes a spouse was mistakenly hugged but bore up under the strain.

This man was so cute in high school and I always had the teensiest little crush on him. His wife is lovely, just so we're clear.

And this woman was just so dear to me in high school. And she still is. I'm so glad I got to spend time with her; it made all the anxiety worth it.

But can I just say that some things never change? My friend Tim was there and people, he snuck in booze! How hilarious is that? Of course this time he wasn't hiding the beer or the cheap vodka because we weren't old enough to drink. No -- he brought his own "good" wine because he was afraid the house wine would give him a migraine. I howled with laughter -- but I was first in line when he offered to share the good stuff.

It was just like high school.

Why don't they give the mommies valium any more?

So it's been way too long since we've had any medical drama around here -- and that's clearly unacceptable. So the first week of school for my two fabulous girl urchins brought with it a trip to the emergency room AND a diagnosis of -- wait for it -- shingles.

The sunny girl started the shenanigans when she tripped on the stairs.

tangent: I'll wait for the chortles and snickers of my oldest friends to subside; as they continue to clutch their sides with merriment I will inform my newer cyber-pals that I myself have quite the reputation for, shall we say, wearing a pair of crutches with flair. Or at least with regularity. And all of my injuries have been sustained on or near a flight of stairs. I'm serious -- I feel like I've thrown a double-dog dare out to God by living in a three-story house.

Well, so the sunny girl yelled "ouch!" when she stumbled, but said she "stubbed her toe." Does this look like a stubbed toe to you?

Unfortunately, my family has spent enough time in emergency rooms that we know the primary rule of the E.R.: always bring a book.

The final diagnosis: it's broken, twinkle-toes. On the up side, she gets out of P.E. for a month AND she and Jolie Blonde make a matched set. Jolie Blonde also follows her mother's family tradition, sustaining injuries that require surgery and physical therapy.

You just think I'm talking about my sister with the bum wrist and her daughter with the broken volleyball arm.

But really I'm talking about Coleen the retired gymnast and her daughter Jolie Blonde, who loves horses but apparently not enough to stay on hers while she's riding him.

And oy! The trials and tribulations of a school-loving girl who has been quarantined are hard to describe. It's not enough that school is out of the question for now, or that the nerves in her throwing arm hurt like a -- well, you fill in the blank.

My girl in charge has also been banned from cul-de-sac capers because the littlest fabulous neighbors have not had chicken pox yet. This picture, taken last Thanksgiving, will not be replicated any time soon.

But me? I'm just fine!

And then my head exploded.

So you know how our family is so lucky because we get to go on our own family reunion beach vacation, and then a month later we get to do it again with our beloved un-family, right?

Some of our happiest memories are of our weeks in Sandbridge, Virginia, with this amazing, loving, welcoming family of dear ones.

And we did join them again this year, and we did have just the swellest time again, too.

It's hard to convey the fabulousness of this week: it's about the food . . .

. . . the quiet time with friends . . .

. . . the running or relaxing by the water . . .

. . . the singing . . . .

Really, this is how a beach week is supposed to be.

But here's what I want to know: If YOU went into to see the hilarious and heart-warming Despicable Me with your urchins, wouldn't you expect that your eight-year-old piece of crap minivan would still be in the parking lot when you came out? Me, too! And yet you and I would be mistaken.

Apparently, while some family vacations are not complete without medical intervention of some sort, it appears that other beach vacations require the theft of the family vehicle to complete the experience.

And can I just say that I absolutely had the complete experience: the police report; the late night phone call to get someone -- anyone -- to come fetch us in the middle of the night; the lovely chat with the nice insurance company lady; the discovery that a rental car is not covered in our plan; it was everything you could want a car theft to be -- and even more!

Because I had even more glamorous excitement on the drive home from our fabulous vacation: the sunny girl and I zig-zagged across the state in order to retrieve the girl in charge, who had been attending Hollinsummer (more on this in an upcoming post, but early reporting indicates: gosh! It was fun!) in Roanoke, Virginia. We were in the zag portion of our journey when we had to stop for necessary re-fueling, by which I mean Chik-Fil-A. A fast food parking lot is the best place to sideswipe another vehicle while driving a rental car, I always say.

Oh, the tooth-gnashing and clamped mouth as I avoided letting loose with a string of self-directed wrothful epithets! Oh, the dread in calling the husband! And oh! oh! But the deep and sincere chagrin at the thought that the husband would be scampering like a bunny as soon as he got off the phone to fill the fabulous neighbors in on my ridiculosity!

I'm not even going to tell you about how the police eventually recovered the stolen "vehicle" but how it was also involved in an armed robbery so it is being held as evidence and they'll get back to us about the part where we actually get the stinking thing back -- like I want it back, after all this drama.

tangent: My friend Tim says it's time to ditch the mom-mobile mentality and get a Mercedes coupe. But I think what should happen is that I will get a very sturdy Vespa. And I will get a big wicker basket to hang on the front. And I will wear a floppy hat with a giant pink flower. And if the girl in charge needs a ride to softball practice, she can grab her equipment bag and climb into the basket.

All in all, it was just the most relaxing vacation ever -- aside from the part where I poked a stick in my eye in frustration and angsty despair. Twice.

Image credits and information:

OK, so since I'm clearly having one of those summers, my tragically beautiful and new camera is missing -- even though it made it home safely from the beach. So:

All the lovely beach photos are courtesy of various members of the Kline/Moran/Pollard/Dixon clan whose Facebooks I have scavenged. Thanks, everyone.

Crappy photos were taken on my iPhone.