Rockin' it.

I saw my coffee shop guys yesterday. They were yuckin' it up again with their usual backwoods panache. They sat outside since it was finally a spring day here, so the whole posse was shrouded in Joe Camel fumes. Cancer perfume, as I like to call it. A few of the gents were sporting cowboy hats and sweatshirts that had random sayings like "Autism Run 1998" and "University of Smith & Wesson." Hardy har har har. Them guys are funny, I tell ya! I didn't stick around to hear their shards of wisdom since I prefer to keep my kids away from places that leave them smelling like the ashtray in my dad's Chevy Malibu from back in the day.

I know that secretly Mac Daddy would love to be like the coffee shop guys when he gets old. He dreams of being a toothless curmudgeon sitting his ass in a rocking chair all day long, commenting on all the nonsense that passes him by. He'd for sure have a toothpick to pick the strawberry seeds out of the last three teeth in his mouth. He'd have dentures, but they'd sit in an Efferdent bath all day because he won't be bothered to deal with gluing them in. Mac Daddy will see aging as license to say and do what he pleases. Hmmmmm....much like a preschooler.

As for me, I see myself aging gracefully a la Audrey Hepburn. I plan on staying fit (well, at least as fit as I am now, which is certainly far from gold, or bronze, medal shape) and being hip enough to be cool but not too hip as to be precociously annoying. I dream about having a fabulous commercial grade kitchen with a fireplace and Architecture Digest caliber outdoor entertaining space. I guess I'll be whipping up mashed osso bucco for Mac Daddy and all his toothless buddies.

What a pair we'll make. Yin and Yang. Oliver and Lisa. Beauty and the Beast.

Sure, I also dream about a gloriously happy family with no signs of dysfunction, gorgeous grandchildren, and sons who are gainfully employed by Johns Hopkins Hospital as a brotherly surgical team. No one wants to hear me wax about that crap. Of course we all wish for world peace, or at least family harmony. We all want our children to be smart, fulfilled, and rich (Yes, rich. No one dreams of having poor children. Someone's gotta fund our long-term care.).

All of us, regardless of social stature, wealth, education, geography, or upbringing share the same goals and hopes for our families. It goes without saying that the whole world wishes for the same blah blah blah that beauty pageant contestants are made of.

As for me, I just want that iconic Chanel jacket before I'm too hunched over to rock it and too blind to admire myself in it.

Tagged.

High Heeled Mama tagged me to share 7 random facts about myself. Oh, it will be hard to keep it to 7!

Rules are as follows:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share seven facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. For many, many years (I actually lost count.) during my grade school and middle school days, I slept on my bed in a sleeping bag. Being the neat freak that I am, I found it easier to roll up my sleeping bag, tuck it away in the closet, and straighten the bed before going to school. Not making the bed was (and still isn't) an option so it took less time in my hectic mornings before school to just use a sleeping bag.

2. Audrey Hepburn has been my idol since I was 16 years old and saw "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for the first time with my friend Nancy. I own every book ever written about her. The "Breakfast at Tiffany's" movie poster hangs in my office over my desk. The Italian version is propped up on a table across from me, and a pencil sketch of Audrey is on my bookshelf. Two guesses what our girl name would have been had Mac Daddy and I had a daughter.

3. There are only five foods in the world that I will not eat: liver, lima beans, cherries, raisins, and black licorice. Otherwise, I am likely the least picky eater you will ever meet.

4. I have mingled with and broken bread with several famous baseball players during my charity event days in Minneapolis. I never recognized a single one of them and had to be told who they were. This includes the likes of Bobby Bonilla, David Justice, Cal Ripken Jr., and Kirby Puckett.

5. I can put my whole fist in my mouth.

6. When I lived in Minneapolis I broke out in an inexplicable rash. Doctors later revealed that it was urticaria, caused by exposure to the cold. See, I told you I was allergic to those frozen tundra temps.

7. I played the trombone in middle school marching band. I was the only girl in the whole brass section. This was after I informed my band director that I wanted to play the drums. He said, "Girls don't play drums. Pick something else." I figured he wasn't going to say no twice. You can probably tell that the flute was too wussy for the likes of me.

I said I'd share 7 random facts about myself; I never promised that any of them would be interesting!

Now here I go tagging 7 more lucky bloggers out there.

1. Crouton Boy
2. One Chic Mama
3. Ginny
4. Mom 101
5. Crabmommy
6. Friday Playdate
7. Misfit Hausfrau

The Big O

This morning Bird was working on writing his upper case alphabet in a little workbook I got for him at the Teach Me store. He was doing a great job, and we had fun cheering and squealing together as he rounded out a perfect G and stayed within the lines on a particularly difficult J.

The next thing I know, he's breezed through a bunch of letters while I stepped away to make blueberry blintzes for breakfast, and I hear, "Here comes the Big O!" He said it with the same sarcastic yet humorous tone that Mac Daddy would have used, so I worried for a moment that Bird indeed understood the context of his exclamation.

Alas, the next thing he said was, "Here comes the Big N!" The way I heard it, however, the N got less fervor than the O.

And speaking of the Big O, you gotta see the T-shirt that I'm dying to muster up the moxie to put on my boys.

TSPUM: Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Momwear

I do not claim to be a fashionista, fashion slave, or trend setter. OK, admittedly I can be a fashion victim. No one will ever add "Style Icon" to my epitaph. Audrey Hepburn I ain't.

That doesn't stop me from having an opinion on what moms wear.

Here's the Dirt & Noise Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Mom Wear:

Mom jeans. Burn them. Turn them into dog bed covers. Use them as ground cover to keep weeds at bay. Just do not wear them. A high waist, full thigh, and tapered leg is not flattering on anyone. Even my nine foot tall super model friend MH wouldn't look good in them. And trust me, she looks good in everything because clothes are made to fit a nine foot tall size 0 these days.

Keds. Seriously, why are you wearing the same sneaks you wore when you were 7-years old? Mischa Barton pockets the paycheck, but the girl doesn't have one lousy pair of Keds in her closet. Go ahead and sport some cool Pumas instead.

Wind suits. Track suits. Call it what you will. Your clothing should not make more noise than your children. The whoosh whoosh sound of your thighs rubbing together in a pair of nylon sweat pants is warning enough to make others leave the playground premises. How about some capri sweat pants and a cute hoodie instead? Just don't wear "Juicy" across your ass. And by all means, don't match your husband unless you are on the same Olympic team.

Your husband's button down shirt. Only my friend Newman can pull off this look. And that's with her husband's crisp white oxford tied in a knot atop her Lilly capris. Sure, it's kinda sexy to wear your husband's shirt after a quickie, but keep it contained to your own home. Most women don't look so chic in oversized menswear. You'll find some lovely white shirt options at Boden. Or Target. Or Old Navy. Just wear one sized and cut for a woman. Promise you won't go all 80's on me and pair your husband's shirt with black leggings.

Anything with licensed characters. Even Bird and Deal don't wear Pooh or Nemo on their clothing. Certainly grown women should not either. It's bad enough that they make diaper bags emblazoned with that crap. Leave Minnie Mouse on your kid's lunch box where she belongs. I find it ridiculous that the Disney Store even has an adult apparel category.

For the flattering but ridiculous Momwear category:
Rock and Republic jeans, kitten heels, and a Stella McCartney top...at the park. Clearly these women don't get down in the sandbox with their kids. High fashion is not for play dates. Save the Lucky Magazine getup for date night. Your kids deserve machine washable garb if your time with them is indeed quality. And PS, get over your big bad self.

Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive.

What other mom apparel horrifies you? What should we add to the Treaty?

Addendum to 4/7 post

Mom-101: Skip This One if You've Got an Elephant Bumper Sticker on the SUV


You must check this out. I'm not a Hillary fan at all, but the rest of the post rings true. With the North Carolina primary coming up on May 6, I hope voters out there realize what a Republican in office means to women, families, and those who love them.

Tell me something I don't know!

You must read this before you continue.

Is this really what researchers need to spend their grant dollars doing? The next thing you know some fancy pants PhD from MIT is going to tell me that the latest research shows that college fraternity parties encourage binge drinking among 19-year old boys or that the more often a teenage LiLo wannabe wears words across her ass the less likely she is to get a BA in Economics.

Of course men create more housework for women! The male researcher should have just asked his wife. Or his mother. In this case, a focus group of one would have been sufficient to draw conclusions. Here's my favorite quote from Frank, "And the situation gets worse for women when they have children." No shit. Allow me to gather myself and readjust since falling over backwards from my Aeron.

Let's start with the little details of oh, say BIRTH. We do the hard work (as they say, it ain't called labor for nuthin'). The problem is that labor doesn't end when the nurse lays that writhing miracle in your arms. The fun just begins. We get to wear a diaper for weeks while trying to feed a child who gnaws on our nipples for hours a day. And never mind the juggling of other little ones running around, remembering to take the Lean Cuisine out of the microwave so we can get some much needed nourishment to keep the milk flowing, change some diapers, throw in laundry, and find time to sneak in a shower. Oh yeah, and then we're supposed to pick up our husband's strewn shoes and socks and briefcase to clear a path to the stairs and help him find his keys that he refuses to hang on the conveniently located hook by the front door.

Harumph. Frank, may I suggest you go research something more meaningful, like why women still think Republicans are helping our cause.