Saturday, August 16, 2008

Crappy Cake

Wiping a child's poopy bottom is always good times, right? Just when I least expect to get blogging inspiration, Deal plops a big one. Um, literally and figuratively.

While wiping his cute little double dimple bottom with the birthmark on the left cheek, he looks into the potty and remarks, "Lots of poop, Mommy. The poop is the cake, and the pee is the frosting. But don't eat that cake. It's fake. It came from my penis and bottom. It's really just poop, not chocolate."

Good times indeed. Is this just the beginning of my boys' lifelong infatuation with poop and farts? What's next, looking at poop logs trying to see images like when you lie on your back and stare up at the clouds?
Crappy CakeSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Impeach Bush. You'll sleep better if you try.

In all the hubbub of the upcoming election (and a damn exciting and important one it is!), we seem to forget what a shitty and downright dirty job George Bush has done. If Janet Jackson were to ask him, What have you done for me lately? he'd just smirk, flash that signature shit eating grin, and harumph his way to a babbling non-answer.

The answer is: George Bush has done NOTHING for us lately. In eight years he has drive nthis country into the ground and left us with no shovels or backhoes to dig ourselves out. Meanwhile, he and his oil and Halliburton cronies are getting fat off our backs and tee hee heeing all the way to their private island to count their money and pat each other on the back.

I challenge you to list three things Bush has done or influenced to make your life better than it was 8 years ago. I can list 12 million things he's responsible for to make my l ifeworse but can't muster one single way in which he's made my life better. And by "my life" I mean an extension of what Bird and Deal will pay for well into their adulthood. They are my life, and I want to exercise what rights and power I have to secure their future.

Bush is going to dance his way out of office without a blemish. No accountability for the war in Iraq and Afghanistan (also a war, folks, whether we officially call it that or not). The situation ain't getting any better. "Mission accomplished," my ass. His legacy will certainly be Worst President Ever. D'ya think he'll care? Nah. Fat cats grin as long as they're fat.

There are some people who believe Bush has more evidence for impeachment than a certain president who left his mark on a certain blue dress. Screwing Monica or screwing every single person in multiple countries? You decide which is worse.

Kucinich has some of that Paul Wellstone spark that I so admire. He's urging us to hold Bush accountable for his misdeeds. Please take a minute, literally one minute, to sign the petition. Perhaps it's for naught, but at least you know that you did just one teeny tiny little gesture to flip off George Bush. I for one, feel pretty good about it.

In the words of a brilliant Nike copywriter, just do it.
Impeach Bush. You'll sleep better if you try.SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Friday, August 15, 2008

5:00 Fridays

Mac Daddy and our dear friend Shan share a birth date. Shan and her husband Chris were our travel pals back in the day. We whiled away many a day in a pleasant margarita induced stupor in Key West. Our favorite is from Willie T's. Mmmm....on the rocks, with salt. Followed by a heaping platter of chili cheese fries. Arteries, forgive me.

Today's drink is a toast to Mac Daddy and Shan, whom we miss celebrating with!

Classic Margarita

First things first, a margarita should be on the rocks. That frozen stuff from TGIFridays and other apostrophe restaurants of that ilk are lousy. You deserve better. Leave those frozen concoctions to the teeny bopper underage set that doesn't appreciate a fine cocktail yet.

Now serve this in a proper margarita glass. It's a must. Really, it'll taste more islandy this way. I prefer salt, but it's great without too if you're watching your sodium intake. Focus on the alcohol intake instead, for sure.

1 lime wedge
Coarse salt (I use the sea salt from Trader Joe's.)
3/4 cup ice cubes
1/4 cup tequila (Not the bottom shelf crap you guzzled in college, folks. Who has time for a hangover these days?)
1/4 cup orange liqueur
1/4 cup lime juice (Go for key limes to really invoke the Conch spirit! Juice from the plastic lime won't do justice to this drink.)

If you want your margarita with salt, rub rims of 2 glasses (because who drinks alone, right?) with the lime wedge. Put some coarse salt in a shallow dish and dip the glass rims into salt. Put a few ice cubes in each glass. In a pitcher, mix the tequila, orange liqueur, and lime juice. Pour equally into glasses. Garnish with lime wedges. Turn up the Jimmy Buffett and sip away.

5:00 FridaysSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Turning 40 First

My husband, the amazing Mac Daddy, turns 40 today. That's the BIG 4-0. He is sleeping next to me bidding farewell to his 30s as I write this. Mac Daddy is not one who likes his birthday, not because he is wary of aging. He simply does not care. Perhaps because he is the youngest of six children so his birthday was often overlooked as a kid. Perhaps because he subliminally fears getting old and is actually battling vanity. Who knows.

Let me tell you a little story. When Mac Daddy and I were co-workers and just friends (really, I used to set him up with my girlfriends!), we passed each other by our mail boxes at the office one morning. I knew it was his birthday because the big ass white board sign by the elevator told me so. When I saw Mac Daddy I commented, "So, big day today, huh?" To which Mac Daddy replied as he ran his fingers through his hair, "Yup, got my hair cut."

I am one who loves her birthday. The caps lock key is not strong enough to express just how much I love my birthday. I cannot imagine being as blase as Mac Daddy. I like to make a big deal out of everyone's day that marks their entry to our planet. Today warrants special attention; Mac Daddy is ringing in 40!

Here's what I need to make his day extra special. Please leave a comment wishing Mac Daddy a Happy Birthday. Pass it on to your friends. This is a non-discriminatory party to which everyone is invited. Mac Daddy is a level-headed liberal so Republicans can even stop by. Even though he won't admit it, I know he will be tickled by the comments. If you've been lurking in the past, now is your optimal time to comment. Mac Daddy thanks you...while blushing, of course.

Now I'd like to share 40 reasons why I love Mac Daddy. Though there are a zillion more, I'm sticking to 40 to commemorate every year of his life.
  1. He looks extraordinarily sexy in boxers.
  2. He is a hands on dad who makes my heart melt when he plays superheroes with Bird and Deal.
  3. His eyes. They are sometimes blue, sometimes steely gray.
  4. His dry sense of humor kills me...even if I don't get the joke til days later.
  5. He is wicked smart.
  6. He was a trooper about getting his brows waxed to be more of a chick magnet back in the day when I was setting him up with my friends.
  7. He likes to shop. Spend money even.
  8. He loves his mother and talks about her often.
  9. He's close to his sisters (all 4 of them).
  10. They way he sleeps with one leg hanging out of the covers, regardless the season.
  11. His open mindedness, despite growing up in Small Town, America.
  12. His only vice is fantasy football.
  13. He grills a mean steak. Sometimes he even stuffs it with blue cheese.
  14. He lets me have the last piece of coconut cake.
  15. His gentle disposition that is just like Deal's.
  16. He once spent a lot of dough to me buy me a handmade hat at an art fair just because he thought looked good on me. That was 12 years ago. I still have and wear that hat.
  17. He took a week of vacation to care for me when I had breast reduction surgery. That's more than what my family did, and Mac Daddy and I were just dating at the time.
  18. He's rain man. The man knows numbers.
  19. He's just as hot in tennis whites as black tie formal.
  20. His Wisconsin accent on certain words like "warm" and "dragon." Of course he says the two together often, with all the heat generated by fire breathing dragons and all.
  21. He dances. No drinking required. Oh, and he dances well.
  22. He wanted to leave Spamalot at intermission without me asking.
  23. His affection for Bird and Deal is the stuff of tears and melted hearts.
  24. He bakes. Intricate recipes and all.
  25. He loves my family, despite the wackiness.
  26. He gives me more closet space (because he and his buddy Ray claimed our closet space was adequate in the design of our newly renovated house...last time I trust men to gauge my closet space!).
  27. He prefers old houses and things with a story.
  28. He is our family cheer leader.
  29. No complaints, even when my experimental pumpkin risotto sucks.
  30. He does not claim he's babysitting when he's watching the kids and abhors men who do so.
  31. At 6'2, Mac Daddy is a gentle giant.
  32. He looks fab in plain front khakis.
  33. I would be remiss in omitting his manly actions, but my parents read this blog so I'll keep it clean.
  34. His wit. Sharp. Funny. Disarming.
  35. Money is not everything to Mac Daddy; he's a man of deeper values.
  36. He is not embarrassed when I sing into a hairbrush microphone and dance maniacally to Video Killed the Radio Star. Even if the shades are open. In fact, he'll join me.
  37. He taught Bird to ride a bike without training wheels and didn't lose his patience or get and edge in his voice one single time.
  38. He has no tolerance for people, men especially, who take their families for granted.
  39. He's simple, humble, authentic. No airs about this guy.
  40. He's home to have dinner as a family every single night. We are his everything, as he is ours.

HAPPY 40th BIRTHDAY TO MAC DADDY! Don't forget to leave a comment wishing him a happy birthday too!
Turning 40 FirstSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

A Specific Task

OK, so I'm a day late with my Prompt Tuesday from San Diego Momma. I'm in a bit of a tizzy this week. This week's task is to get specific. To make the details scream. Here's my stab at it. Forgive my tardiness and enjoy.

Perched in a specially cut out oval nook within the toffee and milk hued tile, was a perfect memento from Paris. An oversize version of the intoxicating hotel soap. The one that took hours to scavenge and uncover from a tucked away parfumerie in the Latin Quarter that a local led me to. Alas, I gleefully unwrapped the luxurious paper with the romantic French prose and watermarked lilies. Even the text on a simple bar of soap is somehow more decadent when written en Francais. The sagey olive color and the simple scent of lily of the valley were pure and poetic. A subtle fragrance brought with it a tidal wave of memories.

The bar too big to grasp in my petite hands. The memories too big to recount while the six body jets were massaging my worn muscles. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes ever so slightly, preparing to sense the slow motion movie playback of our brief but sweltering love affair in Paris. All those years ago. The details fading yet I could still make out the three lines in his forehead and the one dimple on his left cheek. I reached out to trace my fingertips along the lines as if he were in front of me at this very moment. The steamy shower made it difficult to breathe. Or perhaps the memory alone left me gasping.

Head thrown back, waterproof mascara bearing false advertising, the scent of lilies filling my lungs. Then I opened my eyes and the moment shattered like a compact crushed under the weight of an over stuffed day planner. That one lousy pubic hair on the lovely soap killed the moment. Done. Lights out. Paris over in a flash. The soap, my last memento, tarnished.
A Specific TaskSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Monday, August 11, 2008

I feel just like Sally Field.

Can you tell I am blushing? How about my beaming? Is it contagious?

You see, I just got my first bloggy award thingee! Look up there. See that glimmering gem of an award? It's for me! Little ol' me. There I go blushing again.

Caroline at Morningside Mom awarded me with the coveted virtual trophy. Take that, Mac Daddy! Now I have a trophy for something other than band. Supposedly there's a way to display the award on my blog, but I don't know how to do that. Anyone, anyone? Hey, all I do is write, man.

The share the love thing stemmed from a great post by Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored. In essence, she's encouraging us all to take the time to check out other bloggers who pour themselves into their posts and enlighten, entertain, educate, and entrance us. Every little bit helps as folks like me try to take their blogs to higher havens.

So back to Caroline. I don't recall how we found each other, but we're bosom buddies now. Honestly, I would embrace her and stay gabbing over oodles and oodles of wine until the restaurant closed if I ever meet her. She is the mom of 2 boys and has lived most of her life in Africa. Caroline is a wonderful story teller and has such a lively voice to her writing. We're gonna raise some bloggy love ruckus at BlogHer next year because we are saving up our AdSense pennies to go!

So in turn I'd like to nominate seven blogs for the same prestigious award. The rules:

Put the logo on your blog (Then tell me how you did it.).
Add a link to the person who awarded you.
Nominate at least seven other blogs (see below).
Add links to those blogs on your blog (done in the nominations).
Leave a message for your nominee on his or her blog.

The Art of Over Thinking. Damn, she's a funny one. She can fire out a great story about prostitutes or plumber butt. You'll enjoy her sense of humor and wit. Trust me here. Not one to me missed. She even offered me a $100 airline voucher to help fund my way to BlogHer this year. Can you believe it?! We've never even met. Now that's what you call Minnesota Nice in the truest sense.

Chris. You gotta check him out at Wat da Wat? He's a father of five, teacher, and amazing soul. Chris is raising money and pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into building a school in his native Philippines. His posts are often poignant and sometimes simply wacky. Plus, he's a good Wisconsin grad who agrees that the best place on the planet to have a beer is at the Union.

Emancipation of a Drama Queen. The movie quote on her homepage sums it up: "You're the worst kind. You're high maintenance but think you're low maintenance." She is sarcastic in a funny, self deprecating way and has a way to make the mundane fun.

San Diego Momma is another one of those women who will close down the restaurant with me. She is an inventive writer, hot momma, midwestern girl at heart, and a totally fun read. With a gajillion blogs out there with some serious crap disguised as real writing, I assure you, this chica knows how to write.

My Life as a Hotfessional first caught my eye for the title alone. Ree's posts are random, quirky, fun. Even before the Blog the Recession, Ree's been handing out blog love in her monthly posts dedicated to her new commenters.

Mommy Pie is no stranger to blog awards, but I just couldn't resist. Despite her life in the tundra, we share a lot of randomness in common. Plus, she's saving up for a fat dowry for her daughter to marry Deal. Mommy Pie is Hi-Larious. She has a way with words and um, pictures.

Cheeky's Hideaway gets the distinction of being the first blog I ever read. Mainly because my dear friend Tony writes it. He is a dad, music fiend, movie buff, gamer geek, and overall funny dude. Tony and I go way back, and so far he's refrained from blogging about anything that would be keep me from running for office. Every time I read his posts I can hear him talking. His writing voice is well, his voice. You'll dig it.

Whew! There you go folks. Now go waste some more time on The Man's dollar.
I feel just like Sally Field.SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Sunday, August 10, 2008

The Day My Son Was Impaled: Fluke. Freak. Fright.

Sirens wailed down our Norman Rockwell street Thursday night. I was on the phone with the most calm, supportive 911 operator known to mankind, heralding the EMTs from my front porch. Bird was white faced in bewilderment at my side, never letting go of my hand, squeezing it a tad harder as the paramedics emerged in full flight from the ambulance. His voice failed him, leaving my little chatterbox speechless for the first time that day. Half panic half awe consumed him. Ambulance, firetruck, 3 paramedics, 4 firefighters, less than one minute response time. It pays to live in the city, I tell you.

Meanwhile inside...

Mac Daddy was holding a bleeding Deal over the kitchen sink. What seemed like gallons of blood flowing from an unknown wound in his mouth. Sounds of gagging and gasping hammered out the beating of my own heart. Mac Daddy, who is normally faint at the sight of a paper cut, managed the situation with aplomb. Clearly adrenaline was driving him. Bird stood back in the shadows, an unnatural feat for a kid who embraces the limelight.

Deal was gagging, trying to breathe in some air, while nothing but red, red blood spewed, yes, spewed from his mouth like a horror movie stunt gone bad. Tears mingled with blood, though it was unclear from whose eyes the tears came. The gurgling noises coming from my son, my 3-year old baby, were alarming, frightening. The whole scene was playing out in slow motion, and I felt as if I were hovering above it all. I forcefully stopped my mind from playing the "what if" game.

And almost as abruptly as it started, the bleeding stopped.

Deal laboriously took in some big breaths of air, calming him and us. The paramedics propped him up to look in his mouth with a pint sized flash light. The scene quieted down enough for the fire fighters to be dismissed. Deal had three lacerations on the roof of his mouth, an area that cannot be stitched but luckily heals quickly. I worried his thumb sucking would reopen the gashes so I slept with Deal all night. As you mothers know, in reality I stayed awake to watch him breathe in a fitful slumber, checking his pillow for signs of blood, stroking his sweaty head, caressing his back, resting my hand on any part of him just to have bodily contact. I imagine my father feeling this same way when I was in a car wreck in high school and had a concussion.

But you know what? Deal stopped sucking his thumb cold turkey. The dentist told him on Wednesday to try to stop so his teeth don't get all crooked. Something about a 6'4 gentle giant instructing him to stop sucking his thumb made him take note, and my baby, who has sucked his thumb since his in utero days, now has two free hands. For if he had still sucked that thumb, it would have surely reopened the wounds. Timing, as they say, is indeed everything.

A doctor's visit the next day uncovered additional injury to Deal's throat. Something to monitor, but nothing serious. It went unsaid that we were lucky. Deal had license to eat all the popsicles and ice cream his tummy could hold. Bird got the same privileges simply out of solidarity.

Three days later, and Deal is back to his old self. W-H-E-W. Cheerios for breakfast (he was so tickled by the free sample box that came with the Sunday paper that he just had to tear into it) and non-stop jabber. He's relishing some watercoloring and glitter gluing next to me as I write.

And so what happened to cause such trauma? A plastic toy microphone stand is to blame. A perfectly age-appropriate toy used as it should be.

In a freak accident, Deal was singing into the stand (because the microphone has been long lost). Mid song, he must have tripped, jabbing the microphone stand into his throat. In essence, my son was impaled on a microphone stand. The details are fuzzy since no one saw it happen. From the sounds of it, the bizarre accident happened in a flash. Bird and Mac Daddy were doing a spaceship puzzle in the play room where Deal was performing. In Bird's words, "He was singing, and then there was blood gushing. I think he tripped on a puzzle piece."

We are thankful once again for our children's health, for the amazing response of our city's rescue units, and for hearing the super sonic chatter of our children at play again.

I tossed that microphone into the garbage bin.

Oh, and the whole stereotype about firefighters being hot? It's true.
The Day My Son Was Impaled: Fluke. Freak. Fright.SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend