Friday, June 5, 2009

5:00 Fridays

It's been a tough week of fighting the stomach flu here at the home of Dirt & Noise. I haven't even had a taste for cocktails or coffee all week. I know. SO hard to believe. And yeah, the absence of those liquid luxuries make life somewhat sucky, though my sour stomach would have reeled...rather, hurled. Wait a sec, that is what happened. I've been swilling ginger ale on ice all week, so much nicer than Riunite.

As a nod to my recent ginger ale intake and Mac Daddy's liquor of choice, I bring you:

Jack & Ginger

ginger ale
shot of bourbon
ice, natch

Add ice to a lowball glass. Clink it around a bit, you know, just for effect. Pour in a shot of Jack Daniels (or two, if it's been a particularly horrid week). Top with ginger ale. Sip and sigh. Ahhh...

As for me, I hope to be off the wagon this weekend.
5:00 FridaysSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Boob Slang as Explained to My Boys

As some regular readers might know, I'm doing the Race for the Cure in a couple weeks. Our fantastic team name is Stop the War in My Rack. I know, I know. I'll wait while you recover from your eyes aglow of cleverness. I was all "Yeah, I'm part of the cool team." Harumph. Harumph. Gloat. Gloat. Sure, it's the first time I've ever been in the cool kids club. Nevermind that it took 40 years. I've been basking in glow of my rack.

And then the T-shirt arrived on my doorstep.

A pink camo number with the words Stop the War in My Rack emblazoned across the front. My sons are naturally drawn to anything camoflauged, and I was suddenly flirting with being in their version of the Cool Mom Club. Bird, who's starting to read, sounded out the words. Quizzically he asked, "Stop the war in my rack? I don't get it. What's a rack?"

I subconsciously peered down at my own rack. Hmmm, not bad after 40 years, two kids, and two surgeries.

Now was not the time to explain puns to a five and three year old so I went with the obvious. I explained slang words for breasts. That required a quick anatomy refresher. I went on to explain that "rack" was another word for "breast," though not a polite one we would use at school or in the company of anyone with the title Pastor, Father, or Sister. I could not, of course, say this without grabbing my Girls with an emphatic squeeze.

Then the boys asked me for more synonyms for breasts. I obliged, even though I recently yelled at Mac Daddy for teaching the boys slang words for "bottom" on a particularly long and painful car ride. And so now Bird and Deal know such terms as Girls, boobs, boulders, and of course, rack.

So yeah, my parenting can be rather redneck at times. White Trash Mom doesn't call it Trashy Thursday for nothing. I figured it was way easier to hoe the path of titty slang than to explain the real deal of breast cancer to my sons.

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Wordless Wednesday: Bird

Wordless Wednesday: BirdSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Monday, June 1, 2009

No One Cares More Than Girlfriends

Since I wrote this post 24 hours ago, I found out that a friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. That makes three friends in the last 12 months.

My Girls have been under the knife twice. First in 1999 when, after a two year battle with the insurance company and a fantastic surgeon as my advocate, I had the much needed reduction I had pined for throughout my teenage years. And again in 2005, with an infant and a two year old son to care for, to have an egg sized lump removed.

I knew Mac Daddy was a keeper when he took one week of his vacation time to care for me after my reduction. Keep in mind the man only had two weeks for the whole year and used half of it for me. We weren't married, engaged, or living together; we were just dating at the time. He drove me to the hospital, wrung his hands while I was under general anesthesia, changed my bandages, and cared for me. The man recoils at the sight of blood yet kept it together for me.

The other people who cared for me after both surgeries? My girlfriends.

Back in 1999 my dear friend Shan came to my little apartment almost daily to fix me breakfast, help me bathe, and get dressed. Courtney strolled over with her newborn baby to bring me sushi for lunch. Cathy came after work just to keep me company. Pam brought me magazines, crossword puzzles, and cookies. A team of girlfriends kept my kitchen stocked, my spirits up, my dressings fresh, and my heart filled. They drove me to doctors appointments, picked up prescriptions, bought me tampons, baked me brownies, cleaned my apartment, brushed my hair, cleaned the snow off my car, poured me wine, listened to me babble, wiled away the hours.

And in 2005, with little baby Deal and almost two-year old Bird in my arms, I faced surgery and general anesthesia again. My fate was more daunting this time around. Finding an egg sized lump couldn't possibly bring good news. I played the "what if" game over and over, lying awake in bed, zombie walking throughout the day, tearing up at the oddest and most inopportune moments. For weeks I was unable to lift or carry my children. When Deal cried I couldn't get him from his bassinet. When Bird needed a boost up the slide I couldn't give him a lift. When the boys fell asleep in their car seats I couldn't carry them to their beds. I couldn't hold Deal to feed him or perch Bird upon my lap to read Richard Scarry books to him. My mother's touch was reduced to pets and kisses and faces pressed cheek to cheek. I couldn't care for my family. And again, my girlfriends stepped in.

Carmen came to sit with me for hours at a time to pick up Deal from his nap, help me feed him a bottle, and change his diaper. Kathy brought diversions for Bird and took him to the park. A whole throng of friends from work brought me lunch and books for Bird. Lisa traipsed in with groceries and stayed a while to do puzzles with Bird. My girlfriends stepped in to not only care for me this time, they cared for my children. My babies. My sons. They loved us like we were family, and then some.

Without my girlfriends, my Girls would have never recovered.

And so what better way to honor my girlfriends (and my Girls) than to walk/run/sashay across the finish line in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure? My dear friend Christy, of artichoke wack n' cheese fame, came up with our cleverest of clever team names: Stop the War in My Rack.

Click here to donate your latte money for the day. Every penny, dime, nickel, and Euro will help. My Girls thank you. And I implore you to start those monthly self breast exams. Schedule your mammogram. Pay attention to your body. Be your own advocate.

And oh, you wanna buy one those fantabulous T-shirts? Just leave a comment with your email address so we can contact you regarding sizes and payment. All proceeds from your purchase will help Christy cross the finish line of the 3 day walk she's gonna conquer in October. Your Girls will look so great in the pink camo that your girlfriends just might want a shirt too.
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