5:00 Fridays

You might imagine that I am difficult to live with. I'm testy, persnickety, hyper, emotional, opinionated, oh, the list goes on. Not many people can put up with me. I get that. I owe Mac Daddy a lot for putting up with me. He's a gem, that one. I might be foolish but I'm no fool. I know a good thing when I see it. Mac Daddy is the Mac Daddy of husbands. If I had fewer student loans and more dough he'd get more than a blog post for our anniversary.

Mac Daddy and I are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary on Sunday, March 14.

That's 10 freaking years. Married. Happily. More than happily.

4 cities.
2 apartments.
4 houses.
3 home renovations.
2 kids.
2 cats.
1 dog.
7 jobs.
1 true love.

It's so cliche to say this, but really, where has the time gone? We met at work. We were friends. I used to set him up with my girlfriends. Wiley E. Coyote came around and dropped an anvil on my head to get me to see the light. We easily transitioned from friendship to relationship because, well, we were friends. Real friends. We celebrated our 30th birthdays together (Mac Daddy threw me a surprise party worthy of a blog post all its own). We traveled to some amazing cities, dined in dives and hoity toity venues, and gotten our groove on in juke joints all over creation.

I first fell in love with Mac Daddy when he unabashedly hopped onto the dance floor and rocked out to the likes of Andy Kim, Earth Wind & Fire, and The Gap Band. We have always laughed so easily together, though he doesn't think I'm nearly as funny as I do (rather, am). I like to say he has Funny Envy. Mac Daddy is more sarcastic than funny; the two are indeed mutually exclusive. Mostly we can laugh at each other's expense without getting our britches in a bundle. And when we do get our britches in a bundle...well, that's another story...

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West on somewhat of a whim. That kind of no frills fun affair suited us perfectly. Our simple wedding was more about us, less about fuss. We were under the glorious banyan trees in the gardens of the Audubon House. Those trees are magnificent, seeming to defy gravity and the very assertions you had about nature. The limbs climb every which way, sweeping up, across, down, and back up again. Intertwining along the way, peppered with leaves so hearty you can carve your initials in them (As tradition goes at the Audubon House, we did just that, with our wedding date too). The banyan tree's trunk is sturdy and thick, elegant in its rugged simplicity. The kind of tree that beckons you to climb its branches in a fit of frolic, have a seat to chill in a comfortable silence, lean against it for unfailing support.

In typical laid back Mac Daddy and Key West fashion, today's drink would be best imbibed from a tin cup chalice.

Which incidentally, was our first dance.

And tin is the traditional 10th anniversary gift.


The Mac Daddy

2 ounces Hendricks' Gin
Juice from 2 key limes (Fresh! You can't possibly use imitation juice in Mac Daddy's signature cocktail!)
1/2 ounce simple syrup
Few sprigs of fresh mint
Key lime wedge for muddling and garnish

Muddle a couple limes wedges with the simple syrup and mint. Add to martini glass. Shake gin in cocktail shaker filled with ice. Pour over simple syrup, lime, and mint. Garnish with a key lime wedge. Have a sip with someone you love. And remember, the things worth toasting are the ones keeping you toasty every night.

Chalk this one up there with things that make you go hmmmm.

Happy Anniversary to Mac Daddy! You make my world bright and have given me the life I've always dreamed of. I love you.

Merry Christmas! I'm on it in 2010.

We, rather I, didn't get around to sending Christmas cards this year. Let's be honest. How many husbands are the ones ordering, writing, stamping, and mailing holiday cards anyway? Mac Daddy does an awful lot, but he's never dealt with holiday razzle dazzle of any sort.

And I really did have good intentions.

I had a whole host of photos that I just never got printed into cards. I'd putz about on tiny prints and poke around to find the perfect card. The. Perfect. Card. I'd become so overwhelmed that I just clicked the little X to close the window. My head is in no condition to make such choices during the most wonderful time of the year. Such choices! Wonderful schmunderful.

I like to simply go with the green argument this year. I saved lots of trees and resources by not sending holiday cards this year. While that might not have been the impetus of the year without a card, it sure was a pretty good by-product.

I vowed to make 2010 a banner year. Our year.

I'm getting a jump start on the holidaze.

Merry Christmas from our Dirty & Noisy home!

My Glass is Half Full. Of Ice.

I haven't seen the teens in about 10 years. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago then. That was my teensy skooch back to the East after eight year stints in Minneapolis and Madison. By teens I mean temps, natch. My own teen years were over two decades ago, and that's the tail end of the rotten pubescent, lemming, un self-aware, unconfident, dorky stuff that make one's teen years so memorable, despite how hard we try to forget.

The temperatures here in Raleigh are taking after stock market line graphs of late and taking a steep dive southward. I didn't move here for this. I remember many a winter not even needing a coat in these parts. It was a welcome change from the mummyesque layering I endured waiting for the bus on 44th Street in Minneapolis or the whip of lake wind chilling me inside out in Chicago. I never did acclimate, despite 10 years out there. Things weren't so bad in Madison because we lived in our own little version of Melrose Place so we rarely had to leave home. That, and we often indulged in Wisconsin's most notable export.

In light of all this frigid weather, folks in North Carolina remind me a lot of the good people of Minnesota. All they talk about is the weather. Instead of the usual "Happy New Year" store clerks remark this time of year (I'll give a week more before I start calling people on the importance of message timeliness.), they call out, "Stay warm!" as they bid you farewell. The neighborhood is quiet, eerily peaceful. No kids. No dogs. Um, why does it seem I'm the only one out walking my dog in these tundra temps?

I'm trying to see some silver lining here. Ice is silvery, right? I'm generally a glass-half-full kind of girl. If you find yourself whooping it up and need to be knocked down a few notches, gimme a call. My alter ego is Debbie Downer. I can make you cringe, cry, or croak in a matter of minutes. Mac Daddy is my optimistic counterpart. He sees the good in everything, which is highly annoying and makes me irritable as hell. I sure hope our sons don't inherit this trait and make their future wives ornery. Sometimes a girl just wants to look into her soap spotted empty wine glass and bitch.

It being 2010, a new year and a new decade and all, I've decided to try on Mac Daddy's disposition. I'm afraid it won't suit me at all but I'm going to give the old college try (Wherever does that term come from?! I surely don't want my boys to try half the stuff I tried in college!). Here's my first, if not feeble, attempt to see the glass half full.

Reasons to not hate the cold weather:

1. No snakes in my yard.
2. Ignored dog poop freezes and is easier to clean up. Granted, Mac Daddy is the often the one faced with this since I jet back inside as soon as Lark has done his business.
3. Children chat less when they are cold because the are busy experiencing chattering teeth.
4. It's perfectly acceptable to have dead leaves, grass, plants and such in one's yard.
5. Snuggling.
6. The Snuggie (never mind that I wear Deal's kid sized one that he got for Christmas).
7. No mosquitoes.
8. I don't have to shave.
9. Jeans and sweaters hide more dietary sins than tank tops and shorts.
10. Boots. Way better than flip flops.
11. Oysters are in season.
12. Beer gets cold quickly if you put it in a cooler on the patio.
13. It's cold and flu season, giving me a fine excuse not to shake hands with people.
14. Conversation common denominator makes it easy to talk to anyone.
15. Scarves hide hickeys (I mean, for those trashy girls who get those kissy bruises. Blech.)
16. Knee socks. (I know Denise at Eat Play Love has my back on this one.)
17. Hot Buttered Rum, Hot Toddies, , Hot Sake, Hot Cider, Hot Chocolate
18. Comfort food.
19. I get wear to that cute chenille hat and scarf set I bought ages ago. Be sure to compliment me profusely if you see me sporting it.
20. An excuse to chill out (pardon the expression) with a good read or a must-see flick.

So tell me, what makes the snot freezing temps more palatable for you?

Thanks. Giving.

At the risk of ringing the cliche bell and sounding treacly mushy, I'm going to tell you that today I am feeling particularly blessed. I am thankful for Mac Daddy and my family. I am most thankful for my Bird and Deal. I cannot imagine what I was thankful for before I had them. I am thankful that they gave me the kind of family I longed for.

On this day of pies, crumbles, brown bettys, cakes, dressings, gravies, turkeys, hams, taters, casseroles, and elastic waistbands, I want to just say that I am most thankful for the little things.

Those little things that are actually quite grand.

I am hugging my family a tish tighter.
I am counting my blessings a bit slower.
I am saying my prayers a pinch louder.

This Thanksgiving my heart is full. My belly is full. My life is fulfilled.

And in my prayers are my dear friend Jen who is battling stage 2 breast cancer, Anissa, 35-year old mother of three who suffered a massive stroke one week ago, my nieces who are desperately missing their mother, Mac Daddy's sister, who passed away eight years ago, and my father-in-law, the grandest of grandpas, whose gracious gravely laugh and 'Sconsin accent I still hear.

Let's take today to show Thanks for those who have touched us. And to be Giving of our hearts, our tolerance, our grace, our goodness, our selves.

Happy Thanks.Giving.

5:00 Fridays

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Mac Daddy!!!

I was planning on hosting some fellow bloggers clad in woven bikinis made of jump drives we toted home from Blogher and then jumping out of a cake but I couldn't find a crafty macrame artist on Twitter to weave the goods. Mac Daddy will have to settle for a virtual cake, virtual bikinis, and real love.

Show him what you've got people.

Mac Daddy is my one true love, my rock, my cheerleader, my best friend. Save the cliche crap...blah blah blah. It's all true. Really. He's not into SM (social media or otherwise), but if you show him the power of one voice, one domino in this bloggy sea, he just might see the light.

If nothing else, he will see the light from his 41 candles.


Birthday Suit

Shot of Jack Daniels
3 ounces ginger ale
teaspoon simple syrup infused with mint and rosemary
rosemary sprig


Fill a low ball glass with ice. Add Jack Daniels, ginger ale, and simple syrup. Gently stir. Add sprig of rosemary for garnish. Sit back on your porch, count the stars, listen to the crickets, bask in the glow of the fireflies.

This is how Mac Daddy likes to celebrate one more year on the planet.



Image from http://www.jackdaniels.com/JackDaniel/Default.aspx?st=jacksbirthday.

Wordless Wednesday: Breakfast Made By My Biggest Fan

Wordless Wednesday: Following in Daddy's Path

Working 9:00-5:00

Mac Daddy is a working man. Not a work-with-his-hands-wiping-the-sweat-from-his-brow-with-a-metal-sharded-rag kind of working man. Just a 9:00-5:00 Michael Scott, Office Space type of schmuck. He works for The Man. Not The Man Bird and Deal argue about. The other one who thinks white collar crime shouldn't mean revoking someone's chi chi golf club membership and that trickle down economics really works. Mac Daddy is a corporate dude who helps keep the workplace sufficiently smug and real. His acrid sarcasm is sadly lost on most people in the South who smile politely and call him Honey and Dear. Well, they don't call him that at work anyway. Scratch that. I do think some old timers have referred to him as Sweetie. Anyhoo, Mac Daddy is the one really making the dough, winning the bread. What's with the carb overload when it comes to money talk?

That is until my writing and blogging pipe dreams pay off. Ahem. Are you listening, Penguin and Simon and Schuster?

I work too. I work for The Woman. That would be me. I am my own boss, IT department, administrative assistant, gopher, scheduler, social calendar keeper, working bee, board member, complaint department, new business developer, chief marketer, task master. I have my own consulting business so my hours are less traditional than Mac Daddy's. Plus my office is pretty close so I have a shorter commute than Mac Daddy's. Sometimes I don't wear shoes to work but I always wear proper clothes. The coffee is plentiful, strong, and hot. Um, yeah, I work from home. In a dedicated office that is the only off-limits room for the boys in our house.

So at dinner tonight we were talking about work. Bird asked Mac Daddy why it's any fun to sit in front of a computer all day and do nothing. Deal thoughtfully and gleefully added, "Don't forget that Daddy also gets to drink lattes!" What a kid, always got your back. Mac Daddy and I were cracking up but briskly stopped when we realized the kids weren't chiming in. Their smiling yet solemn faces told us that they really think he types and drinks lattes all day and saw no humor in our outburst. Addmittedly on some days the scenario is probably pretty true, but for the most part Mac Daddy is a golden child worker. I know this because we used to work together. It's much more fun being his wife than his colleague. No one here waxes on about how utterly perfect he is. Plus,he's the one Luddite in my world who's not on Facebook or Twitter so he's not wasting, er spending, his time on social media.

Then the boys went on to say that I sit in front of a computer and go to meetings all day.

Once again, my 5 and 4 year old sons left me speechless, for they were right.

We type. We meet. We sip. Sometimes all at once.

Father's Day Interview

What do you like to do with Daddy?

Bird: Go to the park
Deal: Go to the pool

What is your favorite thing about Daddy?

Bird: That he's really good at basketball.
Deal: That he's always gentle.

What does Daddy do to make you laugh?

Bird: He tells really super duper funny jokes.
Deal: He makes funny faces.

What has Daddy taught you?

Bird: How to play basketball
Deal: How to swing

What does Daddy like to do with you?

Bird: Go to the greenway to ride bikes
Deal: Play dress up

What is Daddy's favorite thing to do?

Bird: Play basketball
Deal: Play the siesta game


Is Daddy more like a Storm Trooper or a Higglytown Hero?

Bird: Storm Trooper
Deal: Storm Trooper, but he looks like a Clone Trooper

What is your your favorite food that Daddy makes?

Bird: French toast that we saw on TV with strawberry sauce
Deal: Pancakes

What would Daddy's super hero power be?

Bird: To make himself sleep
Deal: Goo power!

What is Daddy's least favorite thing to do?

Bird: To have to stay awake when he's really tired
Deal: Hates to go to work because he hates when he's not with me

What would Daddy do in our family band, The Curried Cheeseheads?

Bird: Play the guitar
Deal: He'll just dance. (Bird interjects: A snoring dance)

What is special about Daddy?

Bird: That he always plays with me
Deal: That he always plays games

What would you like to tell Daddy on Father's Day?

Bird: That he's a really good dad. He's the best dad!
Deal: Happy Father's Day! I love you.


Happy Father's Day to Mac Daddy and to my Dad!

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.

Defining Moments to the Tune of Bad Music

There is one defining moment that made me realize that Mac Daddy would be my soul mate, my partner in grime as I affectionately refer to him at the House of Dirt & Noise. This moment had nothing to do with carnations or a Whitman's sampler. Really folks, those would be deal breakers. Let's add baby's breath to the list too. Mac Daddy knows my favorite flower and sent them to me in my favorite color many a time. Purple dendrobium orchids, in case you ever have a hankering to send me some floral fawning.

But first a flashback.

It was about 1994. I was in the living room of the first house we bought. The radio was blaring some bad oldies tunes while I was cleaning. I've always been partial to the likes of Neil Diamond and Abba for my cleaning soundtrack. It was a gloriously sunny spring day in Minneapolis (nevermind that it took until June for spring to spring). I moved the heavy drapes we bought to insulate us just a wee bit from the bitter subzero chills of the Minnesota winter. I now had a clear view out the ginormous picture window and delighted in seeing the neighborhood kids scampering about, dogs rummaging for long lost bones peek-a-booing from a much anticipated thaw, neighbors sipping coffee and catching up. The sun streamed in making the rays look like an ethereal galactic slide.

And then what made my ears perk, my hips sashay, my feet flounce? I had lost control. I released it all to Barry Alan Pincus. Have a listen and see if you don't unknowingly tap your feet, bob your head, shimmy your shoulders, or belt out the lyrics.

Well, in my delerium of spring fever, I grabbed a hairbrush and sang along, with passion. I added some suave dance moves and had my self a plum great time bee bopping singing about Rico and Lola.

Cut.

My husband gasped, eyes bulging, giving him the odd appearance of a toad with a hyper thyroid. He whisked the drapes closed lest the neighbors see me dancing around like a Mandy-crazed lunatic. He screamed, "Stop that! The neighbors are going to see you!" Note that I was not nekkid or doing a strip tease or anything. I was fully dressed all the way to covering my head with a blue bandana. I laughed, thinking he can't be serious. But boy was he red and raging.

So I took my hairbrush outside and sang and danced up and down our front walk. Some neighbors bust a gut and joined in. Jeff fumed and flushed with embarrassment inside.

SCREECH.

I suppose I never talked about being married before I met Mac Daddy. I'll save the deets for another post. Suffice it to say my starter marriage didn't last long. Soon after the Copacabana incident I moved out. You see, that was also a defining moment for me. That one small exchange showed me that he was a boring dud with no sense of sponteneity. He was bringing me down, and I him.

A few years later, enter Mac Daddy stage left.

We had been dating for just a short while. We were still in that googly-eyed phase in which you don't dare fart or admit you have to take a dump in front of each other. There for sure was no post-poop commentary. Sidebar: Is it just mine or do other husbands feel the need to tell you about their bodily functions? I feel that there is no need for editorializing one's private bathroom time. Please do chime in so I can use your fodder to make Mac Daddy stop this turd laced commentary. Anyway...

We were watching some goofy movie that I'm sure he acquiesced to, thinking it would add to his action currency. The ending credits were to the consummate 80s Friday Night Videos tune by the Buggles. Video Killed the Radio Star. True to my nature, I grabbed a pen off the coffee table and started jumping around a la Bananarama and sang along. Mac Daddy had scooted off to the kitchen to grab something. When he peeked around the corner and saw me bopping about, he grabbed himself a wooden spoon and joined me. He took to the air guitar like a natural while I tickled the ivories on the air keyboard. Note that there was no alcohol involved. We were simply having a good time.

I was smitten.

Now 12 years later, we continue Dance Party USA, as we have dubbed it for our children. Our family favorite is an aptly named song by Journey. Bird and Deal rock out with toy guitars. You'll find Mac Daddy on air drums. And I'll grab whatever's in my reach that can stand in as a mike.

And no one cares who's watching.