A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

The day September 17 was just another day on the calendar.

So today's my birthday. Forgive me for being so ho-hum. I'm less enthralled than in years past. Oh, it's not because I'm 41. Come on, you know you wanted to know but were pretending to be too gentlemanly/ladylike to inquire. I'm not one of those women who eschews her birthday and fears laugh lines. I don't have a botox fund or anything. I don't even fall victim to all the Strivectin and Hylexin ads. I don't pay mind to what jiggles and what body parts resemble a certain product in a tub in the grocer's dairy aisle. I don't yet have creaky and achy parts and I'm not counting gray hairs. I certainly don't pine away for my 20s.

Nonetheless, this year, my day is kinda craptastic.

Bird is home sick with pneumonia. Mac Daddy has bolted for some business trip. I have no family around to lend a hand. No one to share the load. No one to spoil me and shower me with attention. I maintain a childlike exuberance when it comes to my birthday. I'm confident it's annoying to everyone around me but I say celebrating a birthday sure beats the alternative. This year, not so much. You see, I love my birthday. Love it. In fact, I love everyone's birthday and make a way bigger deal than Mac Daddy likes. I think he's still miffed that the boys and I flocked him last year. Unlike me, Mac Daddy could care less about his birthday.

I, on the other hand, like to think that only I have a September 17 birthday. Please don't ruin the illusion for me. I like the rose colored world I live in, thank you very much.

But this year, in a week that leaves me sleepless and stressed, tuckered out and settling in, I can't muster up what it takes to celebrate. September 17 is just another day. Getting Deal off to school. Nursing Bird. Cooking dinner. Folding laundry. Sorting through junk mail. Cleaning up stray LEGO pieces. Mediating rifts. Wiping bottoms. Getting dishpan hands.

No one to cook for me. No one to take me out. No one to cut the cake, much less bake it (or buy it, as the case may be). No one to toast my 41 years.

So join me, today, September 17, for the little pity party I'm throwing for myself.


Addendum:
In true Mac Daddy fashion, he left a spread of chocolate croissants and coffee on the kitchen table before he left town. He left a giant slice of my favorite coconut cake from Hayes Barton Dessertery in the fridge. And he even packed Deal's lunch for school. Those little displays of thoughtfulness count eons more than expensive gifts and fancy dinners. Mac Daddy's gestures, waking to my boys running in to wish me happy birthday, the emails, tweets, and Facebook posts, and the sound of my dear friend's children calling me to sing Happy Birthday have already made my pity party a whole lot less pitiful. I'm a thankful birthday girl today.

5:00 Fridays

I bet you are expecting some red, white, and blue whiz bang fireworky cocktail as a nod to America's birthday, right? Well, though I adore birthdays, I loathe the predictable. Instead I'm bringing you a little taste of summer. Nothing says summer in the South like sweet tea. McDonald's even sells sweet tea in these parts. You get like a gallon of tea that's served in some engineering feat of a cup that holds 12 bladders worth of tea and still fits in a standard size car cupholder. For a buck.

Now the 4th of July is one of my favorite parts of summer, even though it marks the halfway mark to summer's end. I get teary listening to patriotic songs and weepy looking at all the flags and buntings hanging from crisply painted white front porches, screen doors hanging askew so they flutter ever so slightly in the passing warm breeze. July 4th is also a nod to the bounty and beauty of summer. We swim. We barbeque. We slip n slide. We bike. We entertain. We picnic. We wave at parade floats. We hum songs we learned in grade school that we pull from our cobwebbed brains. We reach into a packed cooler, perhaps one too many times. We laugh. We frolic. We catch fireflies. We drink in summer's delights.

Some cocktailing friends introduced me to this sweet summer libation. It's from a restaurant called Porter's in Raleigh. And as usual, I have no connection to the joint, nor are they paying me. I just write about what I love.

And I love a summer drink.

Here's my take on Porter's Arnold Porter:

You basically just take your classic Arnold Palmer and give it a good jolt of electroshock therapy.

Make a batch of sweet tea. Pour a couple ounces into a tall glass loaded with ice. Add a shot of Absolut Citron. Top off with some sour mix and handful of fresh mint. Squeeze in a couple lemon wedges and muddle it all up. Slap a lemon slice on the rim of the glass and you're all set. You must drink this one with a straw. Slowly.

In the words of my friend who turned me onto this taste of summer in a glass, "Oh, this is one of those really dangerous drinks!"

If you're really feeling dangerous (you cougar, you!), use Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka instead of sweet tea. And don't be a dumbass and drive, mkay?

Happy 4th of July! I'm not letting summer go without a fight.

I am 4 today!

I am 4 years old today.

I like LEGO, Playmobil, puppies, and books. I especially like to make LEGO vehicles with lasers and Storm Troopers. I do not like to swim because I hate getting my face wet. I really really really want a puppy. I promised my dad that I will stop sucking my thumb when I turn 4, but Mommy knows that's not gonna happen. I like to laze around in my red bean bag chair that my Dadu gave me. Mangoes and vanilla yogurt are my favorite things to eat. Sometimes I get vanilla milk at Starbucks with Mommy when she gets a latte. I help my mom bake cookies and I like to help my dad make green pancakes. Pink used to be my favorite color, but now I like yellow. Ball was my first word, but I didn't talk until I was 2. That worried my parents. But I spoke in full sentences right away. When I grow up I want to be a veternarian or a SWAT police guy. I am giving some of my piggy bank money to Barack Obama. I am also giving some to the Ronald McDonald House. My chores are to take out the recycling, help my brother set the table, and clean up toys. Mommy is also teaching me how to make my bed so I can do that too. But we get a break and don't have to make beds on Sundays. I am going to some fun camps this summer. I can't wait to go with my best friend Jayden. He is my best buddy. I am also going to Legoland this summer when I go visit my grandma. Last summer we went to Disneyland with my Uncle Sanjit. Nani just came for a visit and gave me a CD player. I like to listen to They Might Be Giants. I am really good at doing puzzles and writing my name. One day I surprised my parents and teachers and just started writing my name. Those wacky grown ups don't even realize all the stuff I learn just by watching. I am the Wii boxing champion in my family. Bird won't even challenge me anymore. I also like to play Eye of the Tiger on Guitar Hero. I wear sunglasses and my guitar T-shirt to rock out like Johhny Napalm. I really want a mohawk, but Mommy won't let me get one. And she won't let Daddy take me out alone to get a haircut. My daddy lets me tackle him and play hop on pop with him. Mommy thinks he's getting too old for that horseplay, but he likes it. I can tell because he laughs the whole time. I really look up to my big brother even though he's not always nice to me. Secretly we all know what we are best friends and would do anything for each other. It's way more fun having him home for the summer. I miss him when he's in school, but I do like my special time with Mommy. Mommy told me that the doctor said I was born sunnyside up and it shows. I think she means that I'm cheerful all the time. Sometimes I whine and cry. Then I go sit on the naughty step until I calm down. Mommy gets weepy on my birthday and keeps asking me what happened to her little baby. I tell her I grow like the weeds in our yard. When I play I like to pretend I am an 8-year old. That makes my brother 10. And when I'm 10 he'll be 12. When I'm 12 he'll be 14. See how that's a pattern? It's a kind of math. Daddy teaches me about numbers, and Mommy teaches me about words. I know what a homonym is. Hangar/hanger is a homonym. It's a plane garage and something you put your clothes on in the closet. When I grow up I want to live with my Mommy and Daddy, or at least on their street.

I am 4 today.

5:00 Fridays

Did you know that Cinco de Mayo is coming? I know it's an American excuse to drink but who am I to argue with a celebration that features chips and guacamole and margaritas?! Seriously, being the mother of two young sons, I don't need much to drive me to drink. And as a mother, I celebrate life's little victories everyday.

The fine folks at Jose Cuervo gave me this great margarita recipe with a twist from the one I featured a while back. And it's a far, far cry from the upside down margaritas people (other people, not I, of course) swilled in the tilted back dental chair at the Kappa Sig house back in the day. Wwaaayyyyyy back in the day. Luckily back in the day before Facebook and this here Internet thing I'm so fond of. But as usual, I digress...


Cinco de Mayo Margarita
3 oz Jose Cuervo® Especial gold tequila
1 1/2 oz triple sec
3 oz sweet and sour mix
3 oz strawberry margarita mix
1 strawberry for garnish (A cherry was in the original recipe, but I loathe those pitted red blobs!)

In a blender, pour in the ice first, then the sweet and sour mix, followed by the strawberry margarita mix, the tequila and triple sec. Blend until you have a nice frothy (what a great word!) mix, pour into chilled glass or mug. Slice the strawberry partway through and stick it on the side of the glass for garnish.

Now how do you says Cheers in Spanish?

Now don't forget to tune in and party on with the fantastically cool Twitter Moms. We're having a Cinco de Mayo (That would be on May 5.) fete at 5p.m. PST. http://www.twittermoms.com/events/twittermoms-cinco-de-mama.

5:00 Fridays

A toast to our 44th President, our first chief who hails from the state of Hawaii. And I understand it's cold out there but I figured Barack deserved a tall, cool cocktail that's just like him.


Blue Hawaiian

1/2 oz rum
1/2 oz blue curacao (Stock up on this. I tend to use it a lot.)
1/2 oz creme de coconut
1 1/2 oz pineapple juice

Mix it up in a blender with ice. Pour into a tall glass. Garnish with a wedge of pineapple. Sip and enjoy what Hope tastes like for a Change.

Sitting on the Edge of History

Here we sit perched on the edge of history. H.I.S.T.O.R.Y. And for a change, we are participants, not mere observers. Not watching it on our seven year old 245 pound Sony Wega TV from the comfort of our Lego strewn family room. We are in our nation's capital, among the cast of characters playing a small role in this new episode of America.

The Dirty & Noisy family is in frigid DC awaiting the Obama festivities. Today starts with a concert at Lincoln Memorial. All I can do is hope to catch a glimpse of Bono and Will.I.Am. All I can do is hope to hear Obama's booming words. I have been lucky to see him up close and personal a couple of times so I am not so desperate to see his beaming smile and graying head within reach. I simply want to be a part of the moment. I want to be wrapped in the making of history, surrounded by my fellow Americans who worked so hard to get us here today. I want to document this as a proud chapter in my own life story and as a prelude to my sons' civic engagement. I want to bask in victory, gratitude, inspiration, change.

We are still debating taking Bird and Deal to the Lincoln Memorial concert. Oh, how we want them to feel the energy and the digest the significance of this inauguration. We want their civic memories to begin ignited with glory and excitement and positive vibes all around.

Tuesday marks a chapter closed in our tumultuous recent history. And now a beginning replete with the most slippery of emotions: Hope.

Hope is where we are hanging our hats. The Change we hoped for has come.

5:00 Fridays

Happy Halloween!

Today's drink is a toast to the ubiquitous October pumpkin, whether carved or painted or unadorned. This drink is a keeper that will keep you warmed up through Thanksgiving. This little sip of decadence is basically pumpkin pie in glass. A mouth shot of ReddiWip (while no one is looking) would finish this off nicely, albeit uncouthly.


Pumpkin Pie Martini
1 shot Rain organic vodka
1 ounce pumpkin butter (Get the real deal at the farmer's market if you can.)
1/2 shot part triple sec
1/2 shot simple syrup
A pinch each of cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, and ginger (Or a pinch of Pumpkin Pie Spice that's already mixed for you would do nicely.)
Garnish with grated nutmeg (Oh, if you have not tried fresh nutmeg, you have not lived. A nutmeg grater is a wonderful stocking stuffer.)

You know the deal, Regular Readers. Fill a sterling silver or stainless steel cocktail shaker with ice, add all ingredients. Shake vigorously until the outside of the shaker is frosted. You'll know it's done when your fingers feel like Flick's tongue in A Christmas Story. Strain into martini glass and garnish with that freshly grated nutmeg. Toss in a whole cinnamon stick for kicks if you like. The scent alone is heaven. If Demeter made a fragrance that smelled like this cocktail I'd bathe in it.

Happy Haunting!

5:00 Fridays

Arr, me hearties! Today's grog is not for the lily-livered among you. It'll get you loaded to the Gunwales before you can say shiver me timbers!

Give a toast to International Talk Like a Pirate Day and splice the mainbrace! This is a major global event. Hell, pirates traveled and pillaged the seven seas so they got around. It only makes sense that the whole world will be embracing this event. Beware of calling help desks and travel agents today. I'm pretty sure Babblefish does not translate Pirate.


Buried Treasure

1 oz Amaretto
1 oz Coffee Liqueur (I prefer Kahlua. Is there another?)
6 oz Orange juice (pulp free for sure)
1 oz Whipped Cream (Be decadent and whip it up yourself with good quality cream mixed with a sprinkle of finely chopped orange peel.)

Mix together all the liquid ingredients with crushed ice in a tall glass. Add a dollop of whipped cream if you so desire. Garnish with mint leaves.

Enjoy, me buckos! Drink too much grog and risk becoming a squiffy!

40 is the New Me

Ask me how old I am. Go ahead, ask me. Forget all those etiquette rules that say to never ask a lady her age. I never claimed to be a lady anyway. I'm 40. Yup, 4-0. I think I just sat up a bit straighter when I said that. I have no shame. Age does not scare me. I am wary and afraid of what time robs from us, but aging in and of itself does not intimidate me. Bring. It. On. I embrace my future, and hey, turning 40 sure beats the alternative. I'll take my little 85-year old brick house to a pine box (or urn, as the case may be) any day.

I'm not one of those people who hates their birthday. To the contrary, I cherish mine. I even celebrate my half birthday. Oddly enough, everyone dons green and toasts the luck of the Irish on my half birthday. Come on, what's not to like about your birthday? I've been showered with emails, cards, flowers, coconut cakes, cheesecake, high fives, phone calls, shout outs, Tweets. It's wonderful to hear from all the people I love. And it's even more wonderful to know that I am loved.

There is something so freeing about being 40. Really, it is license to be ME. Marlo Thomas had it right with "Free to Be You and Me." It's a lesson that comes easily as a child, and then we wait a lifetime to get find our way back to that magical freedom. The agonizing years in between are torturous but necessary. I do not sulk over lost youth and time misspent. Instead I raise a toast to life lived.

I celebrated turning 40 with some girlfriends at the beach last weekend. That's us in the photo up there. I'm the hottie with black hair and the grey dress. Notice all the empty glasses and bottles. All necessary rehydration after a day spent on the beach with nothing but canned beer and celebrity rags. Oh, and cookies. How magnificent to be at the beach and actually sit lazily on a chair and not worry about anyone drowning or getting caught in the undertow. How unsandy my luggage was with no buckets, shovels, rakes, trucks, and life vests tucked in there. How relaxing to be for a while, not a mother, not a wife, just me. Rejuventation at its best.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that boys in their 20s (young enough to be my children if you think about it, but let’s not) were glombing onto us, downright trying to mash on the dance floor. Yeah, still got it. Insert strut here. And don't go mentioning the dim light, fog machine, thrashy loud music, and excess of $2 domestic bottles. This is my day and my fantasy, OK?

There were a gaggle of 20-something girls in the bars that weekend. They were the Stepford Girls. All wearing the same tiny minidress cut down just so. The same high wedges that left them teetering on the dance floor. The same pack of Marlboro Lights (DON’T GET ME STARTED.). The same bottle of beer, picking at the label with idle fingers. The same bored come hither look. The same stare and lack of eye contact, noticing the scene instead of each other. The same lack of mindfulness and embracing the moment. The same ginormous purses fresh out of Lucky magazine. What’s in those bags, girls? Are you prepping for a booty call walk of shame with panties, toothbrush, and contact lens solution in there? Whadya need such a big purse for at a bar? Drones, all of them. Yawn. Oh, and been there done that, left the T-shirt at a boy's pad.

We 30-somethings, however (I was technically 39 at the time.), wore outfits that hid our badges of motherhood (I’m talkin’ to you, Back Fat!). Clothes that hugged our curves but masked our cottage cheese. Clothes that allowed ample room for copious consumption of crab dip at dinner (not for dinner, at dinner). Clothes that gave us room to groove without sucking in, tucking, taping, tugging, or squishing. And you know what? Not a purse among us. Yet we managed to carry cash, credit cards, a cell phone, ID, keys, and lip gloss (Thanks for humoring me, Nicole!).

We danced where there was no dance floor and we banged out the lyrics to Pour Some Sugar On Me. With aplomb. We talked our way out of paying cover charges and milked the big 4-0 for free drinks from cute bartenders. We laughed a bit too loud and sang way off key. We drank until we were happy, replenishing our abused systems with water time to time. We chatted up some 20-something fake mustachioed bachelor party-goers and danced with anyone who swayed into our path. We rocked.

You know what sent the pheromone detectors buzzing? Confidence.

Confidence gained only through experience, time, loves lost, lessons learned, hearts won, tests failed, life interrupted, varieties tasted, losses mourned, triumphs celebrated. It is now that I am confident, indeed free, to be the self I have invented. My days of trying to discern others’ visions of me and trying to squirm my roundness into that squareness are over. I walk a little taller in my own shoes. All 100 pairs of them and all five feet of me. Go with the metaphor here, people.

I have no desire to relive my youth. Would you return to the hormonal pubescent days of 17? Your la la la party girl days of 22? Your over worked, in debt, broken-hearted woman of 31? Nah, I didn’t think so. 40 finds me calm, content, confident, and comfortable. It was worth waiting for. Age is not a beast I wrestle. Yeah, I’m lucky to be virtually wrinkle free, nary a grey lock in sight. It’s easy to wax poetic about the gift of aging and life’s mumbo jumbo stew from my perspective. But you know what? 40 is all the more fantastic the more I hear from shocked, flattering souls, “You can’t possibly be 40? You look so young!” I’ll take it. And for now, I'm gonna buy it.

The high temperature today is 68. I was born today in 68. Metaphors are beautiful. See, it really is all about me.

It Happened This Day in 1968

I had a great, insightful post about turning 40 today. Blogger ate it. F%&^!!!!

Now I've got to actually spend some time finishing a report in between bouts of hacking and putting my head on my desk to alleviate the cold building up in there. Argh.

I'll have to muster the energy to rekindle that post tomorrow. I'll write about being 40 +1 day.

Instead I'll leave you with a taste for what happened this day in 1968.

September 17, 1996 Dodger Hideo Nomo no-hits Colorado Rockies, 9-0 at Coors Field (What's with all the sports highlights?)
September 17, 1992 House votes 280 to 128 to give FCC control of cable TV rates (And later voted to have our phone lines tapped.)
September 17, 1992 NFL decides to suspend World League Football (Tell me it isn't so!)
September 17, 1991 U.N. admits Estonia, Latvia, Lithuiania, North and South Korea, Marshall Islands and Micronesia (Who can find these countries on a map?)
September 17, 1989 41st Emmy Awards: LA Law, Cheers, Dana Delany and Candice Bergen win
September 17, 1988 Jeff Reardon becomes 1st to record 40 or more saves in both AL and NL (I don't even know what the hell this means.)
September 17, 1987 Philadelphia celebrates 200th anniversary of Constitution (And now we have a bunch of mavericks positioned to tear it up.)
September 17, 1986 U.S. Senate confirms William Rehnquist as 16th chief justice
September 17, 1983 Vanessa Williams (NY), 20, crowned 56th Miss America 1984, 1st black (No Ugly Betty)
September 17, 1972 "M*A*S*H," premieres on NBC TV (Best theme song ever)
September 17, 1968 Ilina was born in a hospital in Calcutta, India. Ticker tape parade ensued.
September 17, 1964 "Bewitched" premieres on ABC TV (Still wish I could wrinkle up my nose to make dinner appear.)
September 17, 1964 Beatles are paid a then record $150,000 for a concert (Kansas)
September 17, 1964 Supremes release "Baby Love" (Back before Diana was a nut job)
September 17, 1962 Justice Department files 1st suit to end segregation in public schools (1962, people)
September 17, 1959 59th U.S. Golf Amateur Championship won by Jack Nicklaus
September 17, 1958 U.S. performs nuclear test at Nevada Test Site
September 17, 1956 Black students enter Clay Kentucky elementary school
September 17, 1953 1st successful separation of Siamese twins (Egads!)
September 17, 1953 Ernie Banks becomes Chicago Cubs 1st black player (Yet, I've never heard of him.)
September 17, 1948 WLS TV channel 7 in Chicago, IL (ABC) begins broadcasting (How fitting that TV started on my birthday!)
September 17, 1946 "If the Shoe Fits," opens at Century Theater New York City for 20 performances (Well, if the shoe fits, but it!)
September 17, 1940 Hitler begins invasion of England (operation Seelowe)
September 17, 1900 Commonwealth of Australia proclaimed (Fire up the barbie!)
September 17, 1862 Battle of Sharpsburg (Antietam)-bloodiest day of Civil War, 23,110 die
September 17, 1859 Man in San Francisco claims himself Norton I, emperor of America (I'd like to declare myself Empress.)
September 17, 1850 Great fire in San Francisco (Burned all the bread and then called it sourdough)
September 17, 1835 Charles Darwins lands on Chatham Galapagos-archipelago (Sarah Palin does not believe this.)
September 17, 1796 President George Washington delivers his farewell address
September 17, 1787 U.S. constitution adopted by Philadelphia convention (And we must protect it.)
September 17, 1778 1st treaty between the U.S. and Indian tribes signed (Fort Pitt)
September 17, 1691 Colony Massachusetts Bay gets new charter
September 17, 1683 Antonie van Leeuwenhoek reports existence of bacteria (Hence my OCD and fear of germs. It's this guy's fault.)
September 17, 1678 France and Spain sign peace treaty (Imagine the tasty food at this banquet.)
September 17, 1598 Netherland sailors discover Mauritius (Long lost brother of Maury?)

A Special Birthday Toast for 5:00 Fridays

I'd like to start by wishing my Bird a HAPPY 5th BIRTHDAY!!!

Five years ago I was still drinking milk at every meal and sipping on non-alcoholic sangria at block parties and weddings. Note, alcohol-free red wine blows. Alcohol-free alcohol blows. I drink neither milk nor non-alcoholic wine anymore.

Five years ago I went into labor at 8:00 PM, went to the hospital after downing some noodles and a burrito (yeah, I know, weird combination), barely missed getting an epidural since I was already dilated 8 cm, got comfy, joked with the nurse about not wanting to poop while pushing (I didn't for the record), freaked out, watched Mac Daddy share a chocolate bar with the nurse, stared in a trance at the monitors, pushed 3 times for a total of 20 minutes, and there was Bird, squealing and squinting in my arms.

As for me? A puddle. Emotion that I don't even have the words to express. My baby. My son. A first generation American. A family.

Bird and I are exactly alike, minus the 35 year age difference and gender discrepancy. He is the apple to my tree. We butt heads often because we are so much alike: stubborn, passionate, nitpicky, dramatic, emotional, and always think we're right. Mac Daddy and I like to say that Bird feels life passionately. His tantrums break the sound barrier while his laughter would make the palace guards bust a gut. Just like me. He puts hot sauce on everything and has a dentist's dream of a sweet tooth. Just like me. He loses himself in books and doesn't forget a thing. Just like me. He is meticulous, and perfection rules his world. Just like me. When he is older, I will explain to him that no one in the world understands him better than I do. I totally stole that from my friend Shan who says that to her son.

Bird is my first baby, my oldest, my guinea pig, my eyes to my childhood. He is inquisitive to a fault (consider this a warning Miss Ross!) and is a rather deep thinker.

Just yesterday Bird informed me that horseradish is named so because it's a radish with a strong flavor and since horses are strong, they called it horseradish. Well wallop me upside the head with a rolling pin and pop me under the broiler! Makes total sense, doesn't it? Find me a better explanation for the etymology of horseradish. I'm telling you, Bird put a lot of thought into that and likely had many a silent debate in his head before nailing down the goods. Smart boy, that Bird.

Oh, have I mentioned that he also drives me crazy? That's because he's me. I live with a mini me who enlightens me to my faults and I don't like that much self exploration. Mac Daddy gets particularly wired because he has to live with two little people with such big personalities. Cue violin music here.

So today's cocktail is for my Bird. My first baby who has started kindergarten. My baby who is one shoelace away from being self sufficient. My baby who still nuzzles into the warmth of my chest and caresses the inside of my arm. My Bird who gives extraordinarily wet kisses, a thousand at a time. My Bird, who giggles at eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses while begging for just one more. My Bird, whose time to fly the coop is thankfully years away.

Cheers to my Bird!

Baby Blue Martini

Pour one shot of each into a martini shaker loaded with ice:
Hendricks Gin (my personal fave!)
De Kuyper Blue Curaçao
pink grapefruit juice
pineapple juice

Pour into a chilled martini glass.

Garnish with a sliver of lemon peel.

Sit back, admire your parental accomplishments, squeeze your kids, and take a long, slow, deliberate sip. End with an audible "ah."

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.

Cheers!

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!