5:00 Fridays

I love egg nog. This statement will not be a non sequitor in a moment.

Read on.


Merry Christmas!

Feliz Navidad!

Joyeux Noel!

Froliche Weinachten!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

We shared a lovely Christmas Eve by the outdoor fireplace with dear friends (who luckily enough, happen to be our neighbors). The children frolicked in noisy abandon as only children can. We stuffed our jelly bellies full of smoked salmon, fennel salad, steamed shrimp, crostini, apple/cranberry pie, and chocolate truffles. There was much merriment to be had, and Christmas spirit(s) flowed.

We all remarked how stress-free and footloose and fancy free our celebration was. As the kids get older the hovering gets easier. Bird and Deal know to stay in the yard, they can claw their way through tussles, and there are enough dart guns, remote control cars, and stuffed animals to go around. Lark was an exhausted little champ who happily retired to his crate to escape the onset of Kid-dom ruling.

After our friends went their merry ways we perched the boys at the kitchen table with a plate of smoked salmon and set to cleaning up. They then showered (must be clean for Santa!) and donned their matching plaid Christmas jammies. So cute it would melt the Snow Miser's frigid heart. We settled in under blankets to watch the old Rankin Bass Twas the Night Before Christmas and romped in the yard to sprinkle glitter and oat reindeer food.

Now that the boys are tucked in bed and sleeping (not even pretending!), Mac Daddy and I opened a beribboned gift from a neighbor. Lo and behold, my most favorite of Christmas spirits was there!

And so it is with an iced crystal tumbler full of this I toast you this Christmas. Merry Christmas to my delightful readers. I hope your season is so bright so you gotta wear shades. I know you're all so Hollywood like that.

Evan Williams Holiday Egg Nog

Da Bomb.

First of all, let it be known that I love me some egg nog. Our family friend Ty makes some killer homemade stuff that I cannot replicate to save my life. I settle for the grocery store brands and spike it myself. Then I get a work out just swallowing that gloppy thick stuff while I trick myself into believing it's the real deal.

Evan Williams does it all for me. And it's oh so good.

Not treacly sweet. Not fake. Not so thick you could condition your hair with it.

Evan Williams is the Avis of straight bourbon whiskey in the US. It's "extra aged," which I can totally identify with.

Getting Down with Pink Gloves

5:00 Fridays

When my girlfriends and I get together there's a whole lot of hoopla going on. We can somehow follow six conversations at once, sip wine while getting pedicures, read trashy magazines, gossip, and try on shoes, remark on what works and what doesn't, and swap lipstick shades all at the same time. Of course this is all after we've cooked and frozen three healthy meals, changed the sheets, mopped the kitchen floor, packed lunches, paid bills, stocked beer, and negotiated world peace before leaving town. We're quite adept at the one-man-band version of girls weekend.

This is no Moms Gone Wild I'm talking about (Unless of course you count the time a certain someone was caught dancing atop the bar after spinning some god awful Wheel of (mis)Fortune that pointed to the shot she'd have to down...which she, in somewhat sound mind, did. Twice.). And there was the time another certain someone, upon madly hugging her friend on the dance floor because Omigod! the DJ played our request "Pour Some Sugar On Me," tripped and toppled, landing on her elbow, which proceeded to swell to the size of a light bulb and required physical therapy. Yeah, never mind that. Where was I?

Truth be told, we generally spend our time lazing around in sweats (what I refer to as my "buffet pants"), watching sappy movies like The Princess Diaries (I and II), noshing on chips and salsa, giving ourselves facial masks, and giggling a whole lot. What we really dig is not being on a schedule or being interrupted eleventy times a second. On girls weekend, we can actually finish a thought. And a sentence.

And if we get a tish obnoxious on the dance floor, it's just because we're so excited to be grooving to something other than Victor Vito. You might get irritated and shout obscenities like Mother Fucker at us. But we don't care, because no one's calling us Mommy.


Mommacation

1 shot vanilla vodka
1 shot Rain Organic Honey Mango Melon vodka
3 ounces mango juice
splash soda water
honey & sugar to rim glass
lime wheel for garnish

Brush a martini glass with a bit of honey (not to be confused with the candy), then dip into a dish of sugar. Pour vodkas and mango juice into a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Strain into martini glass. Add splash of soda water. Garnish with lime wheel.

Repeat. Often.

Shake your booty.
Tip your bartender.
Hug your friends.

Call a cab.

Rockin' the Race for the Cure

I am furiously scribbling this at the tail end of a long night of writing. I can't promise my best work, but the thoughts, the feelings, the stories had to get out of my head to make room for more. My brain can only hold so much since my marathon viewings of the Real Housewives of New Jersey have sapped me of precious brain cells. I'll upload photos later when iPhoto isn't being as finicky and pissy as a tantruming three-year old not getting any sugar cereal in the grocery cart. Forgive my babbling. If this were a writing test I'd fail. Luckily no one reads this with a virtual red pen.


Saturday marked my second Race for the Cure. I walked for my friend Jen, mom of three, wife to one, who just had a bilateral mastectomy today.

I teamed up with my pal Christy who is training for the 3-day walk in DC in October. She's the brains (and let's be honest, the beauty) behind our marvelous team name: Stop the War in My Rack. We, along with about 10 other friends, walked the 5K on a hot June morning. Some of us walked the route twice to support Christy's training for the grueling 60 mile walk she's conquering come October. I walked with old friends and new. Tutugirl1345 jumped in to join us, so we could finally meet in real life after chatting on blogs and Twitter for months.

The shower of pink was blinding. The beauty of women even more so.

Our team shirts (which you can buy for $15...100% goes to help Christy's fundraising...just leave a comment with your email address) garnered a ton of attention. Strangers were snapping photos of us, and the folks at Fuze gave us our pick of drinks just because they dug our shirts. It was the first time I didn't mind strangers totally checking out my rack and laughing. I puffed my Girls out proudly.

Here's where you can read my observations from last year's race.

As for 2009, here's what captured me:

Men turned out in throngs. Had they turned out in thongs we'd be onto something. Um, I totally didn't mean it *that* way. Men were out in full force supporting their wives, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, friends, colleagues. They wore pink. They teared up. They cheered. They embraced. They were brewing with raw emotion and bared it unabashedly.

Children had pink signs pinned to their backs reading "In memory of Mommy." Children. A 10-month old baby. Three-year old twins. Five-year old girls. Children the same age as my Bird and Deal.

Young women crowded the field during the survivors' parade and salute. Young women. Women younger than me.

I met and wept with one mom whose sign bore the name of her daughter who died of breast cancer. At age 32. Her best friend died recently of the disease. She said it was the first year she was walking in memory of someone instead of in celebration. I shudder in awe at her resolve.

The 88-year old woman rocking on her porch who was a beacon of beating the odds last year was there again. Cancer-free since 1980. Standing ovation and curtsies to her.

Mother and daughter walking arm in arm, oblivious to the hubbub around them. The girl's shirt reads "We helped our mom beat breast cancer." Hallelujah.

And I'd be remiss to not shout out to the masses of organizers volunteers. We, the racers, had the easiest job. The volunteers did all the hard work. They sweated it out in sweltering heat with no one to applaud their efforts. We owe our fantastic experience to them.

And to the women battling breast cancer, I salute you. I honor you. Your stories are inspiring, if not overwhelming.

Early detection is key. Cop a feel. No one knows your Girls better than you do. Hop in the shower and poke around. Get to know your breasts, ladies. I turned 40 last year and got myself a mammogram for my birthday.

If you are in the Raleigh area, the YWCA of the Greater Triangle has an Encoreplus Program to support early detection. Free screenings and breast exams for women 40+ are scheduled twice a month at the YWCA at 554 E. Hargett Street and at Rex Hospital at 2800 Blue Ridge Road. Contact lkimble@ywcatriangle.org or call 919.834.7386 ext. 19 for deets.

Do it. Early detection got Jen treatment right away. You owe it yourself, to your husband, to your children, to your family. It's their body too.

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.

Why I'm Sorry This Mother's Day

What? No requisite Mother's Day post here at Dirt & Noise? I mean, this is a parenting blog, right? One of many in the mommy blogosphere. Sigh.

I did have some profound words to share but decided to thwart the Mother's Day mushiness and write an apology instead.

Sorry I was such a bitch before I had children of my own. Check out Deep South Moms for the scoop.

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.

The Thing About Facebook

My name is Ilina, and I'm a Facebookaholic.

I dream in status updates and live streams. I only recognize people by their avatars. I find my thumb unconsciously rolling the trackball on my Curve to read updates on the Facebook for Blackberry application that I downloaded, natch. I pore over photos and links and silly videos. I join causes and live chat and play Pathwords (damn you, Will, for hooking me!).

What really has me a bit freaked out is this whole connecting with long lost friends. Yeah, shut your pie hole, folks. I know that's precisely the point. It has me feeling slightly out of sorts, like I live in a parallel universe or something. I am a time traveler and don't recall a thing about the long, strange trip I took.

A bit of background, now keep up. My parents split up. I went to boarding school (my choice, not theirs). I changed schools. I changed schools again. All in all, I went to three high schools in four years (clearly couch fodder but seemed perfectly normal at the time). My parents moved out of my home town. I went to college. I moved to the midwest. I went to graduate school. I visited my home town precisely three times in 20 years, most recently just about three years ago.

You see, many of the people I have been reconnecting with on Facebook were boys and girls when I saw them last. Prepubescent. Innocent. Gawky. I myself was a tiny 4'8 peanut with scraggly hair and geeky tendencies. No self esteem, little confidence, lots of cluelessness. My boobs had not reached their full 32 DD. I shook like a spasming pork butt on the flexed arm hang and huffed and puffed my way around the track for the 600 yard dash (dash, my ass!). I was picked last in gym (no wonder) and faced the evil terror of Mr. Benfer, whose mother terrorized me in math class. I tell you, the Benfer family did not get Christmas goodies from this gal. Where was I? Oh, I was an 82 pound nothing with no athletic prowess, mutated social skills, and a nervous giggle, but I could conjugate the hell out of some verbs in Mrs. Robinson's English class.

Now here I am. A woman of 40. Wife. Mother. Business owner. Wannabe writer. Boobs reduced to a perfectly perky and pleasant 32 B. Yet that geeky little girl still shudders inside me and is about one rope climb away from wetting her pants. I thought I shed her since I lost track of all the people who knew her in the flesh rather than in the stories that I tell. And so she is real again. Watching from the inside out, unaccustomed to her usual view of outside looking in.

The boys and girls I knew then are men and women now. They shave. They're bald. They're fat. They're skinny. They make mortgage payments. They don't have a curfew. They've had sex...with mulitiple partners! They're parents, professsionals. They are on the cusp of a midlife crisis, astonishing considering they were on the edge of preteen angst last I saw them! Some moved to the tropics, some stayed in town. Now, they, and I, are people with a past. When we knew each other before we were people with a future.

I rediscovered the kids who came to my house to celebrate my 13th birthday. I reconnected with the guy I shared my music stand with in band (trombone, in case you were wondering). I found, and have been found by, crushes and heartbreakers and jerks. Instead of being in the cast of their tales, I am a voyeur, playing catch up to a life that went on without me.

I love hearing from these old friends and hope to weave them back into my life. There are so many that I've thought of fondly over the years and wondered how to get back in touch without it seeming creepy or stalkery. Facebook has not opened the proverbial Pandora's Box; it has opened doors, and windows in which I can catch a glimpse of my former self and what I've become. What we've become.

There is something special about Facebook. It is a warming, comforting feeling to get a friend request from someone long lost who touched me and shaped me. It's nice to know that I came across their radar, as they came across mine many, many times. And I would be lying if I didn't say I admit to overt joy when the I see the mean girls who aged very, very poorly (not naming names, of course).

So I haven't hit rock bottom yet. I'm going to keep bellying up to the Facebook bar. Now that we're all old enough to drink legally, I do hope my friends will join me.

Friends in Low Places

As you know, this presidential election is near killing me. I have been helping in my little way for months now. This is my second presidential election as a citizen of a red state. My wounds have barely healed from 2004. Some are are reopening and oozing. I am used to living in bastions of liberalism. Madison. Chicago. Minneapolis. Washington, D.C. I never knew people who voted for George Bush (or at least people who fessed up to it). My parents have been staunch Democrats since they earned their American citizenship and the right to vote in 1988. I learned through osmosis, I suppose. Isn't that how we learn all of our values? And how we vote is primarily based on values, right? Well they are for me. My values are everything. They drive me socially, politically, economically. They define me.

I value my civil rights. And others' too. I value my body. I value the air I breath, the water I drink, the mountains I hike. I value the safety of the food I feed my family. I value the common good over the common greed. I value the education my sons get. I value literacy. I value curiosity. I value raising minimum wage. I value change. I value responsibility. I value global friendships. I value equal pay for women. I value parental leave and family medical leave. I value caring for the young, the elderly, the infirmed, the innocent, the voiceless. I value access to competent, caring physicians. I value the ground I walk on. I value the security of the roads I drive, the airspace I fly, the shores I wade. I value my country's global position. I value the lives of our soldiers and their kin. I value other creatures and their place in the ecosystem that sustains us. I value economic prosperity. I value the ability to put out a hand to help others lift their bootstraps. I value integrity, honesty, and advocacy of my elected officials. I value actions. I value freedom of choice. I value unhindered fun. I value guns being kept off my streets. I value the right to say what I please. I value universal access to healthcare, economic stability, education, and freedom. I value diversity. I value alternatives to oil. I value a solid, secure, sustainable planet. I value a future for my sons that is free of hate and vitriol and a draft. I value justice, peace, the American dream.

This is how my mom and dad raised me. These are their values I pass on to Bird and Deal. This is our legacy to my sons, first generation Americans.

How can I be friends with people whose values are not mine? People whose values stray so far from mine that a chasm the size of a galaxy separates us? What will be our common denominators? Our threads? How can we reconcile our differences in a meaningful way? How will we toast in shared joy instead of clash with animosity? How am I to stop all the judging, gagging, eye rolling, knuckle cracking, nail biting, heart racing, stammering, and gasping that I am not poker player enough to hide? How can I stop myself from asking, "What the fuck are you thinking? McPain is a disaster of EPIC proportions? You are irresponsible and downright un-American to vote for this vile ticket that will set women and our country and polar bears back at least 100 years. You are thinking with your short-term wallet instead of with your long-term portfolio. You disgust me with your selfish, racist, bullying ways. I have no respect for your pompous ilk. You care about yourself only with no respect for your fellow men, women, and children. Or animals for that matter. You think you have a right to define and play god. Your way is not the only way. You are a closed minded wretch who is a parasite on this planet. Your disillusionment is calamitous. I cannot break bread with you. I cannot trust you. I cannot stomach you!" With this I struggle.

Perhaps there would be some kicking, hair pulling, profuse cussing, elbowing, and pinching. Whom am I kidding? Fisticuffs would ensue, and I'd likely be on the bottom of the pile. I'm only five feet tall after all.

Do you detect some anger in my voice? Don't be fooled. It's fear.

I thought we hit rock bottom four years ago. I had no freaking clue that things could go ever deeper into the guts of hell. I still feel that our reality is surreal. McPain cannot possibly be happening. Those signs don't really read "Women for McCain." "Really?" I want to ask. "Because nothing about his policy is for you." I am filled with caustic anger that singes the soul. I admit to this. I just don't know how to escape it.

And so I plunder on. Canvassing. Writing. Calling. Blogging. Donating. I empty myself of this enmity through my written words and positive actions. So far I have not uttered words of ugliness, though you better believe I am thinking them behind my veil of "Hey, how are you? So nice to see you. Coffee? Nah, 9:00 doesn't work for me. Catch you later."

Today I Learned of Suicide

I found out some heartbreaking news today from a long lost friend (praise Facebook for the reunion!). Our old friend Randy committed suicide.

It happened in 1995. I had no idea.

I left my hometown almost 20 years ago and have been back only twice in recent years. Not because I don't love it, I simply have no family there anymore. I still consider it "home." My so called formative years were spent there. I fondly recall our close circle of friends.

We were a mixed bag of kids who came from various cliques and backgrounds. A common sense of folly and intellect brought us together. We were smart (though not geekily so), athletic (though not in that annoying jock way...and for the record, I was not one of the athletic ones), and ambitious (college was a shared goal and expected milestone). We used to go swimming, have parties, devour movies, eat doughnuts, and dance. We laughed until our bellies ached (doughnuts being a contributing factor) and shed tears over the maelstrom of life's uncertainties and curveballs that come our way in our teens.

Randy was the most earnest and thoughtful of the gang, keeping a watchful eye on me since he was a few years my senior. His smile was grand and popped whatever funk bubble enveloped you. He was often the voice of reason among the rowdy grain alcohol experimenters and skirt chasers. His spirit was kind, mature, charming, and sensitive. And don't think for a minute that there wasn't a healthy dollop of mischief tossed in.

I've been out of touch with those old friends for decades now. Once in a while I catch myself grinning over a fleeting memory from back in the day. Back in the day when friends sat around til the wee hours talking about our futures, how unfair our parents were, the cities we wanted to visit, who was breaking our hearts, and where to go on the next beer run with a fake ID. Back in the day when friendship came with no obligations, judgments, or competition. Back in the day when we were young and foolish. Back in the day when we had not tasted our own mortality and no idea that we were anything but invincible.

Randy went on to teach high school history, he was a captain in the Army National Guard, and a volunteer at crisis counselor centers in town. On paper and in life he was accomplished and
admired. He would blush and say something self-deprecating if he read this.

I am deeply saddened for the loss of an old friend, even a friend with whom I had lost touch. My heart physically hurts from the news. I am not writing to seek answers, point fingers, or uncover regrets. I simply want to remember a friend who touched me.

What Not to Say if You Want to Be My Friend: Deal Breakers

I owe thanks to Poison Pen for slipping me this post idea this morning. She's the one of Ball Pit fame.

Back when I was in the dating game, there were certain deal breakers. Tighty whiteys for starters. Keep in mind I was dating before the days of boxer briefs, but those would be a definite potential deal breaker. Boxers all the way, man. Squeezing toothpaste in the middle: a deal breaker to this neat freak. Granted, things had already gotten pretty far if I was privy to toothpaste habits. A hairy back was a definite deal breaker. An ass smaller than mine: also a deal breaker. There are of course the obvious ones like voting Republican, wearing too much cologne, talking about his ex, bad table manners, being plain stupid, mussed up shoes (Aw, come on! Shoes tell a lot about a man!), or hitting on my friends (with a hotties like Shannon and Cathy as my closest friends, this one cropped up a lot).

Now that I'm learning to feel and find my way in the mom world, I find myself dating again. There are deal breakers in this game too. Here are a few recent ones I've encountered. These are for real, not figments of my imagination. I wish I had mugshots to warn you to stay away, far away, from these women.

"We home school our three children ages 2-6." Luckily my cell phone rang, and I just had to take the call.

"We're thinking about buying a pop-up camper." I wanted to say, "You're not Barbie, Lady."

"What do you think about a mom's weekend away? We could do crafts in our camper!" Again with the camper. Who are these people?! I reckon there would be no margaritas served in that camper.

"So maybe we could get together to do some scrapbooking?" Frankly I'm insulted she took me to be a scrapbooker. Anything I'd create from these hands would be a crapbook. And that sounds more fun because there would be alcohol involved.

"Oh, isn't it sad that Jesse Helms died?" WHAAATTT??!!!?? It was all I could do to not punch her in the gut. The world would have been better without the likes of him. Now sock it to me for saying something so disparaging about a dead man . Being dead doesn't make him sacred.

"I see my role in life to make my husband happy." Um, yeah. I'm all for that if he's making me happy too. Has she not heard the adage, "Ain't nobody happy if momma ain't happy?" That's rule numero uno at my house.

"My son is wearing a shirt from Target, but his shorts are from Talbotts." I'm not kidding you that these were the first words uttered out of this woman's mouth. What on my face made me look like I gave a shit what her kid was wearing? Little did she know that there was no need to be so apologetic about the Target attire; that carried more weight than Talbotts.

"Did you breastfeed? My daughter is five, and I still breastfeed her. She really enjoys it." DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS ONE. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder.

"I just vote the way my husband tells me too." And are you enjoying living in the year 1953?

"I don't like to shop and I don't care what shoes I'm wearing." Seriously? I thought she was joking. Find me a woman who doesn't like shoes for cripes sake! I'd rather hang with the homeschooler than a woman who doesn't drool over shoes.


So tell me, what are your deal breakers? I'd like to be armed with some examples lest I'm accosted at the park by a suspicious looking scrapbooker sporting lace up Keds.

5:00 Fridays

I was first introduced to this drink when I was away for a long overdue girls' weekend. We were nursing pretty vicious hangovers and decided to partake in some hair of the ol' dog after we had eaten a gloriously greasy, Swanson Hungry Man portioned, breakfast and watched an afternoon of girly movies (Princess Diaries 2 and The Sweetest Thing) in our pajamas.

My good friend Christy concocted this cocktail but has not come up with a suitable name for it. Not that we don't keep drinking it. It's akin to dressing up an unnamed child and taking it out for a stroll just hoping a name will strike you while you're out and about. Just a couple weeks ago she drank almost the entire bottle of cranberry vodka by herself when trying to christen the cocktail. Luckily we were having a family sleep over that night so no one was driving and there were others in fine shape to deal with the kids. We're messy and wacky here at Chez Dirt & Noise but one thing we are not is irresponsible. I guess Christy figured that the more she drank the more inspiration she would have. Let's just say that all inspiration went out the door when our boys woke up at 5:00 AM....a mere four hours after we went to bed. Yeah, good times all around. I don't recommend overindulging unless you are absolved of all responsibility. Girls' weekend, anyone?

Anyway, this is the perfect cocktail to savor when you're away from your kids (OK, let's be real, and husbands. Chances are they won't like this drink anyway. Husbands that is, not kids. Definitely not suitable for kids. Unless your kids are 21.). This drink reminds me of a sweet little afternoon nip to catch a happy buzz out on the deck while playing Celebrity Crush with your girlfriends. You know, the game where you gab about all the hot celebs you'd like to mash with? Oh come on, like you don't dream about gettin' your freak on with some hot Penn Badgley action? Ahem, or is that just moi?

This is a lovely summer libation that's great with girlfriends on a hot day. It's meant to evoke girliness. You know, the kind of girl you were before you had children. Harken waaaaayyy back beyond the cobwebs and fish her out. Got her? Now don't let her go.

Yeah, that one. The one with the hot gams and 100+ pairs of shoes. Matching handbags too, natch. The one who had the time to paint her nails, decide she hated the color, and redo it all in one sitting. The one who actually had time to read the paper in bed with a cup of fresh steaming coffee in a mug without a top. Remember her? Now pour her a drink.

I call this drink, Missed Independence, in honor of the 4th of July and those days that I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard in Minneapolis back when I was single and fancy free. And had fabulous nails and shoes Imelda would crave. Note that I don't want that life back; the memories are way sweeter than the reality, of course. I do love my family but there are times that even Calgon doesn't take me away.

Missed Independence
Get yourself a good sized glass. Nothing frou frou and delicate here. Even one of those big red Solo cups will do.

Fill it with ice in any shape or size. Pull out the fancy star shaped ice cube maker for the occasion.

Pour in a shot or so of cranberry vodka. Stoli won't let you down.

Now add some Sprite (not diet, it'll taste gross and less decadent) to fill the glass.

Stir. Garnish with a toothpick of blueberries and strawberries and a sprig of mint for a punch of color. Use a skewer if you want to make it a healthy snack too.

Cheers to my Missed Independence...and yours!

Coupling

Dating was bad enough when I was single. I sucked at it then, so applying the rules of that jungle to the jungle gym now seemed too overwhelming to bear. I shied from making new friends for a considerable length of time. Who knew that I'd be reliving those tentative dating steps again. Only this time Mac Daddy and I are flirting with other couples to befriend. It's a whole new courtship that is exponentially more complex with the addition of spouses and kids. Oh, I meet my share of women with whom I get along great. When it comes time to make the next move someone's kids don't click or the husband is a bore/jerk/pretty boy/dud. The deal breakers abound in the world of couples dating. Time and babysitter dollars are in short supply to be wasting either.

Mac Daddy and I went on a date last weekend. Only it wasn't with each other.

We went on a date with Kat and Sammy. Our first date. Yes, we were nervous. Am I dressed appropriately? Does my hair look OK? Does my breath stink like Cheetos? Will they hate my perfume? Did I remember deodorant? Do they have a sense of humor? How do you pronounce their last name? Do we have an exit strategy?

Kat and Sammy invited us over to their place for dinner, which would seem forward for a first date except that we had four kids among us. Under the age of 5. Oh, and dinner was at 5:00 if that tells you anything. It was actually a full family date, way deeper than a couples date. And the kids got along famously. Check one off the stress list.

Kat and I met a few times at the park and various play dates. We checked out each other thoroughly enough to chat on occasion and we found ourselves drawn to each other time after time. Perhaps it was our liberal leanings, ties to Philadelphia, penchant for shopping deals and steals, biracial kids, or just plain good taste responsible for our magnetic pull. Who knows. We chatted easily, laughed at the same things, gritted our teeth at our wailing children, and checked our watches in anticipation of nap time.

We decided it was time to introduce the husbands. A giant step. Mac Daddy is not a naturally social being. Sure, he's easy to talk to but he loathes small talk and has low tolerance for so many types of people - snobs, good ol boys, know-it-alls, rednecks, dumbs asses, artsy fartsy literati, thugs. He pretty much clicks with down to earth sarcastic types who value a dry sense of humor and don't mind a comfortable lull in conversation mixed with a few gulps of bottled brew. And me, I can talk to a curio cabinet full of Hummel figurines. My own voice keeps me going, and I'm my own best audience. A real live person is frosting on the conversational cake.

Mac Daddy and Sammy met once during a spontaneous extension of a happy hour play date that spilled over to our house one evening months ago. There were four families and 8 children under the age of 5 running around so there was more chasing and yelling "NO!" than real conversation going on. Oh, and don't go judging me for the happy hour play date. My goodness, by 3:00 on a Friday a glass of wine is what every mom and dad need. No one is lush enough to slur and stumble. And the kids don't drink wine since they are actively participating in wine's homonym form.

So back to our date...Kat and I hit it off swimmingly as usual and followed the kids downstairs. Why does this always happen, moms keeping a watchful eye on the kids while the dads drink Newcastle and watch Nascar? I knew things were going well when neither Mac Daddy nor Sammy came downstairs with a lame excuse to exit their conversation. Things seemed to be working out nicely. No fake smiles and talk of the weather. No resorting to sports statistics from the Celtics big game in 1972. No one was even talking about the obvious common denominator: kids. Could it be? Did we actually make a new couple connection?

All the stars are aligned so far. All of us enjoyed easy conversation and weren't shy about picking out corn from our teeth or stealing a fingerful of cupcake frosting (homemade at that!). Beer, wine, and juice boxes flowed, laughter ensued, children splashed, adults breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I think we might be ready to take the plunge to invite them over to our place next. Perhaps even a couples night out without the kids. Maybe weekends of double dates and a future of vacationing together is on the horizon. Is a trip on the Big Red Boat in our future? Or am I moving too quickly? I tend to be overzealous by nature. If nothing else, we've found new friendship all around. Cheers to that!

PS
There's a funny video out in cyberspace about couples dating. My friend Susan emailed it to me once, but I can't track it down. 10 points to whomever can send me the link.

Do you take (insert name here) to be your husband?

Mac Daddy and I enjoyed a glorious weekend away...sans kids! Thanks to Nani and Aunt Ginny, we were able to go to Florida to see our friend Chris wed his one true love. Chris is quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. Not in that he's funny looking with a crooked nose and too full upper lip kind of way. He's actually just genuinely nice. And awfully attractive. I mean it. Cute. Downright hot even. He and his bride make a lovely couple indeed. You almost expect to see them as wedding action figures atop every lemon chiffon cake in every hotel ballroom in America.

We all know that weddings host a colorful cast of characters. Only an airport departure gate affords better fodder for the Olympic sport of people watching. This wedding was in Tampa, providing different color than the chicken dance Midwestern receptions, preppy Palm Beach weddings, and stiff British affairs I am used to attending. Tampa offered a certain fromage factor that I hadn't expected. Some of the cocktail dresses were skimpier than the tankini I've resorted to wearing since my stomach never regained its pre-baby tautness (at least according the modicum of hotness that I think is required to be appropriate for human eyes at the beach). I have dangly earrings longer than one chick's dress. To top it off, she had Crystal Gayle hair, and I kid you not, the hair was as long as the hemline.

I can't comment on the male guests because I can't say I noticed them. A bunch of suits and shiny shoes. No white socks or zoot suits that I noticed. It's strikes me as silly that the E! fashionistas even bother with best and worst dressed men from the Oscars. Black tux. White shirt. Shawl collar. Vest. Armani. Dolce and Gabbana. Whatever. George Clooney in a tux is the exception. HOT. HOT. HOT.

The wedding gents looked resplendent in their tailored-to-order Men's Wearhouse penguin suits. The bridesmaids were downright superb. First of all, the girls were lovely. Really lovely. The bride must really, really love those friends for choosing a dress with a universally flattering cut and color that the women can actually wear again without screaming, "I wore this in a wedding once, but the bride promised I could get more use out of it, and dammit I will!" It goes without saying that the bride was perfection. No back fat or cottage cheese arms spilling out of that fitted lace sheath gracing her trim figure. Quite the opposite as she looked divine.

I was a good 12 years older than any of the women I befriended. 12 YEARS. A generation apart. They were suckling newborns when I was sporting purple hair and lace tights a la Cyndi Lauper. Nonetheless we had a blast yucking it up, but I fear that at the end of it all they'll remember me as the old drunk chick who was trying so pathetically hard to be young despite a pending 40th birthday. Maybe the fact that this was only our fourth time away from our children (Ever!) was all too apparent. Funny how weddings bring out the immaturity in us, while marriage is one of life's biggest marks of maturity. Blame the open bar for that irony.

One touching exchange I was privy to by sheer happenstance was during the ceremony when the bride's mom reached her hand behind her and found the bride's father's hand rest in hers for a tender moment. The clasp was longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a lingering grasp. You see, the bride's parents are divorced and remarried. In that moment they shared their love and pride for their daughter, and that transcends all. My parents too are divorced, and I can guarantee that there has never been so much as a handshake since their split ages ago. I'm pretty sure that apart from conceiving me and my brother, there was no hand holding or embracing going on. All that baggage makes for shaky ground when it comes to my own marriage and raising my boys.

All in all, the trip was SO worth it (and not just because Mac Daddy and I could sleep past 8:00, enjoy the decadence of room service, and eat dinner later than our usual 5:30). We made new friends, laughed at the mating rituals that I don't miss partaking in, and luxuriated in wine, cafe con leche, and lots of laughs.

A memorable moment was when young, handsome Grant was questioning taking hitting-on-the-ladies advice from bald Dave and grayed Brandon (both of whom are handsome guys themselves). We got the inside scoop on air traffic control from a guy who's served two terms in Iraq and is poised for a third. One highlight was the 2-year old ring bearer who was adorable in his mini tux, though he was totally uninterested in bearing any rings. He was a champ despite staying up waaaaaayyy past his bedtime all weekend. When he was approaching meltdown mode I could have lent a helping hand...but I didn't. I was enjoying my time away from Bird and Deal too much to step in to manage someone else's toddler. Go ahead, call me selfish. You know you'd shirk the duties too.

And then there were the Ivy Leaguers who could be spotted the proverbial mile away. No uncharacteristic boozing going on at their table, only erudite conversation and quiet lulls. Meanwhile our table next to them was full of friendly bickering, catty conversation, and wine sloshing. The Ivy Leaguers were PhDs who left before the band played the last song. I guess there's a reason those guys are so smart.

Lastly, the minister was the big surprise hit of the weekend. She was earnest and fun, mind you, but damn, she was the most brazen, snappy woman of the cloth I have ever encountered! The Birkenstocks threw me for a curve. She was so candid and free spirited with Amstel Light in hand. I expect I'll never again discuss the topics of lost virginity or homosexuality with a minister. Hats off to her for being human!

Mac Daddy and I have vowed to take more time away from our kids. We came home feeling refreshed. We've been back for two days and haven't lost our patience, temper, or car keys once. We realize that we missed our silly family rituals and appreciate each other so much more than when we were in the midst of our Sisyphus life. It's the familial, group hug version of absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder-sex. G-rated, of course. And don't even think about bursting my bubble.

Happy Endings, as Neil Diamond says!

Friendships Bloom in Unlikely Places

I've been reading the Owen and Mzee books to Bird and Deal lately. I'm pretty certain I enjoy them more than they do. What's not to love about a darling, tsunami-orphaned hippo and a crotchety 130-year old tortoise who become fast friends? I'm a sucker for animal stories and have sobbed, as in heaving, tears streaming into my cleavage sobbing, on more than one occasion watching Animal Planet. When Mac Daddy was in graduate school I would tiptoe into the den shaking in silent sobs until he gave me some love and calmed me down. This happened pretty much every night I watched Emergency Vet. Eventually Mac Daddy banned that show from our house. Now he's put a blocker on Animal Planet all together, and I fear that Discovery Health will be next. Sick kid stories make me sob like a three-year old whose peas are touching his chicken tettrazini on the plate (had I only invested in those cafeteria sectioned plates when Bird was three!).

Before I had children my cats were like my kids. I taught them how to sit for treats, and Capote even came when I called him. He really was a dog. Ask my mom, she abhors cats but even liked Capote. I wasn't one of those nutjobs who fed the cats off of fine china but I did spend a LOT of money buying prescription food. I was snap happy with my camera every time Casey and Capote cuddled on the windowsill or cleaned each other. I have hundreds of said photos, and oddly enough, no one ever wants to flip through those albums.

You MUST check out the Owen and Mzee books. Whether you have kids in your life or not, you'll be astounded at the story and photographs. It is sheer delight and one of the many joys I would have never come across had I not had Bird and Deal in my life. You can find out more and buy the books here. http://media.npr.org/programs/atc/features/2005/jul/hippo/tortoisehippo200.jpg

Dooce, if you can't get a hippopotamus for Christmas, this is the next best thing.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I know my neighbors. Not just the folks on either side of my house. All of my neighbors on the street. And the next street. And the street after that. I know more than their first names and approximate time they leave for work. I know them well; they are my friends. It's a lucky life to count your neighbors as your friends. For one thing, it saves gas since we're literally a hop, skip, and jump away. We never need to schedule playdates. All we do is open the door and let the kids run amok while we grownups enjoy a glass of cabernet, Blue Moon with a slice of orange for the tang, or Moscow Mule, depending on who's bartending.

I have four lots but just one house. Of course there are neighbors' houses on those lots. We literally just swing open the door, and the kid radar starts beeping furiously. All the children, ranging in age from 18 months to 11 years-old, run among all of our yards playing old school games. Freeze tag. Hide n' seek. Hopscotch. Blissfully, no batteries required. Our toys belong to the neighborhood. As long as bats, balls, sidewalk chalk, and jump ropes make their way to a toybox somewhere, it's all good. Bird and Deal are lucky to live in a true neighborhood. I grew up in a similar place. My folks didn't cart us around to activities or playdates. We skipped rocks in the creek in our backyard, sang the tunes from the remake of Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band using the retaining wall as a stage, and caught lightning bugs in jars handed out by Tracy's mom next door.

My neighborhood is a genuine neighborhood that invokes images of the days of yore. If you want to start a story with "Back in the day..." it's my neighborhood that your listeners conjure up. I'm not talkin' an artificial neighborhood with a faux town square clock tower. I'm talkin' a community with off kilter sidewalks, a little post office, an anti-Starbucks coffee shop, and privately owned local drugstore, replete with diner in the back. We walk to run our errands. We walk to the park. We walk just to see who's out and about when we get cabin fever. Bird and Deal benefit in so many ways. For starters, they're walkers, not whiners who act as if they're lugging 300 pound steel boots around like some suburban kids I see. They play with kids of all ages and learn to listen and respect adults who aren't mommy and daddy. They don't watch much TV. Their best friends live right next door. We even have Yogi the neighborhood dog who exhibits gracious patience everyday.

Why My 'Hood Kicks Ass (and why the subdivisions with their back decks don't):

We all have front porches. And we use them.

I have the keys to five neighbors' houses, and they have mine. Someone's there to feed the ornery cat when we're gone. Because she's so ornery we have to rotate the duty.

We literally go next door to borrow a cup of sugar, or a couple eggs, or a gallon of milk.

We cook extra meatloaf, spaghetti, turkey stew, or lambchops and share the wealth.

For 6 weeks after my kids were born neighbors signed up to bring us dinner. I'm talkin' home cooked (and sometimes home grown) extravagant meals, with dessert, wine, and a pair of arms to hold the baby so Mac Daddy and I could eat.

We have parties in the street. Lots of them. We even have a neighborhood lemonade stand that doubles as a tiki bar.

I know someone is watching my kids if I have to run inside to stir the chili, swap a load of laundry, or get ready for date night with Mac Daddy.



Since we don't have family in town, we rely on our neighbors for the occasional babysitting (like when I went into labor with Deal or the times we've had to take one kid or another to the ER in the middle of the night), an extra set of hands to move a desk upstairs, or for a few rounds of Yahtzee and beers. We take care of each other, and no one keeps a scorecard. Well, maybe the kids playing Mother May I do.

Tell me why your 'hood rocks.

http://communityscale.googlepages.com/

Foul Weather Friends

I don't know Shannon Dodd, yet I feel a certain kinship to her. She, like me, is in her 30s (not as FAR into her 30s as I am, mind you). She has two boys, so her house is full of dirt and noise too. Shannon has a lovely monosyllabic-named husband. She has an extraordinary close-knit group of friends. Our similarities end there. You see, Shannon is in the heat of the battle of a lifetime; she is fighting an aggressive brain cancer. Her noggin, her VERY BEING is being attacked by these horrid, cancerous cells.

Shannon and her family are fighting. They are in the ring for those two little boys, ages 4 and 5. And they are fighting for so much more. I was teary-eyed recounting the tale to my husband tonight. I can only manage to be but so poignant, if at all, in this post. My emotions are raw for this woman I don't even know. I know her story, however, and that's moving enough.

How do I even know of Shannon's plight, you ask? My boys are in school with some of Shannon's friends who are in the ring with her. They are busy at various command posts organizing a whole host of ways to support the Dodd family. For starters, there's a pancake breakfast fundraiser on Saturday, January 26 8:00-10:30 to raise money to help the Dodds manage mounting financial burdens. Though they are blessed with great health insurance, the bills still add up quickly. The emotional toll can't be empirically counted. Imagine the havoc illness wreaks on those less fortunate. No political jabs here, but simply an observation.

If you're in or around Raleigh, enjoy the respite from breakfast duty on the 26th and head over to 4801 Six Forks Road for pancakes, sausage, coffee, and juice. Tickets are a mere 5 bucks. Go to shannondodd.org to get more information. You can see photos of the lovely Shannon there too. And by the way, the $5 donation is not tax deductible since Shannon's friends are the organizers, not a registered, official non-profit. But hey, who's supporting the cause for the tax break? As a good liberal, I hate people who just write checks for the tax write off and not the underlying cause anyway.

Shannon has a remarkable group of friends. It's easy to call, email, drop by with a half-burned lasagna once in a while. Creating a whole grassroots campaign is another endeavor. What a gesture it is for these friends to show their love in a tangible way. I'm sure the lasagna, once the burned cheese was scraped off the top, was enjoyed by all, but nothing beats the display of friendship behind the scenes at http://www.shannondodd.org/.

In a world fraught with war, worry, and wariness, it is refreshing to know that everyday people live with a whole different set of virtues. Love, generosity, goodwill, and true, deep care are dancing in harmony before my very eyes. We should all be so lucky to live a life worthy of such a solid set of friends, admirers, and supporters. Friendship, unlike any I have experienced, is alive and kicking here in Raleigh. Shannon's cancer is in for a real ass kicking.

Join the fight.

Saturday, January 26
8:00 - 10:30
5 bucks (priceless since you don't have to cook!)
St. Mark's Methodist Church, 4801 Six Forks Road, Raleigh

Pssst. Pass it on.