Baba Ghanouj from Scratch

Here's a recipe I posted a while back on Foodie Mama. It's a real crowd pleaser, and since we're still in for a few more days of entertaining, I figured I'd pass this along. Have some red wine or Sambuca on hand.


I'm from the kind of family who travels for food. We talk about what we ate 12 years ago at a mom n' pop place in Palm Springs, the extraordinary apple strudel we had in Heidelberg, the ostrich we enjoyed in Walnut Springs, the eisbein we shared at a neighborhood pub in Berlin. We talk about food. A lot. Chances are our dinner conversation revolves around what we ate once upon a time or what we're going to eat next. In my family food is the great equalizer among us.

And now my sons chime right in. They share memories of eating with their fingers while watching the belly dancers at the Moroccan restaurant in Savannah, squishing the injera at the Ethiopian restaurant, gasping in awe at the flaming haloumi in Chicago, squealing at chef's knife tricks at the habachi grill, and tossing the crawfish tails into the hole cut into the table at the Crab Shack on Tybee Island. Bird and Deal clamor to visit places like Hawaii, Italy, India, and France just to try the local flavors that we talk about. Their latest kick is Greece. The boys don't know this yet, but Mac Daddy and I are trying to swing a family trip to Greece next year to celebrate our tenth anniversary.

In the mean time, we have to settle for the Greek delights we can find in our fair city. Since no one's baba ghanouj is up to snuff, I've tried my hand at making it myself. I have no idea if it's authentic but I do know it tastes damn good.

Baba Ghanouj

• 1 large eggplant or 2 small eggplants
• 2 cloves garlic
• 3/4 cup tahini (You can make it, but I just buy it to keep things simple.)
• juice of 1 lemon (Fresh lemon is imperative! I will totally hold it against you if you use the stuff that comes in the plastic lemon shaped bottle.)
• drizzle of olive oil
• teaspoon cumin
• pinch of cayenne
• handful flat leaf parsley
• salt to taste

Score the eggplant several times and roast at 350 degrees for about an hour. Let it cool. Scrape out the meat, seeds and all, from the eggplant into a food processor. No skin or stem! Add the rest of the ingredients. Pulse until it becomes the consistency of creamy dip. A few chunks are okay so don't over process or the baba ghanouj lest it turns out too runny. Serve in a bowl garnished with a few black olives and sprigs of parsley. Cut pita bread into wedges and serve along with some carrot sticks, cucumber slices, or whatever crudite tickles your fancy.

I happened to use a Ninja Kitchenfor my baba ghanouj.

Full disclosure here: I got to go on a blogger junket to New York to see the Food Network's Robin Miller demonstrate the many uses of the Ninja Kitchen. I was lucky enough to get one for free so I have waved buh-bye to my old blender and food processor. The Ninja Kitchen makes perfect dip, smoothies, soups, and all kinds of other stuff. I will tell you that former attempts at making baba ghanouj resulted in the wrong consistency so the Ninja Kitchen worked perfectly for me. A blender definitely won't cut it.

Opa!

Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

Wordless Wednesday: Busted

Family Vacation is Hardly a Vacation

Here's the thing about vacationing with family, there's nothing vacay about it.

Oh, it's always a grand time to see family (especially considering it had been over two years since we were back home...save the guilt trip; we've already taken it and have the T-shirts and passport stamps to prove it.). Spending time with family was the hands down highlight of our rendez vous to the Midwest. Bird and Deal loved playing with their cousins and kidding around with their grandmother. They were spoiled by their aunts and uncles and fawned over by family friends. Nonetheless, it was exhausting. Nothing rejuvenating about it. No sirree, no one around Chez Dirt & Noise is relaxed and rested.

Nevermind that Bird started first grade the day after we got home. I know, I know. Bad timing is the understatement of the century. You can revoke my Mother of the Year crown now. The title does come with a crown and sash right?

We actually had a fantastic vacation...in hindsight.

While we were in the throes of driving hours on end (sometimes in a torrential downpour), blotting juice box spills from the rental car, mediating brotherly boxing matches in the back seat, changing DVDs that mysteriously got scratched, maneuvering unmarked back country roads, monitoring unseemly lyrics on unknown radio stations, and timing potty breaks, we managed to sneak in a good time. It goes without saying that Mac Daddy and I teetered between bickering and paying each other off with the silent treatment for much of the drive time. It was reminiscent of my hellacious family road trips as a kid, only then the whole bunch of us fought, making the entire trip somewhat sucky. Mac Daddy and I got over once we arrived at our destination. Said destination always had a full stock of liquid refreshments. Our worst fights involve car trips and home improvement. This is why we fly and pay someone to install curtain rods. Every picture hung in our house has an unresolved fight brewing behind it.

Here's the thing, visiting family and vacation are not synonymous. In fact, I would argue that they are indeed mutually exclusive. For that matter, traveling with children is not always vacation.

Sure, hanging at Legoland and the Chicago Children's Museum was grand. I don't even mean that sarcastically. I even had a blast riding the ginormous ferris wheel at Navy Pier with the boys, though I wish I had worn Depends because that shit was high high high! We stared at our reflections in the Millenium Park bean and laughed at the boat tour guide's bovine jokes about Mrs. O'Leary's cow. We ate ungodly amounts of ice cream and frozen custard and indulged in more cheese that Mrs. O'Leary's cow could produce in a year. I have the extra 10 pounds and double chin to prove it. The back fat was already there; I only have the gestation of two boys to blame for that.

What stinks is that I didn't spend a minute or a dime indulging in Chicago's most famous sport - shopping. A quick jaunt to Nordstrom earned me whining and fits that I couldn't bear lest I start spinning my head and spewing unsavory remarks to my children in public. Mac Daddy did indulge me by letting me sip my champagne in peace atop the Hancock Tower observation deck restaurant while he wrestled the boys who were hopped up on pineapple upside down cake.

That three minutes was the extent of my vacation.

Did I mention that the whole famdamily shared a hotel room too? Good times. There were moments I was reading by the light of my Blackberry. That's sure to put a strain on the almost 41-year old eyes that are next in line at the presbyopia store.

Truth be told, Bird and Deal were great. Most importantly, they were true princes on our flights. Fellow passengers are sure as hell thankful for that. We laughed a lot, walked even more, and ate our body weight in Garrett's popcorn, cheese curds, Kopp's tasty treats, peanut squares, tapas, bratwurst, and Jelly Bellys. And no doubt Mac Daddy and I indulged in plenty of Wisconsin's finest ale (nevermind that it was actually Corona). But since we divided our time between seeing family (which means we were all "on") and playing the part of Tourist, we never had (or took) the time to simply exhale.

Our family's trip was what our friend Janet coined a "kidcation," not a vacation. Like I said, it was awesome, but it wasn't the least bit relaxing. No beach. No Matt Dillon cabana boy. No pool raft. And for the most part, no sunshine.

But based on the boys' recollections, stories about antics with their cousins, memories made, and "remember when" moments, I wouldn't change a damn thing...except adding vacation days to Mac Daddy's schedule and a traveling baby sitter armed with a corkscrew.

In the mean time, I revel in the fact that we were making memories and more importantly, cementing familial bonds for our children, who don't benefit from the joy of family often enough.

High Jinks

The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.

Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.

The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.

There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.

I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.

Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).

I think I just wrote her match.com profile.

Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.

Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.

The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.

Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.

Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.

Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.

BlogHer 09 Requisite Recap

I am always amazed that people who didn't give birth to me or otherwise contribute to my mere existence, people who share my last name, people I pay, and people who know me up close and personally read my little blog. My readers are better than a live audience (mostly because I'm not affected by any rotten eggs or tomatoes aimed at my head and no one counts how many glasses of wine I polish off). I count my readers as friends and fans, affectionately known as frans.

I finally got to go to BlogHer in Chicago last weekend. I met many bloggers whom I have been stalking and adoring for ages now. We are not all just a bunch of words and mouse clicks in the blogosphere; we are people. We all have a story. In many cases, we have been reading each other's stories for a while. We exchanged knowing glances and shared personal jokes, even upon having just met. There were hugs and squeals and "Oh my Gods!" and high fives and fist bumps and ass taps. Or maybe that was just me feeling up the rocking Silicon Valley Moms in the photo booth.

I laughed with my new friends. With some I cried. We broke bread. We toasted. We got snap happy. We ate cake. We wore McDonald's paper bags on our heads. We tickled our funny bones with feather boas. We cut a rug.

In a word, meeting my blog crushes was...

exhilarating.

And I am cursing for not having a freaking camera. Note to self: buy a pocket doohickey to tote around.

I should have packed Depends because I about peed in my britches when I met Ree, Redneck Mommy, Vodka Mom, Backpacking Dad, Black Hockey Jesus, Jessica Knows, NYCity Mama, Maggie Dammit, Bossy, Stephanie, Neil, and so many more whose business cards are squirreled away in a box on my desk. I would have asked for autographs but I was too chicken just like the time I saw Melissa Gilbert in an antique dress shop in Sausalito when I was 12.

I don't give a rip about the swag, but the BlogHer parties were cool. I especially enjoyed the endless supply of cheesecubes, coffee, and sweet tooth aphrodesiacs. Oh, and the champagne cocktails at the Nikon soiree. I hear there were some swag hags ruining it for the rest of us, but seriously people, BlogHer was about the people, not the free shampoo, socks, and laundry detergent. All the sqeeing and peeing was worth it. My favorite bloggy friends live in different time zones than I do. I hate that I'll have to wait a year to see them again (Yes, Mac Daddy, I'll be going again next year.). I met amazing people, and that's not even including Carson Kressley (sarcasm people, saracasm).

Most people thought I'd be taller in person and even seemed a tish disappointed to see all 60 inches of me. Perhaps I need a disclaimer in my header stating "Beware, blogger's voice appears larger than her person." Someone I met at a Triangle Tweetup once told me he was disappointed to meet me in person because he thought I was more fascinating online. Um yeah. I was floored by that too. I didn't ask him to expound; I just ran to a corner and wept. In any case, I was delighted to meet everyone in person, live in Memorex. Blogher was a bloggy honeymoon for me.

And now Mac Daddy can stop calling all these twitterific folks my imaginary friends.

Blogher Packing Tips

I'm getting on a plane in 2 days to head to Chicago. My Blogher hymen will be popped at last. Blogher virgin no more! I haven't been on a plane without children in 6 years. No kids to entertain, bottoms to wipe in a cramped airplane bathroom, and juice boxes to smuggle, or fights to mediate. Since I didn't succumb to buying a Kindle, I'll be reading books and trashy magazines. Don't judge me if you're sitting next to me. I'll totally bust you for peeking over the spine of Us Weekly and People.

I am generally a great packer. I went to India for a week with a carry on bag once.

Here are my packing tips:

Don't pack underwear you have not worn yet. They might look pretty but make you pull out wedgies all day long. No one's gonna shake your hand if they see you with your hand up your crack.

Don't bother with shampoo and soap. Of course I don't mean don't bother using them; I mean don't pack them. The stuff at the hotel will be just fine. It's not the Motel 6, people.

Pack a cardigan. And throw in a jean jacket or just wear it on the plane. That goes with absolutely anything. But spare us the acid washed look.

Accessories are a girl's best friend. No one will notice you're wearing the same dress 2 nights in a row if you swap out your jewelry. A chunky necklace or fabulous dangly earrings will rock any outfit.

Shoes. Remember that looks and comfort are not mutually exclusive. You'll likely see me in the same black patent leather wedge sandals all weekend, night or day. Bring cute shoes that go with everything. Black sandals are the chameleon of the shoe world.

Bring a plastic grocery bag. I know, I know. You bring your own hemp bags to the store so you don't have any. I actually leave my bags at home sometimes because once in a while I need a plastic sack. If I have clean stuff at the end of the trip, I don't want it co-mingling with the dirties.

Lash Exact. Best. Mascara. Ever. You will need something to make you look awake. This magical mascara in the purple tube does the trick. And it's like 5 bucks at the drug store.

Aspirin, Tylenol, ibuprofen. Pick your poison. Vitamin B doesn't hurt either. Oh, and Tums. You'll likely be hurting so pack some relief.

Leave the linen at home.

Rollable fabrics are key. Jersey is my best friend.

Everyone will be wearing a little black dress. I too have the standard issue LBD ready to go. But we all need a piece de resistance. Mine is orange.

Don't pack outfits. Pack Garanimal style. Mix and match. All your tops should theoretically match all your bottoms.

Dresses are the most versatile thing in a summer suitcase. And the swingy shifts I wear don't require sucking in my stomach.

Lastly, bring pajamas! Your roommate doesn't really want you to make yourself at home and sleep in your birthday suit.


So what'd I miss? Anyone else have packing tips?

Eating On Board the Marrakesh Express

One of the ways we teach our children an appreciation of the world around us is through food. Exposure is everything. Since I'm half Indian, it's no big deal to belly up to a dinner of dal, chicken tikka masala, spinach paneer, and a steaming bowl of Basmati rice, cooked perfectly in the rice cooker. For spring break, we took a little jaunt to Morocco with the kids.

And we drove there from Raleigh in only five hours.

While on a spring break vacation in the delightful city of Savannah, Georgia, we ate at a Moroccon restaurant . The dim lighting, velvet draped walls, tented ceilings, music, and decor transported us to Marrakesh. It was a not a particularly child-friendly place, but it was a slow Sunday night, and we were confident in our boys' restaurant manners. Neither they, nor the restaurant, disappointed.

Here's a rundown of what we all shared:

Bread with harissa, a Moroccon hot sauce (that was divine!)
Cornish hen bastila, cornish hen, onion, parsley, spices wrapped in phyllo dough and baked
Lamb kebab with roasted vegetables and saffron rice
Shrimp and scallops sauteed with tomatoes, peppers, paprika, garlic, parsley
Roasted cornish game hen with couscous
Tropical fruit, coconut, and chocolate wrapped in phyllo dough and baked

A solitary crumb was not to be found.

The best part? In traditional Moroccon custom, we ate with our fingers! The boys thought it was a hoot, and truth be told, so did we. The other highlight was the belly dancing. And I mean the real deal, not the lame stuff I did my senior year of high school when I played Tintinabula in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum." The kids were mesmerized, mouths agape, eyes owl wide.

From the boys' perspective, every meal paled in comparison for the rest of our trip. All they wanted was to eat with their fingers again. And they were begging for more lamb. So our little international foodies have expensive taste.

At least it beats the expense of a trip overseas to Morocco. For now...

Cross posted at Foodie Mama.

Witness to History

One of many posters among the crowd. This one was held by a little girl of nine who had just arrived by train from Tampa with her single mother and younger brother.

Buildings across DC wore mantels of hope and change. This one speaks to a top of mind issue: wars we're waging in two countries. Notice the reflection of the American flag in the window.


Words from the AFL CIO.


My buddy Barack and I. I'm not packing on the pounds here, just seventeen layers.


Mac Daddy and I at about hour five in 19 degree temps. This is just before he started complaining about the cold. He wouldn't have made his Wisconsin brethren proud. Note the shearling coat. He hasn't worn it once in the seven years we've lived in North Carolina. I was bundled up to the max and didn't lose feeling in my toes until hour six. Our smiles were frozen on our faces.


Speaking of Wisconsin, meet Governor Doyle. Mac Daddy recognized him when he departed the warm bus on his way to his seat. Mac Daddy called out his name, which is totally out of character. Mac Daddy is a political junkie who knew the names and party affiliation of everyone who stepped off that bus. He cooed as if they were rock stars. I just snapped photos. Governor Doyle was extraordinarily gracious. He came over and shook hands with Mac Daddy and chatted him up for a while. Notice he is not wearing a hat or gloves and that his scarf is casually askew as if his wife made him sling it on for good measure. 1) He's from Wisconsin. 2) He got to wait in a heated bus and building.



I'm unclear why a cow and yellow chicky looking thingee was trapsing through the city. Yet another Wisconsin tie?


Roads and several metro stations were closed. Several people braved the cold to bike to the festivities. I swear there were a few thousand bikes parked here. We're getting greener already.


The crowd. No photo does it justice. Wall to wall people like I have never seen. Throngs. Masses.


A true fan. Her dogs had to have been barking after standing in those massive heels for so long. I think she got those boots from the Kiss Fan Club eBay store. Lord knows what's in the suitcase. Based on heightened security, I'm guessing she didn't get admittance to the swearing in ceremony or parade. The balloons were a nice touch.


Secret service. See the tall guy on the left? He was freezing his tenders off. He was visibly cold, painfully frigid. I offered him my extra fleece ear warmer headband. He declined. He tried really really hard to look cool (as in suave). Instead he just looked like a popsicle.

See the white structure on the left with a slanted roof? That's Obama's viewing booth in front of the White House. He walked down this path before taking his perch to watch the parade. Our seats were right in front of this shot.

Sniper dude on the roof. I think he looks like a Minute Man in this silhouette. You'd never find me on a roof pitched like that.


One of my favorite photos. Snipers on every rooftop. And in places we could not see.


The second limo is the one President Obama is in. And how do I know this? Because I watched him get out of it! Mac Daddy and I had parade tickets (Thank you, Ali!) right at the spot Barack and Michelle got out of their warm car and walked to their viewing booth, waving and grinning as one would expect. We were on pins and needles watching them, and the secret service was oh so very nervous.


President Barack Obama and his lovely wife Michelle. I could barely snap this photo because seeing them up close and personal took my breath away.


So what can I say to do justice to this experience? How can I adequately paint the picture of what it is to be a witness to history? The thing is, it's not hyperbole to say we witnessed history. We all did that day. Whether on CNN, BBC, or 15th and New York, we watched history unfold before our very eyes. And indeed it was a privilege. I've been running over the weekend's events in my head like an 8mm movie. We'll have a tale to weave one day when we tell our grandchildren about January 20, 2009. History is made in small ways and grand strokes everyday, but it's not everyday that we are wrapped in the folds of it.

Mac Daddy and I bundled up and headed to the Lincoln Memorial on Sunday for the We Are One concert. It was pretty freaking cool to see a sea of hopeful souls, all in awe of history being made. We met up with an old college friend of mine whose mother had seen Martin Luther King Jr. speak in the very spot decades ago. Poetic. It was simply poetic. I don't know about you, but it's not just everyday that I get to see Bruce Springsteen, Kal Penn (whom I love...yeah for the Indian actors!), Steve Carell, James Taylor, Laura Linney, Garth Brooks, Usher, Denzel Washington, Beyonce, and U2 share a stage. Garth really brought the house down. Everyone audibly gulped when Bono waxed every so slightly about Palestine. There was no room to dance, but we all swayed. We clapped. We cheered. We hugged strangers and befriended all those around us. You see, we were surrounded by half a million people who share our values and sensibilities and enthusiasm. We were engulfed in passion. And later when we got home, we embraced Bird and Deal and sang Woody Guthrie's This Land is Your Land along with the TV.

On inauguration day we bundled up as if were were shooting in the Himalayas with David Breashears. We made our way toward the Mall but turned away in the end, fearing we'd lose our parade spot for which we had a first class ticket (right next to the CBS jib). The scurry of secret service agents, police, and soldiers was straight out of an MGM back lot. We met secret service agents from Oklahoma and New Mexico and were privy to some behind-the-scenes tales of candor. We learned that one in three secert service agents was in DC on Tuesday. And the poor guys had been perched in their spots since 3:00 AM. AM, as in the middle of the night. The wee hours. We heard stories from a particularly friendly cop from Maryland who ushered Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, Tobey Maguire, and Usher to their service jobs on Monday. He had almost 20 years of service under his belt and was full of stories for our keenly attentive ears.

What struck me most was the crowd. A human Crayola box filled with all shapes, colors, ages, religions, backgrounds. An Arab woman and her New Yorker husband and their three kids shared a bleacher seat with us. African American women lead us in song in an attempt to warm us up. A Jewish couple chatted about their hopes for Obama's administration. A retired couple, the man on crutches, sat patiently sipping tea. Young hipster kids smoked incessantly and visibly wept when Barack Obama took his oath of office (and truth be told, so did I). We met people from Tampa, Las Vegas, Rochester, Atlanta, and yes, even a few locals who dared to venture out. Everyone was excited, positive, eager. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention we were also hungry, freezing, and tired. But it was so worth it.

And let's not forget that united people, no matter how cold and uncomfortable, still have a sense of humor. Upon Joe Biden taking the oath of office, the crowd broke out chanting "Cheney's out!" and "Cheney no more!" The cheering and clapping and eruption of joy was deafening when Obama took his oath. Mac Daddy and I kissed as if we were under mistletoe on New Year's Eve. Indeed, on January 22, a new year had begun.

Getting Trashed

I hate litterbugs. Hate them. Hate them. Hate them. I think they should be jailed in a dumpster behind a Slim Jim factory. There is no earthly reason to open up your car window and toss out trash. No matter how small. Cigarette butts included. Do you hear me, smokers? You're polluting our earth enough as it is with your carcinogens that I don't choose to inhale. Oh, don't get me started on how much I abhor smoking. Did you catch that, Mom? But I digress, as I so often do... I cuss like a mother fucker when I see people litter from their car (in my head, of course, my boys will out-cuss me in due time, but I don't need to be the one to teach them this particular habit).

Here are some things that I've spotted on the roadside and in the brush in the last couple weeks. I've been jotting them down in my blog fodder notebook (not while driving, only at red lights and in the car pool line). Note that I usually drive within a five mile radius of my house, and most of it does not involve a freeway. That's means that this crap is littering my neighborhood streets. And my water. And my soil. It is not only unsightly; it is unsafe (and not just because I am gawking at it while trying to write in my little notebook).

Getting Trashed gets a whole new meaning:

• a pair of boxing gloves
• one shoe, looked like a sneaker
• bag of apples
• ballet slippers
• pair of twisted up jeans
• stuffed plastic Hefty bag that I feared contained body parts so I did not stop for closer inspection
• small wooden crate...perhaps some woodland creature ate the clementines it once housed
  
• speakers, really big ones from back in the day that pass for end tables
  
• dog leash...in my head the dog once attached to said leash is perfectly happy and safe
  
• lawn furniture cushion
• various mega size soda cups and burger wrappers
• pillowcase
  
• baseball cap
• backpack (feared explosives were inside so I hightailed it outta there)
• strap of some sort that looked like a yellow karate belt
• malt liquor cans, really big ones
• velveteen Crown Royal bag
• tube socks
• sand pail
• something tangles that looked like pieces of a blow up holiday lawn Santa
• plastic milk jugs, liter bottles, cans
  

So I wonder what the story is behind all this lost/littered stuff. Did some fed up minivan mom toss out her daughter's ballet slippers when the whining reached fever pitch? Did the baseball cap blow off some dude's head when a double rig sped by? Did some party animals toss the malt liquor cans in haste when they spotted an under cover cop trailing them?

What do you think? Tell me a story about how one item ended up littering my path.

Grandparent Envy

Am I looking a tinge green these days? I promise you it's not from sampling all those 5:00 Fridays I've been testing. It's because I have a tad case of grandparent envy. Bird and Deal have grandparents, of course. I do not. But that's because I am 40, which means I am approaching middle age when most people no longer have grandparents. But honestly, if my grandparents walked into my kitchen and pulled up a seat at the table next to me, I wouldn't be sure who they were. I don't have vivid memories of them, and those I have are with blurred faces like the poor souls who didn't give their consent to be in America's Funniest Home Videos. I do recall glimpses of eating fresh coconut with my Amma, the squishy and syrupy rasagola my Nani made, and the teasing humor of my Dadu. I don't have much else. Mac Daddy, meanwhile, grew up just houses away from his grandparents.

I never really knew my grandparents. They were an ocean away and 12 hours ahead in time. And those are just the literal, measurable distances. When my parents made the choice to give my brother and me a better life in the States, they did so knowing they, and we, would be on our own. They essentially gave up their familial ties (not the heart strings, of course). I am floored to think of the sacrifices they made, moving to a new world and raising two kids all alone. My mom was an insanely young mom, and I cannot imagine her day to day struggle. My parents have now lived in America longer than they lived in India. A milestone for any immigrant. I lived in America longer than I lived in India by my second birthday. I had been back to India only a few times in my young life. Hardly enough to forge a relationship with my relatives. The fact that my family spoke a different dialect of the native tongue that had become foreign to me did not help matters.

And so India was simply a place I was from.

There were many times I ached not having extended family, but the family friend aunties and uncles that became our adopted family quickly filled the void. I was always, however, jealous of my friends who had real live grandparents to visit, read with, adore and be adored by. I was eager for my children to have what I did not. Eager for those pillars of wisdom, the good ol' days, and posterity to be front and center of my children's lives.

But they're not. At least not in the Normal Rockwell ideal that's been steeping in my fantasies since childhood. Bird and Deal have what I call a "ticket relationship" with their grandparents. We need a ticket - plane, bus, or train - to see grandparents. There's only so much relationship building when they see their paternal grandmother once a year for five days. No matter how much time we carve to be with her or how much we talk about her at home or how many photos are hung at their eye level, the daily interaction is missing. Wisconsin might as well be an ocean away.

My parents are at least closer on the map, but they don't see Bird and Deal all that much either. Enough to pal around, read some books, buy some toys, whoop it up, cuddle, and exchange laughs and kisses. Bird and Deal have not celebrated their birthdays with doting grandparents since they were one. They have stopped asking where their grandparents are when they see other kids' gramps and grannies at the playground and car pool. A ticket relationship is not enough to forge a bond. A real relationship with their own secrets and traditions and rituals and games. A ticket relationship does not allow for the trappings of intimacy. There is simply too much to cram in before the next plane, bus, or train takes off. Too much for which to compensate.

I am jealous of our friends who have parents in town. I am not jealous of the free and frequent babysitting or the feasible nights and weekends away to renergize with their spouses (OK, maybe a tish jealous), rather I am envious of the family bond they have. Those kids have a real relationship with their grandparents who are role models, care givers, friends, and confidantes. Those kids have the benefit of the village having a hand in their rearing. Those parents, my friends and peers, have the benefit of a second opinion (solicited or not) and a knowing shoulder to lean on, the perspective of someone who lived to tell about it and perhaps offer insight from their own experiences. Those grandparents have the benefit of seeing the fruits of their labor and seeing the cycle spin round once again.

I see grandparents pick up their grandkids from school time to time. Or at a tennis match. Or simply stopping by to make rice krispie treats and carve pumpkins. Bird and Deal don't get that kind of relationship. The beauty of the every day is impossible in a ticket relationship. Deal asked me recently if Miss Emma, our nanny, was his grandma. That broke my heart for him, and for his biological grandmas. She loves my boys as she loves her own grandchildren. She spoils them as her own. She protects them as her own. She scolds them as her own. She snuggles them as her own. And they in turn love her.

Now don't get me wrong. Bird and Deal love their grandparents too. We talk about them all the time and have their photos placed at kid height in the playroom. They chat on the phone long enough to thank them for birthday gifts. And then we sit and wait for the next plane, bus, or train to arrive. Bird had no grandparents to show off his newly aquired bike riding skills (two wheels!) or swimming strokes. Deal had no grandparents to buy him ice cream and kiss away the tears when the paramedics came. No grandparents to come read to their school classes. No grandparents to whisk them away to a museum or park or penny arcade.

And so my childhood hopes are dashed. I am grateful that my boys are loved and thankful that our parents would do anything for our children, and for us. That goes without saying. I am still sad that the cycle I grew up in goes on. No extended family. Mac Daddy and I have surrounded ourselves with fantastic friends whom we love as family and people who love us in return. The thing is, they actually have family. And that cannot be replaced.

I am astounded that all these families move to live closer to each other. To be closer to their kin,

their flesh and blood, their new generation. Not my family. They're not even on the same continent as us for a good portion of the year. And so history is set on repeat.

I think having grandparents close by would make us all much closer, and not just in terms of geography.

Disneyland Stream of Consciousness: What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Up at 5:30 AM. Wake the kids (seriously, waking sleeping kids is a crime.). Get dressed. Shoes on. Teeth brushed. Backpacks loaded. Still half alseep. Final check of the lights, locks, blinds. Double check the dishwasher cycle is over. Lock the door. Jam into the car. Count headlights. Park the car. Jot down the parking space lest I forget. Pay a fortune for curbside check in (2 suitcases and 2 carseat bags...gone are the days of traveling light). Airline indsutry BLOWS. Chow down on breakfast. Spill yogurt on clean shirts. Potty once. Then again. Board the plane. Chew gum to ease the ears. Deal tells us gum is on his back. We freak out that it's all over him. Actually he swallowed it. No more gum for Deal. Make Bird spit it out. 1 hour in the air. Jimmy Neutron on the laptop. Kids napping. Medical emergency. Pilot calls for all medical professionals on board to help. Wish I went to med school. Emergency landing in Kansas City. (Does it count as a state I've been to now?) Paramedics rush on board. Firetrucks line the plane. Kids awake. Damn. 2 hours later, still on the ground awaiting paperwork. Take off. Salt water taffy instead of gum. Fantastic Four cartoon on laptop. Battery dies. 3 hours to kill. Playdoh. Coloring books. Legos. Leapster. Chex Mix. Mixed nuts. Fruit snacks. Rice Krispie bars. Hot Wheels. Finally land. Install carseats. Drive in hellacious LA traffic. Amex fucked up hotel reservation. 2 hours later still without a room. Screw it and take a more expensive room for the sake of the kids. Approaching meltdown stage. Dinner at Wolfgang Pucks. Serve Bird undercooked chicken. Return it and tell waiter not to bring more. Recooks what we returned and brings it back to the table...with one bite taken from earlier! Pretty sure that's against the healthy code. Make note to write letter to Wolfgang himself. Kids fall asleep at the table. Carry those heavy boys home. Strip them and brush teeth while they are sleeping. They're up at 6:00 AM. 3 hour time difference is already killing us. Smoked salmon and huevos rancheros for breakfast. Off to Disneyland and California Adventure. Kids nap (thank god for small favors). Meet the mouse. Can't figure out what Goofy is. Pay too much for sunblock that mom forgot to pack. Have a blast on Toy Story and Soaring. Ride more rides at Disney. Watch tiki chow. Eat. Eat. Eat. More rides. Bird loved Star Wars. Pirates of the Caribbean rocked (Seriously, I thought the pirates were real people when I rode that ride 20 years ago so I expected them to be real today. Guess I was fooled.) Captain Jack Sparrow now looks like Johnny Depp. Commercialization abounds. Met a pirate. A real one. Really. Saw Indiana Jones wrestle a politically incorrect brown guy in a turban. Carousel. Dumbo. Pinocchio. Requisite photos in front of Cinderella's castle. Parade. Dark out. Too tired for fireworks. 8 1/2 hours at Disney. Hotel. Carry in two sleeping boys. One beer and Biden news before bed.

Up at 6:30 AM. Peterson Automotive Museum. Photo taken with Grease Lightning and Speed Racer. The Grove. Farmers Market. Playground. See an old friend. Chill out. Trying to keep boys awake until 10:30 flight. Boys asleep before the red eye takes off. Everyone sleeps but me. Two heads on my lap. Glad I didn't have to pee. Arrive in NC at 5:30 AM. Wake the boys. Breakfast. Fantastic Four. 3 hour layover. Sleep on the plane for 30 minute flight. Home. Mac Daddy lost Deal's teddy bear. Boys and I take monster 3 hour nap. Mac Daddy drives back to airport to retrace steps to find Beary. What a guy! Turns out Beary was in the car.

Not one shred of groceries in the house. Dinner out. Everyone in the family asleep at 7:30. Woke up at 8:30 the next day. 13 hours of sleep does a body good. A new day. Must scold American Express for screwing up our trip. Another letter to write.

And today, kindergarten test drive. One full day. I'm pretending it's just for play, not for keeps. Can you spell D-E-N-I-A-L?

We'll always have Disney.

It's a Wrap.

We are taking a family trip to LA in a couple weeks. I'll have to pack less in my carry on bag since both boys are potty trained now (insert crazy happy dance here). I'll tuck in a change of clothes just in case...fingers crossed! No diapers and baby gear that we needed in the past. No formula. No sippy cups. Same snacks and diversions. The snacks are mostly carbs since it's not so easy to pack bananas and apples. I've tried it, and my bag smelled like mushed bananas for weeks. I swear, I would have been the pied piper of monkeys had I taken that bag to the zoo. And let's face it, carrot sticks are not a fun plane snack so I resort to things like trail mix, pretzels, plantain ships, granola bars, and fruit snacks as a treat. Oh, and lollipops. Helps with the whole air pressure thing while passing for a super treat. Diversions are now of the electronic variety: laptop with DVDs, Leapster, iPod. Does anyone make headphones that stay on a kid's head or in his ears?

Lots to consider when trying to ensure the comfort of my kids and the fellow passengers around us who drew the short stick when seats were assigned. Airplanes are notoriously cold. No need to be nipping out cold in the air, folks. Seriously, does anyone else have this problem? I'm pretty certain my headlights aren't helping the pilot see. I wear layers and pack two thin large receiving blankets for Bird and Deal (takes up way less room than a couple sweatshirts). Mac Daddy must fend for himself, and it's not my fault that he always forgets a sweater for the plane. I just have to endure the complaining.

I believe in looking chic and being comfortable on a plane. My parents taught me and my brother that at a young age, and I'm telling you, it makes a difference. I dress my kids accordingly in something matching and adorable (not Little Lord Fauntleroyish, however). I used to travel in jeans and a cute jacket or something. You'll never, ever catch me in sweats or wind suit (on a plane or elsewhere for that matter). And sneakers? Pshaw! Not a chance (even before the whole stripping down to bare feet to walk where 76,000 people have walked barefoot before you thing started). Since having kids I've resorted to sporting jeans or a jersey dress with a machine washable black cardigan. My fave black cardigan is now more the color of a 1932 penny found in the bottom of a well. What's a girl to do? Jean jacket? Another cardigan? Pashmina?

Then I discovered Adam Peele, aka Ahpeele.

The chic little kimono wrap I ordered from Etsy arrived today. I love it, love it, love it! The design is spectacular and surprisingly versatile. The color is neutral enough without being boringly so. I'm going to wear this wrap everyday until I die. The cotton is soft yet stretchy, but not in that if-you-stretch-it-it-will-stay-stretched-out kind of way. The wrap is perfect with jeans or a strappy sundress. Oh, and the best part? Something about the cut of the wrap makes my pipes look, well, cut. Make that well-cut. (God, don't you just love language?!)I think I'm going to pair mine with a brown tank (to hide spilled coffee stains and chocolate fingerprints), jeans, and slip on flats for the plane. Don't be surprised if I'm wearing that little number in every single family photo. I'm totally packing every outfit around my new wrap.

5:00 Fridays

I am an ENFJ.

The J is for judging, which does not mean judgmental, though I admittedly am. That's only because I feel like I have pretty good judgment, of course. J girls are planners. Make that Planners...with a capital P. I bet you anything that my friend Christy is a J. She's already got her vacations planned through 2019, and I know she's packed for her Disney trip...in November. J people are into multiple Big Os. Alright folks, minds out o' the gutter. The Big Os are Order and Organization. Duh! Anyone who knows me should know that. Nothing is more of a turn on. Wa wa wa, as Chachi would say. People like me like to have things planned and settled.

Um yeah, that's why Mac Daddy and I just planned a beach getaway this morning. We leave tomorrow. As in the DAY AFTER TODAY. That's order and organization for ya. The epitome of planning.

Note that pre-kids we traveled with no hotel reservations. We would literally land and head to a hotel that looked cool. This was a bad idea when we were traveling in New England when I was six months pregnant with Bird. We literally found a room in the third state we stopped in, and for that we still love Maine. Talk about no room at the inn. Who says Mary and I have nothing in common?

So yeah, now I need to pack for the beach for three people (Mac Daddy's on his own, dude), and the laundry is still in the basket. The dirty clothes basket. And it's almost 6:00 PM. Did I also mention that I've held out on buying a new bathing suit so I'm heading out after dinner to look for one? I dragged Bird along today to do some swimwear shopping, under the guise of a big, high fashion solo adventure with Mommy, but all we found were suits large enough to use as a tarp. Bird can't even count as high as some of the sizes we saw hanging on the racks today. I cannot imagine the size of the boobs that jostle in the suits we saw today. Ouch.

In honor of our beach trip, I present to you, the Sandy Beach.

Get yourself a Collins glass, one of those tall skinny ones. Fill with ice, but no too much. No sense diluting the rum as it melts. Now add the following and stir.

2 oz. coconut rum (I'm partial to Malibu because it reminds me of some crazy fun times with my friend Jen in grad school.)
1 splash Grenadine
Fill the rest of the glass halfway with OJ (pulp free, but go for the calcium enriched to make this a healthy option)
Fill the rest of the way with Pineapple Juice (Can someone tell me why this only comes in a can?)
Garnish with a slice of lime (You all know by now the importance of garnish. Consider it mascara for your cocktail. Everyone looks better with it.)

Add a fancy umbrella, put on your hottest non-mom bikini, turn on the Don Ho, light a tiki torch, nestle your red toes (natch) in the sandbox, and drink up!

Cheers! See you next week...if I decide to come back...

Smiling Faces. Beautiful Places. For Heterosexuals Only.

There are some lovely places in South Carolina. I even know some lovely people from there. Mac Daddy and I have spent lots of time in Charleston and Myrtle Beach and had a grand time. I've been golfing in Hilton Head. I've spent lots of money at the outlets. The palmettos are splendid, the Battery architecture divine, and the food scrumptious.

It's the people who leave a bad taste in my mouth. Rather, the politicians. And the "family values" lobbyists.

Apparently South Carolina does not want gay tourists. Their money is like Monopoly money, I guess. Apparently discrimination and intolerance are woven into the state creed. Read all about it here.

Why are family friendly and gay friendly still mutually exclusive? Bird has a friend with two moms. They're a family and gay. And for the record, they are awesome parents and amazing women. I'm lucky to count them among my friends. Bird thinks it's cool that his buddy gets to have two mommies. I think it's a fine lesson at an early age. It's not like they're telling their son to not play with Bird because his parents are heterosexual. Gasp!

I've worked in marketing for over 16 years. I've worked in the tourism industry and even worked with the gay market segment for a fortune 100 worldwide financial services company. My desk has been covered in tourism research, budget proposals, signed estimates, and invoices. There is always someone on the client side approving the work and writing the check. Like any job, there is a checks and balances system to ensure the direction and delivery of the work is appropriate, on target, on budget, on time, and um, what the client wants. Yeah, I'd add what the consumer wants too (it's the most important element, actually!), but unfortunately, clients rarely care about that. I love how this whole campaign got through the system with none of the powers that be knowing about it. Sounds like South Carolina has some infrastructure issues to iron out.

And here's my favorite part from a high school principal who'd rather quit his job than approve a gay/straight alliance club at his school:
“Our sex education curriculum is abstinence based,” Walker wrote in a letter to the school. “I feel the formation of a Gay/Straight Alliance Club at Irmo High School implies that students joining the club will have chosen to or will choose to engage in sexual activity with members of the same sex, opposite sex, or members of both sexes.”

Can someplace explain this sex ed math to me? How does being gay equal having sex? Somehow all those straight kids aren't thinking about the birds and the bees? Are only gay people having sex? How exactly do we explain those 9100 teen pregnancies in South Carolina last year to girls ages 10 to 19?! No, you don't need reading glasses from the Walgreens aisles; it says 10. As in FIVE YEARS OLDER THAN MY SON! And isn't the word "straight" inherently setting up the the opposite to have a negative connotation?

Hmmm...seems to me that South Carolina has bigger fish to fry than gay people eating off the same forks and sitting in the same horse drawn carriages as the rest of us? Do you suppose restaurants have a separate set of dishes for brown people? Where does it stop? For that matter, where does it begin? What makes this attitude and blatant intolerance OK? What really irks me is that this mentality is not leaking its way into the next generation, it's being poured into their minds. Nevermind that South Carolina has one of the lowest literacy rates in the country. What are we going to do about it? Knock, knock. Does anyone care?

And we wonder why sterotypes are not so far from the truth.

Look, I'm brown. Don't think for a minute that I'd stop and ask for directions at a podunk gas station in South Carolina. I've gotten "the look" at boutiques on King Street, and that's with a Fendi bag on my arm (no doubt the lousy retail shop girls making all of $6.14 an hour thought was a fake). My point is that ignorance ignites racism. Stereotypes go both ways. Perhaps my vitriol isn't helping matters, but damn it, I'm mad. After all, South Carolina still sells t-shirts that say something about "the War of Northern Aggression." The rebel flag flies high. Seriously, get over it. There's another war going on right now folks, that's not just in any way.

I'd like to see the looks on the jowled faces of Oran Smith and David Thomas once the Wiccans show up toting cauldrons, chalices, wands, and incense. Wouldn't it be delightful to hold a Wiccan esbat to celebrate the next full moon in Columbia?

Perhaps secession was not such a bad idea. What do we do with the incorrigible state to my south? Apparently it doesn't want to play by the rules.

An overdue girls' weekend, but first let me get the house in order...

So I'm heading to the beach tomorrow for a much anticipated (and after today's whine fest with no nap for Bird or Deal, a much needed!) girls' weekend. That means no husband, no kids, no cat, no relatives, no neighbors, no one I have to be nice to. My girlfriends usually bring out the best in me and won't care if I'm a wee bit bitchy anyway. If I complain too much they'll just pour me another margarita and ignore me until I can get back to important things like what color to paint my toenails.

This is so going to be Shag relived. However, this time daddy's bourbon won't be off limits, there will be no colonial homes to tour, and sweet potatoes like Jimmy Valentine won't be making out with any of us. There will, of course, be plenty of beevo.

Whenever I leave Mac Daddy with the kids I feel an overwhelming need to prepare the household for any possible thing that can go down. And by leaving, I mean for a night, a weekend, or a couple hours for a lousy tennis lesson. Being the guilt ridden mother/woman/wife that I am, I feel like I need to do whatever it takes to make Mac Daddy's life easier in my absence. Laundry (washed and dried but admittedly not folded and put away), fully stocked fridge (with fresh ice for the Elijah Craig that Mac Daddy will surely need at the end of every day), at least one meal prepared, fruit washed, clothes set out, and fresh towels hung. Would it be overboard to program the coffee maker so Mac Daddy can wake up to some French Roast brewing (organic and fair trade, natch)?

OK, so the clothes bit is just so Bird and Deal don't look like total ragamuffins while I'm gone. One time Mac Daddy took the kids to work with him when I was sick, and Deal's outfit was on backwards. Mac Daddy never stopped to wonder why all that extra fabric was hanging in the front while the back pulled tautly over a size 4 diaper.

Other than some poor judgment in the fashion department, Mac Daddy is perfectly capable of managing our household and the boys. In fact, between you and me, he really does more than I do. Mac Daddy is not of those (lame) guys who calls caring for his own children "babysitting." Before we were married Mac Daddy kept a perfectly tidy house, cooked for me, and even invested in furniture that didn't require assembly. So why the need for me to stress out and get everything in order?

I recall the time when my parents were separated and my mom used to travel two hours each way on weekends just so she could cook a week's worth of meals for us. I have no idea how long this arrangement was in place but I do know that those weekends were pretty damn long and chock full of anxiety. I also recall our fair share of Stouffers frozen lasagna and baked apples on the table. I'm sure my folks did what they thought was best for us, and I give them a lot of credit for making it work. At the end of the day, my brother and I turned into pretty good citizens and stewards of our legacy. We have our parents to thank for that. Perhaps it is this act of sacrifice of those weekends so long ago that drive me to get my house in order while I'm away.

But here's my question: Do any husbands out there feel the need to do the same when they leave the roost? Mac Daddy, fabulous and irreplaceable as he is, has never left me with a gallon of milk and dinner prepared before he heads out for a business trip (aka boondoggle). Oh wait, there was that one time he had dinner delivered as a surprise. He would totally call me on that one lapse so it's a good thing it just struck me. Emphasis on one time...keep in mind that he travels an awful lot.

Do daddies out there leave a weekend's worth of clothes laid out, a fully stocked diaper bag, emergency diaper bag in the car in case daddy forgets the one at home, beer and juice boxes in the fridge, and a nutritious dinner that includes no trans fat or high fructose corn syrup ready to heat and serve? Does anyone out there think about ways to make a mom's life easier?

I guess that's Luca Pachina's job.

Happy Feet

It's no secret that I love shoes. I even dream about them. Seriously, one of my frequent dreams is that I open up my extraordinarily large, organized closet to find umpteen boxes of new shoes. Stacked high in clear Rubbermaid boxes and labeled with my new label maker. I delight in my options and try on everything in a frenzy to decide what to wear. It sucks waking up realizing that I'll be donning flip flops or cowboy boots...again.

I equally love shoes for Bird and Deal, even though they want to wear sneakers everyday. Apparently Mac Daddy told them those are the "fast" shoes so anything else I buy doesn't cut the mustard. We will be flying with the kids this summer so sneakers are not an option for expediting an already lengthy security regimen. With my luck, the boys will be fiddling with the laces, creating knots that Salvatore Sarno couldn't untie. Bird is particularly adept at screwing up his laces since he's in the I-want-to-tie-my-own-damn-shoes mode.

In walk Toms Shoes.

These canvas slip ons are as cool as Vans of yore but serve a higher purpose. For every pair you buy, Toms' donates a pair to a child in need. That means that by one simple act of buying shoes (!) that you'd buy anyway, you are doing a good deed. Is there any better motivation to shop?! That's a justification even I haven't used yet. Trying to ignite the economy one Amex charge at a time is a ploy that's not working on Mac Daddy, but even he can't argue with Toms.

The shoes are way cool in a hunky surfer kind of way. The boys can put them on themselves, a real time saver in the security jungle. Based on available sizes, only Deal can sport the Toms. Bird will undoubtedly get jealous, meaning that I'll be shooting off a note to Blake Mycoskie asking him to stock larger sizes. And don't think for a second that I won't be ordering a pair for myself too.

Note that this, like my other unsolicited endorsements and opinions, are unpaid. I'm simply sharing the wealth of knowledge that I garner from shoe surfing.

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!