Wordless Wednesday: Built More House

Wordless Wednesday: Trouble Over Bridged Water

Wordless Wednesday: Self Portrait of A Mother and Bird

Wordless Wednesday: Utter Joy

Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time

Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.

No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.

Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.

What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.

Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?

The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."

And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.

Wordless Wednesday: Rock Star

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.

Wordless Wednesday: Surf's Up

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.

Wordless Wednesday: Look over there, Mommy!

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.

Wordless Wednesday: The Brothers Yin and Yang

5:00 Fridays

Pardon my absence, faithful readers. Did you miss me? I have missed you and this little blog of mine tremendously. While I had loads of time without my Apple appendage, I did miss writing, venting, sharing, opining, and chronicling my days. And yes, I am aware that the photo up there is a peach, not an apple. I'm getting to that.

We've been spring breaking, which takes on a whole new meaning with a five and three year old in tow. The family took a little jaunt to Savannah, Georgia. Truth be told, I brought along my laptop with the intent of blogging away, but the hotel charged exorbitant fees for wireless connection. And I am way too cheap to pay for something that would be free at any lesser dump I've shacked up in. Damn you, Hyatt.

But more tales from the break to come. For now, let's celebrate spring!

And so here I am, ready to post a peachy little cocktail as a tip of the hat to our Georgian hosts for the week.

Peachy Keen Martini

shot of vodka (I'm going with Absolut here.)
shot of peach schnapps
1/2 shot of triple sec
splash of orange juice (mostly for color, folks)

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice and add the vodka, peach schnapps, and triple sec. Shake it up and pour into a chilled martini glass. Top off with a splash of orange juice (Did I mention it should be pulp-free?) Skewer a fresh peach slice and a halved green chili pepper for garnish. Seed the chili if you must, but trust me, it will add an ever so subtle kick to this sweet treat.

Dear Diary,

Before there were blogs there were diaries. Diaries scribbled in purple glitter pens and #2 pencils. I was a diary kind of girl. I remember having a Holly Hobby diary with a tiny gold key when I was a kid. That key was pretty flimsy so I knew better than to write anything damning in it. By damning I mean anything about boys, my older brother, or my parents' constant fighting. I did write about how that neighbor girl Anne stole my turquoise and silver horseshoe shaped ring. Instead I even left the diary open in front of her in hopes that she'd read it and know that I was on to her. I also wrote about inane things like what I wore to school. I chronicled every outfit I wore for a full year in fifth grade. I know, I know. Boring. Imagine if that were my blog. Even my own family wouldn't read it. But that was only the beginning of my diary keeping.

I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of Europe and India. I kept a travel journal on every trip. On one trip through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy I jotted down every meal I ate. Thankfully I didn't count the calories. On an annual Key West trip I used to capture funny quotes that anyone in our little foursome said. Most of those are not fit for blogosphere consumption. We still read those quotes when we get together and bust a gut, our guts a bit bigger than they used to be.

My mom happened upon a travel journal I started 24 years ago to the day. The first entry is March 8, 1985. I was 16 years old, traveling alone from boarding school to visit my mom in Washington, D.C. Here's a taste of my high school junior self.

"I'm on the train now so this is gonna be pretty messy. There are a ton of CHAUD guys in today. I played my moves cool and ended up sitting beside a good catch. From a distance he looks just like Scoot (minus the braces). Close up he looks like a cross between Scoot and Michael. Not bad! In front of me is a tall, good looking golfer and skier (he had one helluva time getting on the train with golf clubs and skis!). A couple of seats behind me is a real sexy guy who is a chich dresser. He kinda resembles Stephan but this guy is plus chaud. Scttered around up front are various fellas, most of which are rated as at least an 8.5. This is great! Well, I better aller. I wish it wasn't raining. Tres depressing!"

Now for the writer's scalpel.

I told you that tidiness has always been paramount. I even felt the need to justify messy handwriting. Notice my fine use of French. I'm certain Madame Pealer, my high school French teacher, would be proud. I love how I thought I had any moves, much less cool ones. I still don't have any moves, at least any that don't embarrass my kids and Mac Daddy. As for Scoot and Michael, I have no idea who they are. Did I really know a boy called Scoot? Was he named after a verb or a dog? And exactly how much does a 16-year old girl know about sexy? I mean, it was 1985, before girls shopped at Hoochies R Us. And again I ask, who was Stephan? Was there a foreign (s)exchange student I've forgotten? Clearly those hot guys made a lasting impression. I'm also curious what constitued an 8.5, much less a 10. Clearly the hot boys were not enough to perk me up from the rain.

Suffice it to say I simultaneously cringe and crack up reading this. A peek into my 16 year-old self sure makes me damn glad to be 40. We'll wait and see how these blog's words make me feel 24 years from now...when I'm 64. Cue the Beatles.

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.

5:00 Fridays

While you, dear readers, are reading today's post from the comfort of your own office, home, iPhone, I am on a cross country flight with a 3 and 5 year old. We're going to Disneyland! And to think, I didn't even run away from home, crash my car, rob a grocery store, or flip off president George.

wink wink to those get the Dada allusion.

Today's drink is in honor of a famous martini served in the lounges of the Magic Kingdom. Who knew there was liquor at Disney? I just might like this place.

Cue the Wonderful World of Disney theme music...

Blue Glow-tini

1 ounce Skyy Citrus Vodka (I prefer Absolut for a mixing vodka, but the recipe calls for Skyy.)
half ounce Bols Blue Curacao
half ounce Bols Peach Schnapps
1 ounce Sweet & Sour mix
half ounce pineapple juice (Why is it always sold in a damn can?!)

At Disney they toss in a Blue Glow Cube to make the thing light up. My mom has a set of these fun party tricks, but the kids messed with them long enough to make the things die, leaving a plastic cube floating in the glass. Not as festive as one that actually works.

Toss it all into the silver martini shaker that I know you've run out and purchased, with ice, shake, strain, and pour into a large martini glass with a sugared rim. Add the glow cube.

If you don't have a glow cube, it's just as festive to add some Mickey Mouse shaped ice cubes for fun.

Now sit back and bask in the wonder, glow, magic, and dreaminess of it the buzz that will befall you. Sprinkle liberally with pixie dust and fairy potion if you have some stashed in the pantry.

Cheers!

Oh, and if you hear screaming from up above, it's the pilot kicking us out of the plane without a parachute.

Life's a Beach.

I'm off to the beach this morning with Bird and Deal. We'll see how it goes on our first adventure without Mac Daddy. On the surface it might seem that I'm the one getting a vacation, but really folks, dig a little deeper and you'll see that Mac Daddy is the one who'll have the whole house to himself for a few days. A whole quiet house.

No screaming, wrestling boys, no crumbs to sweep up after every meal, no beds to make (He'll make our bed the day we're coming home. I'm on to him.), no Lego wars to mediate, no chicken to cut up. Now that's a vacay. I've already heard him on the phone making happy hour plans.

Oh, but payback will come. We're all headed to LA and Disneyland the day after we get home from the beach. I'm thinking Mac Daddy might be sitting between the two boys on the plane while I sit five rows back with my new book.

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...

We are Family.

The whole Dirt & Noise clan just spent a week cavorting with some cousins and an aunt from out of town. We were honored that they chose to spend their spring break with us. Bird and Deal were on Cloud 9 the whole time because they got constant attention, barrels of fun, and 24/7 entertainment from their older cousins. It was a blast seeing all four cousins joke and play and laugh together. They truly enjoyed each other's company and loved getting to know each other.

Deal fell especially hard for his 12-year old cousin Big D. Deal was basically an attached appendage to him the whole time, and Big D ate it up. I can't wait for him to come back and be our manny for a summer. He is delightful despite his preteen hormones and too-cool-for-school attitude that are surely lurking somewhere beneath his crisp blue eyes, envy inducing lashes, and easy smile. Little M was a comic relief and loved reading to the boys. She was a trooper in a house full of boys who'd rather laugh at fart noises than solve the riddles in Dora. She is the most affectionate little girl I've ever known, which was welcome amidst all the dirt and noise last week.

It was a shame to see Big D, Little M, and Aunt G all head home to the frozen tundra this morning (not just because it was 4:30 AM!). The house is dead quiet. The boys are sullen. Even the cat is wondering where the action went. And the steady pitter patter of much needed rain just adds an element of melancholy to our already glum mood. We're teetering on the edge of what Holly Golightly called the Mean Reds.

Mac Daddy and I don't have any family close by so our kids will never know the Norman Rockwell meaning of family. Every time they see their relatives it's like meeting strangers who conjure up a sneaking feeling of deja vu over and over again. We have family photos all over the place and make it a point to talk about Aunt So-and-So and Uncle What's-His-Name. Our meager attempts to bridge the miles isn't all that successful. You simply can't cram a lifetime of family experiences into a week. Even two weeks. Or three.

The fact is, what makes a family is shared experiences, not just bloodlines. The ingredient that makes all (OK, most) long distance relationships fail over time is DISTANCE. The same holds true for families. Perhaps failure is too harsh a descriptor, but the sentiment rings true nonetheless. Distance is a difficult factor to overcome. I grew up with a couple continents and an ocean between me and my extended family. If my cousins knocked on my door selling encyclopedias I wouldn't recognize them. Ditto for my aunts, uncles, grandparents even.

I never realized until I had a family of my own just how sorrowful that is. You don't miss what you never knew so my childhood was quite fine without family around. But now, I want Bird and Deal to feel that they are a part of something bigger. They have a place in this world chock full of people who love them fiercely despite the miles. They share a last name, a history, a gene pool, and most importantly, unconditional love that stretches to the moon and back again.

Sure, we could chat online and hook up a webcam to make connecting a bit easier, but all the technology in the world doesn't make up for seeing four cousins, ages 2 - 12, curled up together reading Gerald McBoing Boing. And having the time of their lives.