5:00 Fridays

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which incidentally, was our first dance.

And tin is the traditional 10th anniversary gift.


The Mac Daddy

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

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

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

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

5:00 Fridays

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West. Almost 10 years ago. That means we should be buying each other tin or aluminum to commemorate the big milestone. Clearly a cheapskate SOB groom came up with that addition to the anniversary gift list. I am pretty well stocked on Reynolds aluminum foil so I'm going to go with the modern interpretation and insist on diamonds instead.

A tennis bracelet would be lovely. A belly button ring would be...um, tacky. And not so lovely, not to mention extraordinarily painful since my belly button is not pierced. and nor will it ever be, regardless how closely I teeter to a midlife crisis or anything resembling such lapse in judgment. If you knew me in college you'd know that I already spent my lifetime of judgment lapses back then. I hear they're not reprinting that currency these days.

I recall hearing a quote from my idol Audrey Hepburn that women under age 40 shouldn't wear diamonds. I was about 22 when I heard that. 20 years ago. I'm well into my diamond years. Present the diamond jewelry in a tin box if you must keep the foolish tradition alive.

Mac Daddy and I used to travel to Key West every year with our dear friends Chris and Shan (@turn_design). Since we all acquired mortgages, student loans, and well, children (though they were more than a mere acquisition), we have not been back. We used to all live in the frozen tundra somewhere between Minneapolis and Chicago. We'd be enduring winter's wretched blast right about now, with no sign of spring in sight and the damn department store merchandising teasing our inner sunbathing beauty. Chris, Shan, Mac Daddy, and I at least had Key West tucked into the back pockets of our flannel lined jeans. We all wore Birkenstocks on the plane in anticipation of feeling the sun bring some pinkness back to our frigid digits.

While it's not "Minnesota cold" here in North Carolina, it has been a pretty cruel winter for those of us who burned our furry hooded parkas and Moon boots upon registering to vote in this state. As a nod to Key West and the warmth it burnished in our psyches, I bring you:

Key West Breezes

(Note: Much like my cooking, I never measure precisely so just go with what suits your palate.)
3/4 cup coffee (good quality, dark roast)
dash+ of Kahlua
dash+ of Frangelico
dash+ of Grand Marnier
dash+ of Baileys

Add all the liqueurs to hot coffee. Top with whipped cream and a quick grate of nutmeg or cinnamon.

Here's to whatever warms you on a cold winter's night. Other than a mug of this tucked into my cold shivering hands, I have Mac Daddy to thank. He lets me put my cold feet on him; he endures flannel sheets long after we've done the spring cleaning; he warms my chilly disposition; he heats me up in all the right places. Va va vavoom!

5:00 Fridays

Today's 5:00 Fridays post is lovingly dedicated to Mac Daddy, my husband of nine years. Well, tomorrow will be nine years. We got married in Key West. It was kind of on a whim.

You see, we had been living together, taking turns going to graduate school. We had just turned 30. Being a woman whose eggs were 30 years old at the time, we started doing the math. Well, Mac Daddy did the math as I am the only Indian in the world who is bad at math. Anyway, we figured that we wanted to be married a while before having kids. Considering we weren't even engaged at the time, we thought that it made sense to get married while Mac Daddy was in graduate school. That was just in conversation mode though, not planning stage.

Well we awoke one morning and, Mac Daddy having had the epiphany sometime in the middle of the night, jolted out of bed. He exclaimed, "Let's get married in Key West!" I rolled over and laughed. Hardy har har har. Mac Daddy promptly logged on (dial up, mind you) and printed out a wedding planner's contact information in Key West. And so our engagement was official.

We had already planned our annual Key West vacay with our dear friends Chris and Shan. And so we called them up. I believe Mac Daddy's words were, "Um, do you guys mind if we get married while on vacation?" And so Chris and Shan were our best man and matron of honor.

Six week countdown to our wedding, and I didn't even have a dress. In typical Mac Daddy fashion, he got married in a black suit. His logic was that if a simple black suit was good enough for JFK Jr., it was good enough for him. Do you now understand the many reasons I love this guy?

We had a fantastic ceremony in the gardens of the Audubon House. We wrote our own vows. We all sobbed. Chris wiped streams of sweat from his brow, but I still contend that some of that runoff was comprised of tears. We had our ritual sunset margaritas at Mallory Square before heading to dinner at Louie's Backyard. In fact, our wedding night menu is signed by the chef and framed in our kitchen right now.

If you haven't been to Key West, you should know that the margarita is the signature cocktail. Consumption is appropriate at all times of day. On the rocks, with salt. The frozen crap is for sorority girl prisspots who come get wasted under age and flash their boobs to the dozens of gay men who don't give a hoot for hooters. Our favorite margarita joint is Willie T's. One night after a few of those libations, Chris took the mike and sang Sinatra to the spring break denizens, girls in short shorts and tube tops swooning. Good times.

And so today, I toast my husband, the amazingly patient, kind, funny, optimistic, supportive, brainiac Mac Daddy. And I toast him not with champagne, but with a Key West margarita.


Margarita (makes a pitcher)
2 cups sweet and sour mix
1 cup triple sec
1 1/2 cups Jose Cuervo
1/3 cup Grand Marnier
splash of Sprite (just a splash!)
2 limes, quartered

Salt the rims of 8 margarita glasses. Never salted a rim? Just pour coarse sea salt onto a small plate, rub the rims of the glasses with lime, and press them into the salt. Fill the glasses with ice. In a blender, combine sweet and sour mix, triple sec, tequila and Grand Marnier. Blend until mixed thoroughly. Pour into glasses, squeeze a quarter lime into each glass, and serve.

Now you know how I feel about garnish. Today's drink has a special garnish created by my dear friend Shan, who is a kicky designer and overall creative spirit. She made a Conch Republic flag that could be yours for free. Just click here on her Freebie Fridays post to download the flags, print them on labels, wrap 'em around a toothpick, and voila! You'll be chilling with your feet up on the docks of Mallory Square too.

Cheers to nine years and counting! I love you, Mac Daddy.

Addendum: If you really want to party like a mom star, check this out on May 5. Nothing says Cinco de Mayo like a cold margarita! Oh, chips and guac are a requisite munchie at my table.

http://www.twittermoms.com/events/twittermoms-cinco-de-mama

Bronzed

Happy 8th Anniversary to Mac Daddy!

Eight years ago today we were wed among the orchids and banyan trees at the Audubon House in Key West. Accompanied by our dear friends, Chris and Shan, we had the perfect, relaxed day (unlike the hubbub and frenzy of most wedding days!). We set off for a sunset sail, toasted margaritas, and devoured a fabulous dinner at Louie's Backyard.

The talented chef and gracious owner of Louie's Backyard gave us a personalized menu as a wedding day token. It was unfortunately damaged in a flooded storage unit with much of our wedding memories (but not photos thankfully!). The fine folks at Louie's Backyard promptly sent us a new one that now hangs framed in our kitchen. If you ever go to Key West, and you must, you will miss out on the supreme island experience if you forgo dinner and drinks at Louie's Backyard. It's unlike any backyard you'll ever experience.

So after eight very happy years of marriage, all I can say is that I am lucky, lucky, lucky. If scientists were to start cloning human beings, the unanimous vote among all who know know Mac Daddy, would be to start with him. I might not strike envy into the hearts of those who know me, but the fact that I have a husband as awesome as Mac Daddy makes everyone just a wee bit jealous. He is a genuine guy who is more tolerant and witty than anyone I know. He's the best dad, which makes me love him even more. And he's hot, hot, hot...even as he's teetering on the cusp of 40.

Every night before I fall asleep I say my prayers and say thanks to the Powers that Be that Mac Daddy chose me. I joke that he married his trophy wife on the first try. That's really just a defense mechanism because I also pray that he doesn't wake up one day and realize that he has married way, way down. Let's keep that a secret just between us, OK?

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!