Getting Down with Pink Gloves

5:00 Fridays

Did you know that Milli Vanilli was stripped of its Grammy almost 20 years ago today? If you're finicky about details, it was actually 19 years and 1 day ago. I don't see why it was a big deal. Does any pop star actually sound like the album with all its digital remastering and sychronizer magic? I mean, really, remember Smelly Cat?

Not that this little bit of cocktail party chatter has anything to do with this post. But next time you're at a cocktail party, tweet up, PTA meeting, or Trader Joe's check out line, start humming the chorus of Girl You Know It's True and see what sort of reactions you get. The foot tapping will start things off, with the head bobbing shoulder popping to come. The famous white man's overbite will soon follow. If everyone is a wet rag, blame it on the rain. Meh.


Cabin Fever
3 ounces Rain Organic Vodka
splash orange liqueur (like Grand Marnier)
Freshly squeezed lemon juice
sugar cube and mint leaf

Add all liquid ingredients to a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake it like K.C. and the Sunshine Band. Shake. Shake. Shake. Put sugar cube and mint leaf in a martini glass. Strain and pour cocktail shaker contents into glass.

Sure fire way to add sunshine to your day. Cheers to a breaking fever!

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.

5:00 Fridays

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

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

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

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


Mommacation

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

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

Repeat. Often.

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

Call a cab.

Wordless Wednesday: Veteran's Day Salute

"Um, why are we getting the day off from school to honor animal doctors?" Bird, age 6

Steaz, Please

I've been drinking.

I recently got some samples of a new beverage hitting store shelves. While it's not of the alcoholic ilk to fit right in with 5:00 Fridays, it's a dandy drink nonetheless. And let me be clear here in the interest of disclosure: I got these samples for free, with no obligations to write a darn thing. You know that being the opining foodie and mixologist that I fancy myself to be, I like to share the little things that I discover and dig.

With that being said, as soon as I took one sip I tweeted that I want to marry this company.

I don't generally drink anything but water, coffee, wine, beer, and whatever I'm serving up at 5:00. We don't have soda in the house, and there aren't iced tea fixins to be found (reason enough to kick me out of the South...Shhh...mum's the word). My children get the choice of water or milk with the occasional juice (that I dilute with water). We do indulge in fresh apple cider in the fall and egg nog as soon as it lands on store shelves (sans brandy for the boys, natch). But this new stuff has just expanded my thirst quenching repertoire.

Well, I suppose by now you want to know the nectar of which I speak.

Steaz.

It's an all natural, fair trade, organic iced tea. Iced tea. Here comes another gonna-get-me-kicked-out-of-the-South confession: I am not a fan of sweet tea. But Steaz has an ever so slight hint of sweetness that is neither treacly like Bojangles tea nor nauseating in that carcinogenic, fake sweet way that the aspartame/Splenda crowd tastes. The flavors of Steaz are amazing. I think the pomegranate with a hint of lime is my favorite. I wouldn't normally be so gaga over a lousy iced tea, but anything that is all natural, fair trade, organic (and tastes good) totally speaks my language.

Let me be clear. Steaz is no big brand disguised as a newbie. Steaz is the consummate little fish in a big pond story. Make that a little fish in a Michael Phelps kind of way. Did I mention that you can buy Steaz in the ultimate of brand distribution hot spots. If you guessed Target you hit the bullseye! Happy dance that I can easily find this delectable refreshing treat that comes in a great big ole can!

But let's be clear, this stuff is so good, I might not share. Lucky for you there's a buy one get one coupon deal going on right now.

And don't be surprised if I try Steaz with a shot of some Rain organic vodka one of these days.

I Just Don't Get It

Based on some recent and some not-so-recent observations, I've been chronicling things that I just don't get. Some of this stuff simply makes my scratch my head (but not in that "That little itch could be telling you something." kind of way). Some of it simply irks me. All of it leaves me thinking "I just don't get it."


The Dirt & Noise I Just Don't Get It List

People who keep their dining room tables set at all times. Even though they never sit down for a meal there. Ever. Don't those dishes and swan folded napkins just get all dusty? Seems to me that after a while, your dining would start feeling like a restaurant that no one patronizes. It becomes a sad place rather than the hub of family time, festivity, and fabulous fare.

People who have formal living rooms with hand carved chess pieces left just-so on an ottoman by the fireplace. Keep in mind, these are people who are not clever enough to play chess.

People who have formal rooms that children are banned from. I figure my house is my kids' house too so why would I ban them from playing where they want to? Sure, we have rules. Like no sumo wrestling in the living room. No playing frisbee inside the house. I've been jolted by the sound of a pottery lamp shattering and multiple spills of a kelanchoe plant (three times in just one evening of late). Such is the price we pay to having children dwell among us. What are the alternatives? A kennel? The garage? The neighbor's tree house? Look, having children is what makes this house a home. I'll be damned if I ban them from being playful children in their own home.

Raisins. Why ruin a perfectly good grape that could be eaten in its juicy succulence or smashed into wine? Hmmmm...wine or trail mix filler? You tell me the better use for a grape.

Ferrets. And their owners.

Scrapbooking. Oh, I'm sensing some hate mail here. What I mean is that I don't get the actual crafty act of scrapbooking. I totally appreciate the end result but I don't want to paste a bunch of forget-me-nots and argyle socks and candy canes all over a book laden with cutesy captions. Call me old fashioned but I sorta prefer the ol' photo album (acid free paper, natch). And did I just use "scrapbook" as a verb?

Vanity plates that boast the make of a car. Like "BMW" on a BMW. Um, doesn't the logo already tell me that, dude? Redundancy (and idiocy) at its finest. Waste of money there. Clearly someone who has money to burn yet not a brain cell lit up.

I'd like to add Bible verse license plates too. This is not something I saw until moving to North Carolina. Tell me, Midwestern friends and readers, do you see this anywhere in the frozen tundra? I don't recall any of that from my 10 years freezing my bloomers off up there.

People who eschew cake frosting. Worse are those who prefer whipped cream topping to frosting. Blasphemous cake eaters!

Wall-to-wall carpeting. I've had it in all the apartments I ever lived in. I never liked it. It smells like carcinogens. What's the point exactly?

People who hang a big ass television over the fireplace mantel. In my world, that's an interior design no-no deserving of a Glamour magazine black bar. This one's for you, Sam. wink. wink.

Couples who take separate vacations. I mean separate his and hers getaways all the time yet no rendez vousing together. Nothing better than Mac Daddy by my side and a lazy stroll following our taste buds' every whim through the streets of a new city. I reckon that might happen again in oh, about 14 years. Til then, it's Family Vacation. Chevy Chase style, baby.

People who don't read. Books are my drug. My escape. My fantasy. My brain stretch. My dreams. My love. Nothing in my life has made me prouder than watching my son, my Bird, learn to read.


So tell me, what's on your "I just don't get it" list?