Obama Mama Redux

See that gorgeous Indian lady with the sassy hennaed hair and ginormous earrings? That's my mom. Yup, the one who gave birth to me. I'm the apple, and she's the tree.

I can't see her hands but I'm guessing she's wringing out her clammy palms or clasping them in prayer, begging the goddess of political stardom to plant Obama into the Oval Office come November. But chances are, she's digging in her gigundo purse for her camera. I bet it's one of those unstructured hobo bags I hate because it doesn't have any compartments. It's a good thing a photographer from Der Spiegel caught this shot because I don't think she'd know how to work the camera if she unearthed it anyway. The woman knows politics and current events but she don't know squat about technology.

My mom was in India when John, Paul, Ringo, and George visited back in the 60s. Seeing Obama up close and personal trumps that, I'm sure. And would you take a look at Obama. Where's he looking? As I see it, he's making direct eye contact with my mother. My mother. I'm all goose pimply over this. I feel like I am a rockstar by association. Well, maybe a groupie. I see matching Obama Mama T-shirts in our future. And look again at his eyes, he's holding that gaze; this is no fly over glance.

My mom lives in Berlin for part of the year. Being overseas has not squelched one iota of her Obama fever. She's still tirelessly campaigning, working the phones, and hosting staff members to ensure Obama squashes McCain. Her zeal is contagious. And trust me on this one, she was an Obama Mama before the term was coined. Foresight. The woman's got foresight.

Meanwhile I'm working the Obama brigade over in North Carolina. I'm set to take Bird canvassing with me. I took Deal to visit the campaign office today. He digs any place that has stickers, though the Obama logo and his visage planted all over the place made Deal's little head spin with excitement. This is a prime opportunity to introduce our boys to our values, political views, and civic duty. Why not grab this teaching moment by the horns and make some freakin' noise?

Bird just saw the photo of my mom and exclaimed, "I didn't know Nani was friends with Obama!" From the sounds of his squeal and delight, you'd think his Nani was shaking hands with Peter Parker himself.

5:00 Fridays

Bird, Deal, and I spent the afternoon at our farmers' market. It's been a favorite adventure of ours since the boys were babies and immobile. I certainly don't miss navigating that mess with a stroller. Believe it or not, it's easier with ambulatory preschoolers. Luckily they are willing to hold my hand, and Bird is old enough to actually help carry the goods. Based on my aching shoulder this afternoon, I remembered what the stroller was good for...carrying the bounty.

The market is a great opportunity to talk about food, nutrition, the hard working farmers who grow our food, and where our food comes from. When the boys were little the farmers' market was a great way to quiz them on colors and shapes. They were wide eyed at the piles of fruits and vegetables, and I suppose my orgasmic reaction was contagious. Just seeing the variety made us all excited to try everything and even pushed the boys to be the amazingly adventurous eaters they are.

The gorgeous displays of fruits and veggies inspire me to cook. I've even been tempted to try my hand at canning all the stuff that's fresh this time of year so we can enjoy summer veggies in January. I'm no domestic goddess, though I love to cook and keep a pretty clean home. Canning is pretty much out of my comfort zone. I've waited to give it a try lest I give my family botulism or something. If I'm to be inflicted with botulism I at least expect my forehead wrinkles to disappear in the process.

The bounty today included yellow squash, tiny, perfect cukes, deep green zucchini, red, green, yellow, orange, and purple (purple!) peppers, crimson tomatoes, treacly sweet white corn (so much sweeter than the yellow kind!), yellowish green tomatoes, fat heads of garlic, purple onions, white eggplants, drippingly sweet canteloupe, juicy watermelons, supple purple eggplants, deep blue blueberries, magenta raspberries, tied dyed red and orange peaches, honeydewish sprite melons (love the name and the taste!), and curly leafy greens. There were the also the requisite freshly baked bread and German bakery staples like apfelkuchen and kolaches and homemade goat cheese, honey, and fresh eggs that actually have yellow yolks.

We tasted just about everything that anyone was offering on a toothpick. The boys' chins were dripping with fruit juice, and I'm not talkin' the high fructose corn syrup shit that riddle kids' juice boxes. In honor of what both Bird and Deal named their favorite sampling of the day, I present to you the Bellini.

Get yourself a champagne glass. Go for the real crystal that you got for a wedding gift. Go on, dig it out and dust it off. We actually still have some Waterford with the labels still attached...Mac Daddy and I have been married for eight years. We do, however, break out the good Waterford and Tiffany flutes from time to time. The problem is that we usually only break out two, and we have enough for all of my readers to toast with us (sadly more a testament to my paltry few readers than my trunk full of barware).

Now find a fresh peach. Juicy, juicy, juicy. On the verge of over ripe. Pick it off the tree of you can. Crappy bottom shelf peach liqueur that will eventually go rancid in your liquor cabinet simply will not do. Now puree that fresh peach and add it to your champagne glass.

Pour good quality champagne over the peach puree. This is not an Andre moment (You should have outgrown any Andre moments from your past by now anyway.) You also need not pull out the Veuve or Dom. Korbel is your friend for this cocktail.

DO NOT STIR, lest you lose the bubbles. And what is the point of champagne without the bubbles?

Bask in the glory of the weekend. Toast life's little pleasures like secrets untold, your children laughing at your jokes, promises kept, shoes found on sale, a pound lost, wisdom gained, afternoon delight, and smiles from strangers. You're worth a champagne toast every single day; don't horde it for special occasions.

Cheers and here's to a peachy keen weekend!

Mad for Men

4, count 'em, 4 more days until Don Draper graces the small screen for the second season of Mad Men! I can hardly contain myself. OK, so maybe only my screen is small. We are those technology laggards without a movie screen-size flat screen taking up a whole wall in the family room. But, oh, do I covet one! So far Santa's elves have not been listening. Ahem.

Don Draper looks absolutely grand in a hat (Who's going to bring back this fashion?!), and his wife, the lovely Betty Draper, makes suburban angst look downright stylish. John Slattery is hotter than ever; he epitomizes a sexy gray haired gent. That facial structure is the stuff that day dreams are made of, with whipped cream and a dollop of hotness on top. Ooh la la! Many of the mad men make my heart go aflutter. Don Draper looks unlike anyone I've ever worked for in an ad agency; he is divine. I can't wait to see what devilish Pete Campbell conjures up this season. And what's to come of Peggy and her baby?! The illegimate one!

If you have missed out on AMC's new series Mad Men, you must run, RUN I tell you, to get the DVDs to get up to speed. The whole show is eye candy; not just the actors, the way it's shot is gorgeous. Amazing cinematography, set design, and costumes. Oh, the clothes are to die for! Why is that all the outfits in 1960 cinched in a woman's waist just so? Surely they didn;t really have a 17-inch Audrey-esqu waist. The kitten heels, dainty handbags, and flouncy skirts are fab.

Smoking cigarettes is indeed one of the main characters, and the smoke adds a lovely ethereal element to the screen shots. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am totally against smoking. I abhor it. But it makes a big bang in Mad Men.

Mad Men is clever, intriguing, provocative, enchanting. It depicts a genuine example of the work force in 1961 and does an even better job showing us how much life must have sucked for women back then. Martinis and crystal decanters at the office. Sultry cigarette smoke galore. Redefining family values. Office politics. Seduction. Infidelity. Even if you never worked in an advertising agency or commuted to New York City, you won't regret spending an hour a week with Don Draper.

Don't cha wish your momma were hot like me?

These were the best of times. These were the worst of times. I'd like to share two tales of hotness lost.

First, picture this. Six moms dressed like single lady hotties. Dresses cut high enough to show off some pilates gams. Halter tops cut down just so to show off some flirty, sun drenched cleavage. I'm talkin' dry clean only attire here. Dangly earrings with no risk of toddler hands ripping them out. Heels stacked, stilettoed, wedged, and highly hot. Nothing more than a clutch to tote the requisite lipstick, cell phone, and Amex card. Not a diaper bag in sight. Not a bag of Goldfish to be seen. Even I stashed away Chapstick in favor of Smashbox lipstick in the perfect shade, Lavish. Makes me wanna lick my lips just thinking about that pouty pucker.

That night we were high flying women ordering up every colorful martini on the menu. After a couple cocktails we were even getting cheeky with the waiter, who was literally young enough to be my son. And I'm not talking teen pregnancy. Geez, how young are kids these days?! The girls were back and ready to roll. For one short night were were giggly girlfriends, watermelon martini warriors, sexy chicas with a barrel of confidence and a surprise stash of sex appeal. We were frolicking and fancy free, enjoying every bit of attention our hoopla was garnering.

Damn, we felt HOT. In fact, we WERE hot. Boob sweat in August heat in North Carolina hot. Vindaloo hot. Penn Badgely's abs hot. Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle.

And so we trapsed from one bar to another, ready to settle into the supple leather bar stools and order an insanely tasty (and might I add potent?) mojito. The six of us were a picture of moxie indeed. Sassy, smart, sexy women, not moms, for a night. Purrrr.....

Enter buzz kill stage left.

Two semi-grease balls who looked like they hock cameras from a seedy storefront in Jersey stopped to get a taste of the eye candy that was us. We flippantly ignored them, used to the attention, natch. Every one of us, however, stood a tish straighter and laughed a bit more joyously just to cement to those dudes what they'd be dreaming about that night. We were totally basking, drowning even, in our hotness.

"So, moms' night out, huh?" exclaimed grease ball #1.

"Hardy har har har!" gulumphed grease ball #2.

G-U-L-P.

And so our bubble of hotness popped. It not only lost its air; it sadly deflated in slow motion, left hanging like our baby suckled breasts. Our swagger turned to slumped shoulder stutter step. Luster lost. Here we thought were hot WOMEN, and those grease balls pegged us for moms immediately. I still can't put my finger on the dead giveaway. We should have cuffed them and made a citizen's arrest. The charge? Buzz killers.

So you tell me, is being a mom mutually exclusive from being a hottie?

This second tale of hotness lost comes from my friend Allie. I don't think she'll mind my sharing it.

Allie got to head to the sunny state of California for 5-day business conference. Almost a full week of kid-free responsibility. So what if the days were peppered with dull conferences and dweeby sales guys? At night the wine and steak juices flowed. Evening conversation centered on drug therapies, and the days were filled with retail therapy. No one cared that Greg would not be touring with the Wiggles this year or that the neighbor kid's birthday party was Sunday at 6:00. No one needed her grapes cut in half or mouth wiped.

This was a week to learn, of course; it was a company-paid conference (aka boondoggle) after all. But it was also a weekend to fall asleep to Entourage blaring on the TV, a night without the stirring of a baby monitor to jostle her from her slumber, the pleasure of a long, slow cabernet buzz, frou frou dinner on someone else's tab, shoes too insensible to wear to the playground, skirts too short to squat down to tie a shoe, and lipstick instead of Aquaphor, perhaps even a flirty spritz of Jo Malone Verbenas of Provence. Oh, if only blog technology had a smell feature! You would be titillated, I assure you.

So one evening Allie is hanging out at one of those typical conference wine and smile get-to-know-you events. She's dazzling in a hot little number that had no risk of mac n' cheese hands wrecking it. A dress that would make her husband order champagne instead of beer. A dress that her husband would think looks better on the floor...wink, wink. She so had it going on. Allie is a hottie to start with, mind you. That dress was nothing more than frosting. She was enjoying a glass of vino, chatting with her boss, relishing the freedom of an evening without responsibility. It was then she noticed him noticing her. Yes, he was definitely looking, and it was obvious. Allie's boss tuned in too.

I imagine a slight blush crept over Allie's face, adorned with a simple swipe of liquid black eye liner and a touch of creamy lipstick. That man. That man was checking her out! Yeah, he was digging her. He was so hoping to get his groove on. And so her confidence soared. She and her boss giggled in hushed tones and wondered what the guy's story was. Allie is a married woman, after all. She repositioned so he could clearly see her wedding ring. Allie is not a cheating kind of girl, mind you, but a bit of attention when you know you look hot is simply an innocent self esteem boost.

No matter where Allie flitted throughout the ballroom, his eyes followed. Soon others were taking note as well. And then more eyes followed her. Imagine her exploding confidence and hotness, absorbing the attention. Loving it. Feeling like a most excellent blend of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda.

That's when her boss noticed something BIG. Mouth agape, speechless, BIG. All she could do was point in horror.

Allie is a lovely woman and a looker by any definition, alas it was not her charm nor good looks that garnered all that ogling.

Her dress, that hot, kicky little number, was tucked up into her panties. Her butt cheek was hanging out, advertising the goods beneath the dress! And no, she was not sporting lacy La Perlas. Nothing racy in any way. Paul Frank's chipmunk days of the week underwear (that she swears are the most comfortable underwear ever!) were peeking out for the whole conference to see. A cartoon chipmunk adorning her ass. All the geeky sales reps were taking it in, and not a one of 'em could muster up the courage (or decency!) to alert her!

Hysterical, yes. Hot, no.

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.

My Mom the Democrat

Liz, of Mom 101, Cool Mom Picks, and Momcrats fame, wrote this article that I just read in my new issue of Brain, Child. I actually laid in bed with Casey, my shaved Persian cat, purring upon my chest, while I read the whole magazine. Cover to cover. Ads and all. This story, for obvious reasons, was my fave. 

Mom-101: My Daughter the Democrat

I knew I liked Liz even before I found out she's my buddy's buddy. Yeah, that's what you call some bloggy sucking up. Only I mean it. No brownie points to be had here, but brownies would be nice. 

My mom is a die-hard Democrat.  You'd know that about her in the first, um, .002 nanoseconds of meeting her. When she met Bill Clinton at a book signing she called me in a tizzy telling me she'd never wash her right hand again. After his antics during the primaries, she scrubbed her hand with Lysol. My mom can't drive or swim or ride a bike, but she can manage to get herself wherever she needs to go to cast her vote. Nothing lost on her American citizenship. My mom definitely has a dossier on file with the Department of Homeland Security. Her phone must be tapped, unless she's on a party line with a tap dancer or a cow that types clickety clacking all the while we talk. 

My mom is the original Obama Mama. Check her out here. She's the one in the middle with her signature ginormous earrings about to signal lift off and even bigger purse. And note that the woman is always high fashion. She's the one who walked into my house when Bird was 8 days old and proclaimed that I needed to wear mascara every day to make myself feel better. This was, of course, a ruse just so she could stand to look at me. Nevermind that I had a newborn who couldn't breastfeed and a house under construction while she had a mom, sister, and a nanny when I was an infant. Do I sound bitter? Nah. Maybe just a tad. Until I saw this photo of my mom I had never seen her in a T-shirt. Ever.

And damn, I am so proud of her. 

Teaching your kids about political values is no different than teaching them about the values and morals you believe in general. In my case, the blue apple didn't fall far from the tree. If everything goes my way, neither Bird nor Deal will come home from college as Alex P. Keaton.

I'm meeting with the NC head of the Obama campaign tomorrow and taking Bird with me. When I kissed him good night I told him about the meeting and said that he's going to wear his Yes We Can! shirt.  Sleepy eyed and nestled under the covers, he stuck out his little hand and gave me a thumbs up and an incredulous grin. 

That's my boy.