5:00 Fridays

Today's 5:00 Fridays post is a special creation for my friend Gina. Gina of Taste This! fame. You know, the cookbook? Yeah, I have a friend who wrote and published a real cookbook. Cool, eh? You might know Gina better as the Bowl Licker. Based on Bird and Deal's kitchen antics, especially when we bake together, I think her blog is aptly named.

So we're toasting today for Gina's birthday. Everyone wish Gina a big ole Happy Birthday, mkay?

Nevermind that I haven’t yet met this fellow foodie and cocktail maven on the left coast, though I count her among my friends. I have a hunch that when we meet we could very well gab for hours on end whilst shopping and sipping, leaving little room for breaths and pregnant pauses. Gina perks me up, makes me chuckle, and whets my appetite. I’m dying to pull up a barstool in her kitchen and nosh and toast and laugh.

I imagine Gina has a lovely kitchen. I bet she has really cute aprons too.

A little bird, known as Facebook, told me that Gina will be blowing out candles on a cake this week. Nevermind just how many candles. Since she’s the one who inspired me to start baking from scratch (I’m telling you, her blueberry muffins are sinfully delicious.), I’m pretty sure she’s indulging in a damn good cake. Let’s just say that I’m a better mixologist than a baker. I’ve concocted a little birthday cocktail for my friend Gina.

I’d whisk her away to a blue hued sea with white sand beaches and red pedicures if I could. We’d eat fresh fish, succulent pineapples, and sweet coconut juice. This must sound like a romantic rendezvous to some, but for mothers who work work work, paradise is a beach replete with libations and girlfriends where no one calls us Mommy.

So to toast Gina on her big day, here’s my little taste of paradise. Cheers!


Gina Bina Bobeena

Ingredients
1 ounce dark rum
1 ounce coconut rum
1 ounce banana liqueur
5 ounces pineapple juice
splash of grenadine
pineapple wedge and banana slice for garnish

Directions
Pour first three ingredients over ice in a high ball glass. Add pineapple juice and an ever so slight dash of grenadine. Skewer a pineapple wedge and banana slice to plop in as garnish.

Happy Birthday, Gina!

5:00 Fridays

One of my blogosphere friends graciously created a birthday cocktail pour moi. If Gina lived in my neck of the woods I'd be hanging out on a barstool at her kitchen island all day long. I can just see her putzing around the kitchen whipping up goodies to munch on, pouring the never ending flow of wine, and I'd be drooling over her serving ware from her jaunts around the world. We'd chat and laugh and get all catty while brushing crumbs from our chins. My daydream also includes Jennifer, who'd be tag teaming in the kitchen with Gina. I'd just wear elastic waist pants and belly up to the breakfast bar.

So here you go, a guest post from Gina!

PS
A gracious thank you to Gina for mustering up the energy to write this post from her sick bed. She's been battling a nasty case of bronchitis, coupled with an allergic reaction to her meds. Cheers to her being on the mend! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!

I have the honor of being the guest blogger for Ilina’s birthday celebration. That in mind, this drink comes with wishes for another great year ahead. Should she wish to hide from her special day, this tasty beverage is certain to erase her memory when combined with laughter, friends, family and a bit of cake!

Three years ago, I met a young gal from Peru named Rosa. We became friends and through that friendship she introduced me to all things Peruvian. While the cuisine is amongst my favorites I must also confess that I have often indulged in the native alcohol -- pisco [prounced PEES-KO]. You should know, I have a soft spot for both Rosa and pisco. These two key instigators blended with my Italian heritage are responsible for this seemingly innocent concoction.

But like all bar drinks, this one must have an interesting story and that story rooted in the origins of pisco.

Pisco- Drinkology 101- facts to impress your friends while under the influence:

• Pisco is both a city and an important port on the Peruvian coast.
• The name originates from the Inca word for a ‘bird’
• Pisco is made from a special grape in the Andes Mountains and dates back to the 1500s
• It is a South American brandy-like liqueur distilled from grapes and is 45% alcohol
• Both Chile and Peru claim pisco as their national drink and are still fighting over who has sole ownership (Rosa says it is Peru that owns it!)
• Most common pisco drink is a pisco sour (but that’s a whole ‘nother story!)

In conclusion, pisco is some serious stuff.

Warning to Ilina: Do not let your Little Bird drink the drink named after The Bird – minors should avoid this (and all alcohol) drink but can enjoy the lemon syrup with a bit of 7UP or sparkling water.

"Salud!"

Lemon-aid Blur

(2 part liquid K.O.)

Lemon Simple Syrup

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

12 strips of lemon zest (approx 2 lemons)

Directions

Use a vegetable peeler to remove the zest (or peel) off of lemons before juicing them as directed in the remainder of the drink recipe (called The Blur- see below).

In small saucepan, on medium-high heat mix together sugar, water and zest. Stir occasionally until sugar dissolves. Let stand 20 minutes, until cool. Syrup can be refrigerated up to one week – and is also good over berry flavored sorbets.

The Blur

¾ cup lemon simple syrup

¼ cup pisco (or ouzo), chilled

½ cup + 1 TBS fresh lemon juice

4 lemons

6 sprigs basil (or mint for the less adventurous)

ice, crushed

Directions

Stir together the simple syrup, pisco (or ouzo), and the fresh lemon juice.

Fill six small glasses with ice, fill to the brim and add a sprig of basil.

Taste This!

I have a copy of Gina's cookbook, and it's a mainstay on my kitchen counter. I have yet to try a recipe that wasn't delicious and looked exactly like it does in the cookbook photo (minus the nice serving ware). To grab a copy of Gina’s book, which is less about traditional Italian dishes and more about brining good flavors to the table with not a lot of work, check out www.bowllicker.com

About Gina:

Gina von Esmarch was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is a fourth generation San Franciscan, who’s family has successfully run one of the City’s oldest fine dining restaurants at Fisherman’s Wharf — Alioto’s #8, founded in 1925. Gina now lives North of the Golden Gate Bridge with her husband, children and dog. In her free time she enjoys spending time around the table with her family and friends. You can follow her on Twitter: @ginavon

The day September 17 was just another day on the calendar.

So today's my birthday. Forgive me for being so ho-hum. I'm less enthralled than in years past. Oh, it's not because I'm 41. Come on, you know you wanted to know but were pretending to be too gentlemanly/ladylike to inquire. I'm not one of those women who eschews her birthday and fears laugh lines. I don't have a botox fund or anything. I don't even fall victim to all the Strivectin and Hylexin ads. I don't pay mind to what jiggles and what body parts resemble a certain product in a tub in the grocer's dairy aisle. I don't yet have creaky and achy parts and I'm not counting gray hairs. I certainly don't pine away for my 20s.

Nonetheless, this year, my day is kinda craptastic.

Bird is home sick with pneumonia. Mac Daddy has bolted for some business trip. I have no family around to lend a hand. No one to share the load. No one to spoil me and shower me with attention. I maintain a childlike exuberance when it comes to my birthday. I'm confident it's annoying to everyone around me but I say celebrating a birthday sure beats the alternative. This year, not so much. You see, I love my birthday. Love it. In fact, I love everyone's birthday and make a way bigger deal than Mac Daddy likes. I think he's still miffed that the boys and I flocked him last year. Unlike me, Mac Daddy could care less about his birthday.

I, on the other hand, like to think that only I have a September 17 birthday. Please don't ruin the illusion for me. I like the rose colored world I live in, thank you very much.

But this year, in a week that leaves me sleepless and stressed, tuckered out and settling in, I can't muster up what it takes to celebrate. September 17 is just another day. Getting Deal off to school. Nursing Bird. Cooking dinner. Folding laundry. Sorting through junk mail. Cleaning up stray LEGO pieces. Mediating rifts. Wiping bottoms. Getting dishpan hands.

No one to cook for me. No one to take me out. No one to cut the cake, much less bake it (or buy it, as the case may be). No one to toast my 41 years.

So join me, today, September 17, for the little pity party I'm throwing for myself.


Addendum:
In true Mac Daddy fashion, he left a spread of chocolate croissants and coffee on the kitchen table before he left town. He left a giant slice of my favorite coconut cake from Hayes Barton Dessertery in the fridge. And he even packed Deal's lunch for school. Those little displays of thoughtfulness count eons more than expensive gifts and fancy dinners. Mac Daddy's gestures, waking to my boys running in to wish me happy birthday, the emails, tweets, and Facebook posts, and the sound of my dear friend's children calling me to sing Happy Birthday have already made my pity party a whole lot less pitiful. I'm a thankful birthday girl today.

I'm 6 Years Old. Today.

I started first grade yesterday. I just walked right in, green backpack that my mom made me monogram, slung across my shoulders, and started whooping it up with my boys. High fiving and smack talking and giggling and stuff. I didn't miss a beat considering I missed the first three days of school. I even got all sorts of attention, being the birthday boy and all. I just might be the only kid who was five when first grade officially started. Well, no matter because today I am six.

Let me repeat: Today I am Six.

Six.

I was born six years ago, a so-called "Ice Storm" baby of 2003. Mommy says I popped right out after three pushes and 20 minutes. Her friends roll their eyes and turn away when she tells that story. Mommy and I shared an inferno burger and vanilla shake just before that. And we rocked the prenatal yoga classes. Apparently I had some feeding issues a few days after I was born, making me all weak and whiny and wobbly. I think they official term is "failure to thrive." Wow, Mommy and Daddy would croak if that were ever on my report card. Anyway, that's when the doctor ordered the syringe.

You have been wondering why they call me Bird, right? Well, Daddy christened me Bird when I was three days old, and it's clearly stuck. Sometimes my teachers even call me Bird. Mommy calls me Bird on the playground when it's time to go. She even called me No-Strike Bird when I played T-Ball, claiming that would make a fantastic headline-grabbing nickname when I play for the Brewers one day. Actually, I bet it was Daddy who mentioned the Brewers because Mommy doesn't know a thing about sports.

Anyway, when I had trouble feeding from my mommy the doctor told my parents to let me suck my mommy's pinky while my daddy used a syringe to shoot some formula into my mouth. It was apparently the only way to nourish me while keeping my suckling in tact. I don't really get the ins and outs but I do know that Daddy said feeding tiny little baby me with a syringe was like feeding a baby bird. Hence the name. By the way, Mommy still has that syringe in my baby box. And obviously they still call me Bird.

Mommy tends to get all weepy on my birthday. She says that her vision improved after I was born so I'm not sure why she gets all emotional, seeing that she doesn't need glasses anymore. She also loves a good party so I bet the luau I requested for my 6th birthday party is gonna rock. All I know is that boxes from Oriental Trading have been littering our living room. I'm just excited to wear the tiki shirt my Dadu gave me. For some reason Mommy refuses to wear the grass skirt and coconut bra I found for her at the party store.

So today I'm looking forward to a few of my favorite things: playing the Star Wars LEGO Wii game that my Uncle gave me, eating beignets for breakfast, engaging in a fierce dart launcher war with my brother (thanks to the Nerf shooter from my Nani), chowing on cheeseburgers and shakes at Red Robin, and generally being spoiled. I'll squeeze in some LEGO time and an art project or two with my Mommy too. And I get to go to a swimming party since my friend Sarah and I share a birthday (Happy Birthday shout out to you, Sarah!). I might even test my limits and whine a bit just to see if Mommy and Daddy have the heart to scold me on my birthday. heh heh heh. I mean really, six won't come around again.

Mommy tells me that I'm just like her. I guess that means she's smart, funny, and clever, Ha ha ha. I swear I am the funniest person I know! Strangers stop me and Mommy on the street to comment how our smiles are so much alike. I guess it's a good thing we make each other smile...most of the time. I share my mommy's temperament but I am definitely a daddy's boy. I also pretend that my little brother Deal drives me crazy but I actually love him and race home from school to play with him, even though my interpretation of "play" is wrestling and shoving decorative throw pillows on his face.

The birthday horoscope my parents have for me says that I will grow up to be creative and mathy. It claims I will make a living as an architect or engineer. It also says I will inherit a sweet tooth from my Mommy. Right on all counts so far!

My name is Bird, and I am six today.

5:00 Fridays

When I was pregnant with Bird I ate ice cream everyday. Every. Single. Day. Sometimes it was frozen custard, sometimes a banana fudge shake. Never a popsicle or the food world's worst excuse for dessert, a snow cone.

It's no surprise that my Bird is equally addicted to the creamy goodness of ice cream. He got a taste of the good life in utero. Bird generally goes for plain ol' vanilla but chooses mint chocolate chip when he's feeling particularly footloose. I'm one of those rare coffee ice cream girls myself, though I wouldn't turn down any flavor, except for Cherry Garcia. Blech.

I wish I could blame my 45 pound weight gain on Bird but I think Ben, Jerry, and Edy have to shoulder the blame here.

Since today is the eve of Bird's birth, I'm toasting my firstborn, whom I affectionately refer to as my first baby, even though it makes him blush. Six years ago today we shared an inferno burger and ginormous vanilla milkshake.

Six years later, we each order our own.


Bird Shake

2 scoops vanilla ice cream
1/2 - 1 cup 2% milk
4 - 6 York Peppermint Patties plus 2 for garnish (snack size)

For the age 21+ version, use 1 shot of creme de menthe and 2 shots of creme de cacao in place of the peppermint patties.

Blend until frothy. Serve in a tall glass with one of those crazy swirly straws. Garnish with a York Peppermint Pattie wedged on the side of the glass like a slice of lime.

5:00 Fridays

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Mac Daddy!!!

I was planning on hosting some fellow bloggers clad in woven bikinis made of jump drives we toted home from Blogher and then jumping out of a cake but I couldn't find a crafty macrame artist on Twitter to weave the goods. Mac Daddy will have to settle for a virtual cake, virtual bikinis, and real love.

Show him what you've got people.

Mac Daddy is my one true love, my rock, my cheerleader, my best friend. Save the cliche crap...blah blah blah. It's all true. Really. He's not into SM (social media or otherwise), but if you show him the power of one voice, one domino in this bloggy sea, he just might see the light.

If nothing else, he will see the light from his 41 candles.


Birthday Suit

Shot of Jack Daniels
3 ounces ginger ale
teaspoon simple syrup infused with mint and rosemary
rosemary sprig


Fill a low ball glass with ice. Add Jack Daniels, ginger ale, and simple syrup. Gently stir. Add sprig of rosemary for garnish. Sit back on your porch, count the stars, listen to the crickets, bask in the glow of the fireflies.

This is how Mac Daddy likes to celebrate one more year on the planet.



Image from http://www.jackdaniels.com/JackDaniel/Default.aspx?st=jacksbirthday.

I am 4 today!

I am 4 years old today.

I like LEGO, Playmobil, puppies, and books. I especially like to make LEGO vehicles with lasers and Storm Troopers. I do not like to swim because I hate getting my face wet. I really really really want a puppy. I promised my dad that I will stop sucking my thumb when I turn 4, but Mommy knows that's not gonna happen. I like to laze around in my red bean bag chair that my Dadu gave me. Mangoes and vanilla yogurt are my favorite things to eat. Sometimes I get vanilla milk at Starbucks with Mommy when she gets a latte. I help my mom bake cookies and I like to help my dad make green pancakes. Pink used to be my favorite color, but now I like yellow. Ball was my first word, but I didn't talk until I was 2. That worried my parents. But I spoke in full sentences right away. When I grow up I want to be a veternarian or a SWAT police guy. I am giving some of my piggy bank money to Barack Obama. I am also giving some to the Ronald McDonald House. My chores are to take out the recycling, help my brother set the table, and clean up toys. Mommy is also teaching me how to make my bed so I can do that too. But we get a break and don't have to make beds on Sundays. I am going to some fun camps this summer. I can't wait to go with my best friend Jayden. He is my best buddy. I am also going to Legoland this summer when I go visit my grandma. Last summer we went to Disneyland with my Uncle Sanjit. Nani just came for a visit and gave me a CD player. I like to listen to They Might Be Giants. I am really good at doing puzzles and writing my name. One day I surprised my parents and teachers and just started writing my name. Those wacky grown ups don't even realize all the stuff I learn just by watching. I am the Wii boxing champion in my family. Bird won't even challenge me anymore. I also like to play Eye of the Tiger on Guitar Hero. I wear sunglasses and my guitar T-shirt to rock out like Johhny Napalm. I really want a mohawk, but Mommy won't let me get one. And she won't let Daddy take me out alone to get a haircut. My daddy lets me tackle him and play hop on pop with him. Mommy thinks he's getting too old for that horseplay, but he likes it. I can tell because he laughs the whole time. I really look up to my big brother even though he's not always nice to me. Secretly we all know what we are best friends and would do anything for each other. It's way more fun having him home for the summer. I miss him when he's in school, but I do like my special time with Mommy. Mommy told me that the doctor said I was born sunnyside up and it shows. I think she means that I'm cheerful all the time. Sometimes I whine and cry. Then I go sit on the naughty step until I calm down. Mommy gets weepy on my birthday and keeps asking me what happened to her little baby. I tell her I grow like the weeds in our yard. When I play I like to pretend I am an 8-year old. That makes my brother 10. And when I'm 10 he'll be 12. When I'm 12 he'll be 14. See how that's a pattern? It's a kind of math. Daddy teaches me about numbers, and Mommy teaches me about words. I know what a homonym is. Hangar/hanger is a homonym. It's a plane garage and something you put your clothes on in the closet. When I grow up I want to live with my Mommy and Daddy, or at least on their street.

I am 4 today.

A Very Special Toast for 5:00 Fridays

This is what I had to say one year ago today. Go ahead and click. I'll give you a minute. Know why it's significant?

Because today is my first birthday. Insert fanfare here. No need for party hats and gifts. I take that back, gifts are welcome. I wear a size 6 shoe and am allergic to anything less than 22 karat gold and sterling silver. Don't send dark chocolate or anything with cherries and raisins. While we're having a little soiree, let's have cake too. My favorite is the coconut cake from the Hayes Barton Cafe. No need to splurge on a candle. I think the tradition of blowing spittle and cooties all over a perfectly good cake is disgusting and overrated anyway.

I started Dirt & Noise on a lark. My dear old witty friend Crouton Boy inspired me to start blogging. He's actually funny and writes exactly like he converses in person so when I read his blog I feel like he's right here. I figured if he can do it, so can I. Granted, he's more technically savvy than I am. All I want to do is write. I need a coding/html/techie mumbo jumbo assistant. Let me know if you're interested in the job. It's unpaid, but the bragging rights are cachet are fantastic.

So you see, a while ago I had a short term gig writing beauty product reviews for our local newspaper. I got tons of great feedback on my writing and storytelling (pat on back here, hold the applause). When my gig ended I found I still had a voracious appetite for writing. My fingers dance on the keyboard effortlessly, and writing is a wonderful escape (great therapy at times too). What I wrote in my business world wasn't cutting it. Snarky emails to friends, replete with celebrity gossip and baby stories, and x-rated text messages to Mac Daddy weren't cutting the mustard. I totally don't get that expression, but mustard is my second most favorite condiment. Little known fact so consider yourself in the know. Back to this pet project of mine...

Today marks my 263rd post and my first birthday. I am proud of this little online tome of mine and thankful to Mac Daddy for enduring many a night of my laptop being the third wheel.

So today, let's raise a glass to Dirt & Noise. No need to hold the applause any longer. Make some noise, friends!

On to our cocktail...

Now get yourself a crystal champagne glass. I'll be using the Tiffany glasses my big brother gave me for Christmas one year.

Now pop the cork on a sultry bottle of Veuve Clicquot. It's a lovely champagne that is special occasion-worthy without breaking the bank that is already crippled. Those French sure know a thing or two about the bubbly.

Cheers! Mwah!

Wordless Wednesday: Tin Cup Chalice

40 is the New Me

Ask me how old I am. Go ahead, ask me. Forget all those etiquette rules that say to never ask a lady her age. I never claimed to be a lady anyway. I'm 40. Yup, 4-0. I think I just sat up a bit straighter when I said that. I have no shame. Age does not scare me. I am wary and afraid of what time robs from us, but aging in and of itself does not intimidate me. Bring. It. On. I embrace my future, and hey, turning 40 sure beats the alternative. I'll take my little 85-year old brick house to a pine box (or urn, as the case may be) any day.

I'm not one of those people who hates their birthday. To the contrary, I cherish mine. I even celebrate my half birthday. Oddly enough, everyone dons green and toasts the luck of the Irish on my half birthday. Come on, what's not to like about your birthday? I've been showered with emails, cards, flowers, coconut cakes, cheesecake, high fives, phone calls, shout outs, Tweets. It's wonderful to hear from all the people I love. And it's even more wonderful to know that I am loved.

There is something so freeing about being 40. Really, it is license to be ME. Marlo Thomas had it right with "Free to Be You and Me." It's a lesson that comes easily as a child, and then we wait a lifetime to get find our way back to that magical freedom. The agonizing years in between are torturous but necessary. I do not sulk over lost youth and time misspent. Instead I raise a toast to life lived.

I celebrated turning 40 with some girlfriends at the beach last weekend. That's us in the photo up there. I'm the hottie with black hair and the grey dress. Notice all the empty glasses and bottles. All necessary rehydration after a day spent on the beach with nothing but canned beer and celebrity rags. Oh, and cookies. How magnificent to be at the beach and actually sit lazily on a chair and not worry about anyone drowning or getting caught in the undertow. How unsandy my luggage was with no buckets, shovels, rakes, trucks, and life vests tucked in there. How relaxing to be for a while, not a mother, not a wife, just me. Rejuventation at its best.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that boys in their 20s (young enough to be my children if you think about it, but let’s not) were glombing onto us, downright trying to mash on the dance floor. Yeah, still got it. Insert strut here. And don't go mentioning the dim light, fog machine, thrashy loud music, and excess of $2 domestic bottles. This is my day and my fantasy, OK?

There were a gaggle of 20-something girls in the bars that weekend. They were the Stepford Girls. All wearing the same tiny minidress cut down just so. The same high wedges that left them teetering on the dance floor. The same pack of Marlboro Lights (DON’T GET ME STARTED.). The same bottle of beer, picking at the label with idle fingers. The same bored come hither look. The same stare and lack of eye contact, noticing the scene instead of each other. The same lack of mindfulness and embracing the moment. The same ginormous purses fresh out of Lucky magazine. What’s in those bags, girls? Are you prepping for a booty call walk of shame with panties, toothbrush, and contact lens solution in there? Whadya need such a big purse for at a bar? Drones, all of them. Yawn. Oh, and been there done that, left the T-shirt at a boy's pad.

We 30-somethings, however (I was technically 39 at the time.), wore outfits that hid our badges of motherhood (I’m talkin’ to you, Back Fat!). Clothes that hugged our curves but masked our cottage cheese. Clothes that allowed ample room for copious consumption of crab dip at dinner (not for dinner, at dinner). Clothes that gave us room to groove without sucking in, tucking, taping, tugging, or squishing. And you know what? Not a purse among us. Yet we managed to carry cash, credit cards, a cell phone, ID, keys, and lip gloss (Thanks for humoring me, Nicole!).

We danced where there was no dance floor and we banged out the lyrics to Pour Some Sugar On Me. With aplomb. We talked our way out of paying cover charges and milked the big 4-0 for free drinks from cute bartenders. We laughed a bit too loud and sang way off key. We drank until we were happy, replenishing our abused systems with water time to time. We chatted up some 20-something fake mustachioed bachelor party-goers and danced with anyone who swayed into our path. We rocked.

You know what sent the pheromone detectors buzzing? Confidence.

Confidence gained only through experience, time, loves lost, lessons learned, hearts won, tests failed, life interrupted, varieties tasted, losses mourned, triumphs celebrated. It is now that I am confident, indeed free, to be the self I have invented. My days of trying to discern others’ visions of me and trying to squirm my roundness into that squareness are over. I walk a little taller in my own shoes. All 100 pairs of them and all five feet of me. Go with the metaphor here, people.

I have no desire to relive my youth. Would you return to the hormonal pubescent days of 17? Your la la la party girl days of 22? Your over worked, in debt, broken-hearted woman of 31? Nah, I didn’t think so. 40 finds me calm, content, confident, and comfortable. It was worth waiting for. Age is not a beast I wrestle. Yeah, I’m lucky to be virtually wrinkle free, nary a grey lock in sight. It’s easy to wax poetic about the gift of aging and life’s mumbo jumbo stew from my perspective. But you know what? 40 is all the more fantastic the more I hear from shocked, flattering souls, “You can’t possibly be 40? You look so young!” I’ll take it. And for now, I'm gonna buy it.

The high temperature today is 68. I was born today in 68. Metaphors are beautiful. See, it really is all about me.

It Happened This Day in 1968

I had a great, insightful post about turning 40 today. Blogger ate it. F%&^!!!!

Now I've got to actually spend some time finishing a report in between bouts of hacking and putting my head on my desk to alleviate the cold building up in there. Argh.

I'll have to muster the energy to rekindle that post tomorrow. I'll write about being 40 +1 day.

Instead I'll leave you with a taste for what happened this day in 1968.

September 17, 1996 Dodger Hideo Nomo no-hits Colorado Rockies, 9-0 at Coors Field (What's with all the sports highlights?)
September 17, 1992 House votes 280 to 128 to give FCC control of cable TV rates (And later voted to have our phone lines tapped.)
September 17, 1992 NFL decides to suspend World League Football (Tell me it isn't so!)
September 17, 1991 U.N. admits Estonia, Latvia, Lithuiania, North and South Korea, Marshall Islands and Micronesia (Who can find these countries on a map?)
September 17, 1989 41st Emmy Awards: LA Law, Cheers, Dana Delany and Candice Bergen win
September 17, 1988 Jeff Reardon becomes 1st to record 40 or more saves in both AL and NL (I don't even know what the hell this means.)
September 17, 1987 Philadelphia celebrates 200th anniversary of Constitution (And now we have a bunch of mavericks positioned to tear it up.)
September 17, 1986 U.S. Senate confirms William Rehnquist as 16th chief justice
September 17, 1983 Vanessa Williams (NY), 20, crowned 56th Miss America 1984, 1st black (No Ugly Betty)
September 17, 1972 "M*A*S*H," premieres on NBC TV (Best theme song ever)
September 17, 1968 Ilina was born in a hospital in Calcutta, India. Ticker tape parade ensued.
September 17, 1964 "Bewitched" premieres on ABC TV (Still wish I could wrinkle up my nose to make dinner appear.)
September 17, 1964 Beatles are paid a then record $150,000 for a concert (Kansas)
September 17, 1964 Supremes release "Baby Love" (Back before Diana was a nut job)
September 17, 1962 Justice Department files 1st suit to end segregation in public schools (1962, people)
September 17, 1959 59th U.S. Golf Amateur Championship won by Jack Nicklaus
September 17, 1958 U.S. performs nuclear test at Nevada Test Site
September 17, 1956 Black students enter Clay Kentucky elementary school
September 17, 1953 1st successful separation of Siamese twins (Egads!)
September 17, 1953 Ernie Banks becomes Chicago Cubs 1st black player (Yet, I've never heard of him.)
September 17, 1948 WLS TV channel 7 in Chicago, IL (ABC) begins broadcasting (How fitting that TV started on my birthday!)
September 17, 1946 "If the Shoe Fits," opens at Century Theater New York City for 20 performances (Well, if the shoe fits, but it!)
September 17, 1940 Hitler begins invasion of England (operation Seelowe)
September 17, 1900 Commonwealth of Australia proclaimed (Fire up the barbie!)
September 17, 1862 Battle of Sharpsburg (Antietam)-bloodiest day of Civil War, 23,110 die
September 17, 1859 Man in San Francisco claims himself Norton I, emperor of America (I'd like to declare myself Empress.)
September 17, 1850 Great fire in San Francisco (Burned all the bread and then called it sourdough)
September 17, 1835 Charles Darwins lands on Chatham Galapagos-archipelago (Sarah Palin does not believe this.)
September 17, 1796 President George Washington delivers his farewell address
September 17, 1787 U.S. constitution adopted by Philadelphia convention (And we must protect it.)
September 17, 1778 1st treaty between the U.S. and Indian tribes signed (Fort Pitt)
September 17, 1691 Colony Massachusetts Bay gets new charter
September 17, 1683 Antonie van Leeuwenhoek reports existence of bacteria (Hence my OCD and fear of germs. It's this guy's fault.)
September 17, 1678 France and Spain sign peace treaty (Imagine the tasty food at this banquet.)
September 17, 1598 Netherland sailors discover Mauritius (Long lost brother of Maury?)

A Special Birthday Toast for 5:00 Fridays

I'd like to start by wishing my Bird a HAPPY 5th BIRTHDAY!!!

Five years ago I was still drinking milk at every meal and sipping on non-alcoholic sangria at block parties and weddings. Note, alcohol-free red wine blows. Alcohol-free alcohol blows. I drink neither milk nor non-alcoholic wine anymore.

Five years ago I went into labor at 8:00 PM, went to the hospital after downing some noodles and a burrito (yeah, I know, weird combination), barely missed getting an epidural since I was already dilated 8 cm, got comfy, joked with the nurse about not wanting to poop while pushing (I didn't for the record), freaked out, watched Mac Daddy share a chocolate bar with the nurse, stared in a trance at the monitors, pushed 3 times for a total of 20 minutes, and there was Bird, squealing and squinting in my arms.

As for me? A puddle. Emotion that I don't even have the words to express. My baby. My son. A first generation American. A family.

Bird and I are exactly alike, minus the 35 year age difference and gender discrepancy. He is the apple to my tree. We butt heads often because we are so much alike: stubborn, passionate, nitpicky, dramatic, emotional, and always think we're right. Mac Daddy and I like to say that Bird feels life passionately. His tantrums break the sound barrier while his laughter would make the palace guards bust a gut. Just like me. He puts hot sauce on everything and has a dentist's dream of a sweet tooth. Just like me. He loses himself in books and doesn't forget a thing. Just like me. He is meticulous, and perfection rules his world. Just like me. When he is older, I will explain to him that no one in the world understands him better than I do. I totally stole that from my friend Shan who says that to her son.

Bird is my first baby, my oldest, my guinea pig, my eyes to my childhood. He is inquisitive to a fault (consider this a warning Miss Ross!) and is a rather deep thinker.

Just yesterday Bird informed me that horseradish is named so because it's a radish with a strong flavor and since horses are strong, they called it horseradish. Well wallop me upside the head with a rolling pin and pop me under the broiler! Makes total sense, doesn't it? Find me a better explanation for the etymology of horseradish. I'm telling you, Bird put a lot of thought into that and likely had many a silent debate in his head before nailing down the goods. Smart boy, that Bird.

Oh, have I mentioned that he also drives me crazy? That's because he's me. I live with a mini me who enlightens me to my faults and I don't like that much self exploration. Mac Daddy gets particularly wired because he has to live with two little people with such big personalities. Cue violin music here.

So today's cocktail is for my Bird. My first baby who has started kindergarten. My baby who is one shoelace away from being self sufficient. My baby who still nuzzles into the warmth of my chest and caresses the inside of my arm. My Bird who gives extraordinarily wet kisses, a thousand at a time. My Bird, who giggles at eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses while begging for just one more. My Bird, whose time to fly the coop is thankfully years away.

Cheers to my Bird!

Baby Blue Martini

Pour one shot of each into a martini shaker loaded with ice:
Hendricks Gin (my personal fave!)
De Kuyper Blue Curaçao
pink grapefruit juice
pineapple juice

Pour into a chilled martini glass.

Garnish with a sliver of lemon peel.

Sit back, admire your parental accomplishments, squeeze your kids, and take a long, slow, deliberate sip. End with an audible "ah."