A Lesson in Peel n' Eat Shrimp

My sons are at an age that I can recount stories from my formative years. Only the G-rated ones, of course. Um, not that there are any stories that venture out of NC-17 territory. While we were waiting to be served at a restaurant recently, I told Bird and Deal about how I was a waitress for many years. Seven, to be exact. I was about to lecture them on how hard the waitstaff works but I knew they would be like the dog in the Far Side cartoon so I stopped myself. Instead I shared a personal story about one of my waitressing experiences.

I waited tables in an English pub in town. It was part local watering hole, part tourist trap, part college cheap eats, part businessman's brouhaha. I donned the requisite khaki shorts and hunter green polo shirt and set out for the night. I sipped Diet Coke in the back while noshing on ungodly amounts of bread slathered in butter. I was in college then and had no idea that one day my thighs would touch. I remember being in a particularly chipper mood. Again, this is because I didn't have a crystal ball telling me about my mushy future.

A tweed jacketed gentleman of about 50ish came in alone. He was the kind of guy whose jacket actually needed suede patches on the sleeves and weren't there merely for professorial effect. He had a mop of brown hair that was tousled and sloppy, and I recall that his pants were so ill fitting his belt looked as if it could wind around him twice. He ordered a Boddington's and the Peel n' Eat shrimp.

Not only was the entree entitled "Peel n' Eat Shrimp," the menu blurb clearly described it as such. I did not feel the need to be even more explicit when he ordered the PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP. I served 'em right up, and he smiled and nodded, as anyone with a dollop of manners would do. When I checked back, he had cleared his plate and piled up the shrimp shells on the side of the table. I asked him how his meal was in my most friendly waitress voice (This is akin to phone voice but much trickier because people can actually see you.). In one sweeping gesture that caught me totally off guard, the gent (who turned out not to be one) picked up a handful of shrimp shells and threw them at me. In the middle of the dining room. In front of everyone. He exclaimed, "I didn't realize I'd be working for my dinner!"

"Well sir, the dish is called PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP, " said I, suddenly feeling my chipper attitude being chopped away.

The bastard wanted his meal comped.

We said no way. After all, he hadn't flagged me down to complain. I'd like to interject here that I was a very attentive waitress so it's not like I deserted him and hung out in the back smoking with the cooks or anything. Besides, he ate the whole damn thing. He paid but didn't tip me. The good news is that all the other patrons who witnessed his tantrum generously tipped me as a kind show of sympathy.

So I recounted this tale to my sons at lunch as we were waiting for a waitress to serve our chicken and dumplings and crayfish soup. I was hoping they'd get the gist of my parable, as I going all Aesop on them. I asked the boys what they thought of the man's behavior and how it made me feel. I was probing for a lesson in empathy here. Bird and Deal gave the expected head nodding and shoulder shrugging and said that the man was mean. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it.

Then Bird, who couldn't hide his killer grin that's gonna make him the male version of Helen of Troy one day, snickered and said, "He was rude, but it's still pretty funny." He cracked up while saying this and could barely get the words out.

And with that, we all laughed.

My Latest Hang Up

You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn't wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?

Remember how small they once were?

Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.

And then they grow.

And grow.

I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird's laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I'm talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird's teetering on the cusp of seven.

7. Years. Old.

His clothes aren't so small anymore. His clothes aren't even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird's big boy clothes don't fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he's slowly growing wings. To fly.

Away.

And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.

And maybe shed a tear.

Fly, Bird, fly.

Want vs. Need

Bird's homework yesterday was to make a list of five things he Wants and five things he Needs. Then we had to work together to determine the price of one item he covets, find out where to get it, and figure out how he could earn the money to buy it. We went through the exercises, but the outcome is realistically never gonna happen. Can a six-year old really earn 300 bucks to buy himself a freaking gaming system? Pretty damn unlikely in this house. I can't speak to what grandparents might succumb to.

Bird's homework got me thinking about how we're teaching our sons the difference between wanting and needing. There's simultaneously a fine line yet a jagged abyss between the two. It's clear that I'm not setting a very good example. I pine for the perfect pair of black boots and whine about how I nnnneeeeeeeeeddddd them. Of course I know and Mac Daddy knows I don't need them. Mac Daddy knows me well enough to know that all I really need is a slick cool slap of reality once in a while. That, and ice cream.

Have a look at Bird's list. You'll note that it ain't gonna win him any points on the pageant circuit. Looks like I'll have to return all the bow ties and black tap shoes I've been hoarding in his closet.


Need (He's clearly one to harp on the obvious.)
Water
Food
Clothes
House
Mom and Dad (I'm amazed we made this list, with me getting top billing even!)
Car (This is because we live in Raleigh, the world's most unwalkable city.)
Air

Want (Hmmm...this list harkens to the letter Bird wrote to Santa.)
Xbox
Nerf gun
TV in my room (Nevah!)
Blendy Pens
Legos
Wii games
Ds games

The pageant folks might be impressed with the inclusion of artsy Blendy Pens (despite the As Seen on TV pock mark that blemishes this choice) or the future architect potential of LEGO, but the rest of the stuff is mindless clutter, literally and figuratively. I will say this: Bird is a kid who knows what he wants.

But what he needs is an attitude adjustment. As for me and those perfect black boots, I realize I don't need them. But I really really really really really want them. In a size 6. You know, just in case anyone is feeling particularly generous.

Maybe Bird and I can get a BOGO deal on that attitude adjustment.

A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

Kids & Pets: All the Same

There are days I'm a better pet owner than I am a mother. I seem to have more patience with Lark, perhaps because he doesn't whine or throw temper tantrums. He also does not kick me or scream "NO" in a volume that would raise the OSHA red flag. Did I mention that Bird kicked our babysitter last weekend? Twice. Buh-bye date night.

Back to today's regularly scheduled post.

I have learned a few things from my recent life as a pet owner. The funny thing is how raising children is so similar to having a pup. Seriously, the physical demands are much the same, and the mental capacity is huge. The similarities have been enlightening. My three boys, two of the two-legged variety and one of the four-legged variety, have taught me a thing or two.

Shit happens. Often in places it shouldn't. Like the time Bird pooped on the dining room floor when he was two. And when Lark did his business on the bathmat. While I was in the shower.

Accidents happen, as in things get broken and shit happens.

No one pees, poops, eats, drinks, or sleeps on demand.

Fleece feels as good to wear as it does to chew.

Treats are better than meals. Always.

A back rub is never long enough.

Dry clean only outfits stay in the back of the closet.

Don't play tag in the house.

A potted plant or vase of fresh flowers set just-so on a side table will end up catawampus in minutes.

It's hard to distinguish what's a dog toy and what's a plush toy. Poor Deal, who has an FAO Schwartz sized collection of stuffed animals, has battled Lark for sneaking under his bed and stealing his stuffed bear, dog, hamster, yes hamster, and cat.

Selective hearing runs in the family.

No one comes when called. Unless treats are at stake.

The most expensive piece of furniture is the most coveted.

No one gets water after 6:00 PM.

It's easier to clean pee out of a dog crate than it is to change crib sheets.

Christmas sweaters do not belong on children or dogs. Or anyone else, if you ask me.

It's important to let the least out a tish as trust and responsibility grow.

Kisses are best when wet.

Clipping nails is no fun for anyone.

Bacon is good.

Potty training blows.

A warm head nestled on your shoulder is divine.

A queen sized bed is only comfortably big enough for two people.

I might need to change my blog's name to Dirt & Noise & Stink.

The biggest thing about being a mom to boys as well as a pup? They make your heart swell. With pride, affection, love, humility. They make you laugh. Every. Single. Day.

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.

Food Safety: Caveat Emptor

"Caveat Emptor: is one of the many phrases I remember from my early days of Latin in the esteemed Dr. Larrick's class. (Sidebar: Every student should have been lucky enough to have had Dr. Larrick. He continues to inspire students in ways few can. Teaching is a gift. One that he keeps on giving. And for that we are thankful.) Anyhoo, "Caveat Emptor" is of course the commerce principle that means the buyer assumes the risk. It translates to "Let the buyer beware." We generally think of this in terms of purchasing cars, property, and pretty much anything from eBay, Craigslist, or the classified section (that is, if anyone still lists and buys stuff that way these days).

I never thought Caveat Emptor would apply to the food I buy.

We take leaps of faith everyday. We trust that the drivers among us will stop when the light is red. We trust our children's schools are secure. We trust that the bank protects our money. We trust that our municipality's water reading is accurate. We trust our cribs are tested and our toys lead-free. We trust the food stocked upon market shelves is safe.

Thanks to the likes of Stewart Parnell, the infamous Salmonella Peanut King, consumers can no longer afford to take a leap of faith when it comes to food purchases. The FDA has long been riddled with powerlessness and plagued with inefficiencies. Food safety, and in effect consumer wellness, has been on the back burner. It seems to me that we as a nation have focused more on making a buck and pulling a fast one on consumers than protecting public health. I'm thinking of the policies and attitudes of a certain eight years in the all-too-recent-past. Ahem. The FDA, through years of neglect and failure to modernize itself, has floundered in protecting us.

Well finally, in a bipartisan leap, the food safety bill looks like it's making headway to overhaul the FDA. Despite the fact that the Senate looks like it will wait until next year to address it, the bill is still getting some much deserved attention. It's at least a starting point. Slow but steady, right? The FDA, the government organization upon which we rely to ensure the food we consume is safe, has had puny resources to actually to its job, making us take leaps of faith in the grocery aisle, off restaurant menus, and in school cafeterias without even knowing it.

Spinach. Peanuts. Cookie dough. Ground beef. Chicken. Pet food.

Pretty basic items on any grocery list, right?

E. coli. Salmonella. Listeria.

I bet those aren't on your shopping list.


So where do we go from here?

Until our government gets rolling on passing and implementing this new food safety bill, it behooves us all to exercise Caveat Emptor in every food purchase we make. Even buying local, organically produced food does not guarantee it's safe for consumption.

Note that I write this a mother, a cook, a consumer. I'm not a pundit, a biologist, a lawyer, a lobbyist, or a politician. And my bet is that if you're not either, you too don't care about the in-fighting. We simply want to trust that the food we serve our children is not tainted. Food is sustenance, and should not be suspect.


Check out these resources for more information.
Safe Tables
@SafeTables on Twitter
Sign up for eAlerts about food recalls.
FDA food safety


PS
Thanks to Senator Dick Durbin of Illinois, Mike Taylor, advisor to the FDA Commissioner, Safe Tables and the fine bloggers (@GloPan, @punditmom, @morningsidemom, @soapboxmom, @jippert) who joined in on an informative call last week about food safety. Cheers to good health instead of just wealth!

Working 9:00-5:00

Mac Daddy is a working man. Not a work-with-his-hands-wiping-the-sweat-from-his-brow-with-a-metal-sharded-rag kind of working man. Just a 9:00-5:00 Michael Scott, Office Space type of schmuck. He works for The Man. Not The Man Bird and Deal argue about. The other one who thinks white collar crime shouldn't mean revoking someone's chi chi golf club membership and that trickle down economics really works. Mac Daddy is a corporate dude who helps keep the workplace sufficiently smug and real. His acrid sarcasm is sadly lost on most people in the South who smile politely and call him Honey and Dear. Well, they don't call him that at work anyway. Scratch that. I do think some old timers have referred to him as Sweetie. Anyhoo, Mac Daddy is the one really making the dough, winning the bread. What's with the carb overload when it comes to money talk?

That is until my writing and blogging pipe dreams pay off. Ahem. Are you listening, Penguin and Simon and Schuster?

I work too. I work for The Woman. That would be me. I am my own boss, IT department, administrative assistant, gopher, scheduler, social calendar keeper, working bee, board member, complaint department, new business developer, chief marketer, task master. I have my own consulting business so my hours are less traditional than Mac Daddy's. Plus my office is pretty close so I have a shorter commute than Mac Daddy's. Sometimes I don't wear shoes to work but I always wear proper clothes. The coffee is plentiful, strong, and hot. Um, yeah, I work from home. In a dedicated office that is the only off-limits room for the boys in our house.

So at dinner tonight we were talking about work. Bird asked Mac Daddy why it's any fun to sit in front of a computer all day and do nothing. Deal thoughtfully and gleefully added, "Don't forget that Daddy also gets to drink lattes!" What a kid, always got your back. Mac Daddy and I were cracking up but briskly stopped when we realized the kids weren't chiming in. Their smiling yet solemn faces told us that they really think he types and drinks lattes all day and saw no humor in our outburst. Addmittedly on some days the scenario is probably pretty true, but for the most part Mac Daddy is a golden child worker. I know this because we used to work together. It's much more fun being his wife than his colleague. No one here waxes on about how utterly perfect he is. Plus,he's the one Luddite in my world who's not on Facebook or Twitter so he's not wasting, er spending, his time on social media.

Then the boys went on to say that I sit in front of a computer and go to meetings all day.

Once again, my 5 and 4 year old sons left me speechless, for they were right.

We type. We meet. We sip. Sometimes all at once.

Preconceptions of a Porn Star

I harbor my own stereotypes, preconceptions, misconceptions, prejudices, if you will.

So let me just say that if you are a 40-something male sporting a mustache that requires combing, a thick gold chain with a nautical knot and Italian horn, a shirt unbuttoned to your navel, exposing a shag carpet remnant, tight jeans forcing me to have impeccable eye contact, and you approach me and my boys at the playground, my inner voice is screaming porn star!

Seriously, dude, you can't come to a park looking like your resume hails from behind the purple velvet curtain at your locally owned video rental shop.

Letter to a New Year: Dear 2009 from a Head Case Oddity

Dear 2009,

Thank you for giving 2008 the boot. Of course, I was supposed to get the boots! I'm the one who asked for black stiletto boots for Christmas that I didn't get. Hmmph. Sure 2008 brought all kinds of whoopty-do in its paper sack of life's greatest hits: Mac Daddy and I turned 40, Bird started kindergarten, Deal saved the planet by ditching diapers and pull ups, we went to Disney Land, Barack Obama won the presidential election (which still makes me high just thinking about it), and all the goes-without-saying stuff that I won't say because well, it goes without saying.

2008 also kinda sucked in its own special the-sky-is-falling way. I mean we are in a recession and all. Virtually the whole world order is crashing at our feet that are clad with last fall's shoes because no one can afford to keep up with fashion anymore. Money matters have driven me to insomnia, a slow down in my business has caused premature graying (granted I'm 40 but I still feel like the gray is premature), I suffered an insufferable chronic cough for nine+ months and discovered some weird growth on my vocal chord, and my cat died. I know this last point comes as a surprise to many. It has been so heart breaking that I cannot bring myself to blog about it. Seriously. I'll get to it. I owe her some time in the limelight. 2008 also marked yet another year that kept us away from close friends. Damn fuel surcharges and obnoxiously high airfares stomped out our planned and highly anticipated trip to Europe with the boys. The raping of the American consumer continued.

Oh, I sound awfully negative and ungrateful, don't I? What a wretch am I. Full of venom here at Dirt & Noise. I am grateful for all the joys that 2008 brought. I am. Really. My family is healthy, happy, well fed, warm in winter, cool in summer, clothed, educated, and spoiled. There I go muttering all the stuff that goes without saying.

But 2009, please bring consumer confidence back to our lives. Rejuvenate the economy so that we can breathe the intoxicating scent of optimism again. Heal our wounds, mend our fences, stitch the fabric of our being, and throw us a bone and scratch our itches while you're at it. I'm also going to go ahead and ask for something that I bet everyone would add to the list but is too chicken to ask for: more sex. I figure the year can't be all bad since it does mark George Bush's final farewell, the end of arrogance and errors.

Bring back the good ole days, 2009. Keep us healthy, make us wealthy. And could you maybe cut Obama some slack? He's inheriting some pretty serious shit. Let's treat those little girls with some respect, mkay? Sasha and Malia don't need to be harassed like the offspring of Hollywood royalty. Basically, don't suck as much as 2008 and you'll go down in history. We're all feeling a bit spent so let's spend the new year being grateful, not greedy, honorable, not ornery. I'm not one for resolutions (no sense setting myself up for failure and disappointment), but I'll sign up for an attitude adjustment.

Thanks for obliging, 2009. I'm looking forward to seeing what you bear in your sack of tricks. I'm going to do my part to make it a rockin' year.

Peace, love, and laughter.

A Page out of My Playbook

Ah, I can breathe again, let my gut hang out, my hair down. Mac Daddy is home. HOME! Running the household, taking care of Bird and Deal, working, and of course, blogging and tweeting, are pretty damn hard as an army of one. Mac Daddy's job beckoned so off he flew to Chicago for six days. Six. Days.

And you know what, it wasn't so bad.

Even I, the glass half empty, angry, whiny, pissy pessimist of a girl, saw the silver lining so bright that it was more than just a bright side. I got to spend time with my boys. We played games galore, we colored, we made Thanksgiving turkey art projects, we kicked the soccer ball, we told jokes, we read books, we snuggled, we tickled, we danced, we ate cookies and popsicles, we played with our food. You see, I'm not usually the "fun one."

Mac Daddy is the jovial ready-to-roll-around-arms-wide-open-kneeling-to-the-ground-in-an-enveloping-hug guy. He's the one who plays the role of banshee, super hero, spy, wrestler, dragon, wide receiver, and point guard. I'm just no good at that stuff. For starters, I don't know what a wide receiver and point guard are; I just heard the terms somewhere. Where was I? Oh, I play differently than Mac Daddy does. Pretty true for most moms and dads, right? Given the choice, the boys would way rather play all rough and tumble than the more cerebral, creative, and gentle ways that I play. Well, with Mac Daddy being gone, it was just the boys and me. Guess what? We had a great time.

Oh, the week was also hard. Tiring. Stressful. Hurried. But we had fun. I'm in no rush for Mac Daddy to take off for a week again any time soon, mind you. But when he does, we'll have a good time.

And just so you know, all THREE boys trashed the house wrestling and romping all weekend. They clearly made up for lost time.

His Future's Not Bright, Take Off the Blinders

I do not wish for a future like Levi Johnston's for my sons. The Republicans are saying "Life happens." In my world, Levi's situation feels more like "shit happens."

Take a look at Levi's MySpace page. He sounds like a typical uneducated, smart ass, punk, jock of a guy. Not the kind of gracious souled gentlemen I want my boys to become. I realize boys will be boys. The saying does not proclaim, however, that boys will be heathens. And if I had a daughter, hell if I'd want her to marry a guy like Levi. Take a look for yourself.

Excerpted from his MySpace page, Johnston boasts, "I'm a fuckin' redneck" who likes to snowboard and ride dirt bikes.

"But I live to play hockey. I like to go camping and hang out with the boys, do some fishing, shoot some shit and just fuckiin' chillin' I guess."

"Ya fuck with me I'll kick [your] ass," he added.

He also claims to be "in a relationship," but states, "I don't want kids."

His folks must be whiz bang proud. Yeah, I'm hip like the cool kids saying things like "whiz bang." I'm just happenin' like that, ya know.

I happen to know a few 18-year old boys. They are gracious, ambitious, polite, witty, and charming (not in an Eddie Haskell way). They have bright futures. The boys I knew when I was an 18-year old myself were as randy as the rest, but none would have sounded as egotistical, rude, and plain neanderthal as Levi Johnston. Nope, not son in law material for my girl (Granted, I don't have one.).

I'm simply saying that as a mother, I am appalled. Granted, perhaps naive too. When I read that MySpace page my heart jumped with a tinge of shame, worry, embarrassment, and even empathy for Mrs. Johnston. I am certain that she envisioned a different future for her son, as I do for mine. I am just struck my his seeming lack of empathy, brute ruggedness, and gross display of testosterone. What insecurity lurks behind all that machismo? I do not think those statements necessarily make the boy, but they sure lay one hell of a foundation.

Oh, and so much for not wanting kids. Is this guy really ready for fatherhood? I find it so unfair that we don't choose our parents. This child will come to the world with many strikes against him/her. Love is critical, yes. But what life lessons can a teenage mother and father impart when they have yet to experience life themselves? Cliche, perhaps. True, indeed. I write this without political motivation. I write this as a mother. As a 35-year old first time mother who still found herself floundering, hormonal, overwhelmed, awestruck, confused, excitable, moved, and impressionable.

Teaching abstinence in schools is plain irresponsible. The people who believe that teaching abstinence equates to taking the moral high ground might as well move to the lush savannahs of Africa and put their heads in the ground among a flock of ostriches.

A Baby Boy's Earth Shattering Beginnings

The earthquake in China got a lot of attention in the first few days, perhaps because a noted NPR journalist just happened to be there and brought some of the devastation to life. The catastrophic scale was clearly evident in the reporter's quaking voice. Professional as she is, even she could not dam up the welling tears during her broadcasts. Faithful NPR listeners felt the palpable pain and listened in horrors, mouths agape.

China to many of us is nothing more than one giant, albeit VERY giant, factory. It's a tag attached to our goods, sewn into our garments, with no faces, people, hearts, souls, and emotions tied to it. To many, China simply represents the new land of opportunity. Monetary, that is. Not the taste of freedom that defines opportunity for Americans. Greed, expansion, corporate bullying, government handshakes, profit margins. That defines opportunity in China. It has become a commodity. And commodities lack emotion or other humanizing traits.

And then the earth shattered.

China, for a brief moment in time, became real to us. We saw the masses as individuals. We were jolted awake to realize that these are people just like us.

I sat in my air conditioned home, seated on a scrumptious leather sofa, snacking on edamame and sipping 2 Buck Chuck while watching the horror unfold. The utter chaos was remarkable, heart wrenching, yet so distant, geographically and conceptually. I couldn't wrap my head around the seismic force of nature that instantly crumbled buildings and crushed lives. And the news went on. For days. Maybe a week. I walked furiously on the treadmill, headphones attached to my little TV monitor, so I could tune in to every speck of news out there. Of course the gym, with Bird and Deal safely playing in the Kids' Club haven, was the only place I could watch the news. Lord knows I didn't need to subject my little guys to that sort of devastation. I'm not ashamed to admit that I sniffled like a hay fever sufferer and wiped away some serious tears while burning rubber on that treadmill.

So what now? What's happened to those people? Where are they living? How are they faring? Will they ever rebuild their lives? And what, dear God, what about the children? What about the children left motherless and the mothers left childless?

My life is cake. And that's just mostly good fortune blowing kisses my way.

Here it is almost 2 months after the earthquake, and we don't hear squat about it. It was easy to watch the newscasts somberly, perhaps even shedding a tear or two, as I did. It was easy to get choked up and hug our kids extra hard for a while there. That wore off after meltdown #76. Then we simply switched the channel to watch HGTV's Design Star or something equally innane. Then media focused its fickle attention on matters like Hollywood's baby boom and the fall of Bear Stearns.

Our lives went on. And go on.

You must take a look at this. You will be moved, I assure you.

Dirt & Noise turns 100!

I've been thinking about what to do to commemorate my 100th post. This whole blogging this is new for me. It's fun. It's a way of life. I want to keep it up. I'd love for it to take me places. Alas, I'm at a loss for bright new ideas to mark my 100th post. 100 for cryin' out loud! Brain drain and the slow brain cell leakage of summer have set in. Alas, I'm settling for sharing 100 things about myself, the matriarch of Dirt & Noise. Sit back, grab a cocktail, hell, grab the entire shaker, and perhaps some No Doz to keep those lids open. You just might be amused or baffled along the way.

Thanks for sticking with me for 100 posts. Cheers! Here's to 100 more, many times over!

1. I don’t really know a damn thing about blogging. I’m just giving it a whirl as an outlet to write, test the waters, and see where it takes me. I’m hoping this becomes my job one day (lofty goal, I know!) and opens up opportunities to write more. I’ve encountered some incredible writers, remarkable stories, and cool cats along the way. And it helps me vent to ease the burden on Mac Daddy.

2. I’m not a picky eater at all, but there are five foods I won’t touch with a pitchfork: liver, lima beans, cherries, raisins, black licorice.
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3. Crème brulée is my favorite dessert. The Opera House in Madison, Wisconsin has the best I’ve had Stateside. Oh, and Mo’s Diner in Raleigh, North Carolina too.

4. Mac Daddy and I met at work. It was an illicit office romance, kept under wraps lest one of us get pink slipped. Or so we thought, everyone knew the gory details when we came out of the closet. The laugh was on us.

5. The sound of malted milk balls shaken in the carton is my favorite sound (aside from Bird and Deal busting a gut laughing).

6. Audrey Hepburn is my hero. I first fell in love with her when I was 16 and saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. I’m still trying to forgive Mac Daddy for not loving the movie as much as I do.

7. Shoes are my weakness. Handbags are my passion. Yes, I’m superficial and struggle with it everyday. I don’t pay full price for shoes, but a decent bag that will last a lifetime is worth every penny. To a limit, of course. Even my Fendi was purchased for half price at a rare sale at Galleries Lafayette.

8. I speak genug Deutsch et Français to get by. Bird will be learning French starting in kindergarten this fall.

9. I went to college in the same . I’m dying to go back even though I found it quite dull and sleepy growing up.

10. We didn’t find out the gender of our babies before they were born. I’d do it that way again even if I had 10 kids. It is truly life’s greatest surprise…and reward. And I’m no competition for Michelle Duggar. Two’s enough pour moi.

11. I can’t stand to be barefoot unless I’m on the beach or in my own clean house. This has more to do with cleanliness issues that my penchant for shoes.
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12. Red toenails make me happy. Well, just my own toenails. Not red toenails in general. That would be a fetish. And fetishes are creepy. The stuff that crams the Internet and our in-boxes with crap.

13. I’ve never been to a strip club. The thought of one saddens me.

14. I went to school in Nottingham, England for a bit when I was 11. The snooty kids in blue blazers with gold buttons and schools seals emblazoned over the left pocket teased me incessantly saying, “She’s the girl from VA-GI-NA!” instead of Virginia. That was my defining moment, forcing a shy geeky girl to stand up for herself. I came home a new, assertive, confident girl.

15. I’ve read everything that Barbara Kingsolver, Rebecca Wells, J.D. Salinger, Anita Diamant, Toni Morrison, Tom Wolfe, Amy Tan, F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.K. Rowling, Isabel Allende, and, John Irving ever wrote.

16. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret going to medical school. It’s not like I gave up the chance; I couldn’t pass the prerequisites to get in. Still, I love all things medical.

17. Purple is my favorite color, and I think orange is the most overlooked color. Pastel peach should be outlawed.

18. I think George Clooney dumped Sarah Larson to be with me.http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

19. I’ve seen Neil Diamond in concert eight times, Barry Manilow twice, Jimmy Buffett at least 12, the Grateful Dead about six times. I’m planning on seeing Journey, Cheap Trick, and Foreigner this summer. I bet you wish you were as cool as I am.

20. I count on my brother and to keep me up to date on pop culture and all things cool. So far they have their work cut out for them.
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21. I am a dork at heart. Hard to believe, I know.

22. I have a favorite temperature. 82 degrees.

23. I had bunion surgery once; it was worse than childbirth. I’ll never get the other foot done.

24. I used to be a 32 DD until Dr. Christensen came to my rescue in 1999.

25. Gossip Girl is my guilty pleasure. I’m in love with Penn Badgley.

26. I can’t ride a bike.

27. The worst thing about parenting is other parents.

28. I don’t have any friends who are shorter than I am. My 60 inches only tower over toddlers at the playground.

29. I love driving on smooth, freshly resurfaced roads with crisply painted white lines.

30. I believe in ghosts and life in outer space. It’s that whole belief in God thing that has me mixed up.

31. I hold my pencil incorrectly, which serves as a poor example for Bird. Nonetheless, I think I have lovely penmanship. Penmanship is so overlooked and undervalued in this technical age we’re in. Nothing beats a handwritten note on lovely stationery. I used to spray Wind Song on the letters I wrote to John Blackburn when he was away at camp the summer before eighth grade.

32. Helicopter moms stress me out and piss me off. I bet none of them reads my blog. Or at least none enjoys it and can relate.

33. My hope is that my boys grow up to be the best man at each other’s whttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifeddings.

34. I like my men clean cut and clean.

35. I use cheap shampoo and don’t notice a damn bit of difference when I use the good stuff. Hotel freebies are better than what I buy. And note that I’m not staying at the Waldorf or anything.

36. David Sedaris kills me. His brother did the in our house, and he sounds just like David.

37. I’ve written letters to only two famous people: Jimmy Carter and Lucille Ball. They both wrote back.

38. Baseball is the most boring sport ever. It should be five innings max. And they should sell beer until the game ends.

39. Sometimes I trip over my own two feet while standing still. I was not graced with an ounce of athletic prowess.

40. Extraordinarily obese people kinda gross me out.

41. Discovery Health is my favorite channel, but the ER shows freak me out.

42. My children have not made me want to poke fork tines in my eyes for two days now. They have actually been utterly delightful, and I haven’t raised my voice once. Mark this day as an historical event.

43. One time I threw an iron at Mac Daddy when we were fighting. It wasn’t turned on, but it was a crazy, nut job thing to do. I regret it still.

44. My letters home from boarding school bore the return address of “Foxcroft Penitentiary.”

45. I hate puppets and clowns. When I first moved to Minneapolis there was some weirdo hanging out at playgrounds dressed as a clown and wielding a machete. They never caught the guy.

46. I aspire to have my own habitable planet one day where I can make the rules. One rule would be no Republicans or other conservatives allowed unless in a mute, subservient capacity. Villainous, I know. No turning the other cheek for this girl. I am mad and want some retribution, even if it’s only in my imaginary world.

47. I am addicted to Chapstick and keep a tube in every bag I own, in my desk, in my glove compartment (Mac Daddy’s too), on my nightstand, and in the kitchen junk drawer.

48. I can put my whole fist in my mouth.

49. Funny people inspire and intimidate me at the same time.

50. Money does not drive me.

51. I wish I were 10 inches taller. I’ll never be able to dance with my head on Mac Daddy’s shoulder. Even Frederick’s of Hollywood doesn’t make heels high enough for that.

52. I aspire to be crafty. Somehow copying a craft idea from a family fun website feels like cheating.

53. Black and white photography moves me in ways color photos cannot.

54. Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West, with only our dear friends Shannon and Chris with us.

55. I haven’t slept through the night for a good year now. Call me if you’re ever up at 2:00 or 3:00 AM. I’ll either be Twittering, reading blogs, or window shopping on eBay.

56. I’ve donated my hair twice.

57. A fine watch is the best accessory in my humble style opinion. That goes for men and women. Nothing too glitzy and gaudy.

58. My best friend growing up was Portia. I never knew she http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifwas named after a until high school. Before that I somehow thought her folks were cool for naming her after a sports car. Portia had a dog named Ginny. I can remember the exact floor plan of her house, though it’s been a good 30 years since I stepped foot in it.

59. I hate cedar closets. Why do I want to nod off in sheets that smell like a hamster cage?

60. I am TERRIFIED of snakes. Even the illustrated ones in children’s books frighten me. Bird and Deal flip through library books to determine of there are any that I can’t read.

61. Though I never spent much time with my Nani, I remember the taste of her food as if a pile of home made, hot luci were piled in front of me. My mom’s cooking is pretty close to my Nani’s, but everyone knows that a grandma’s food is the best.

62. Crunchy, not creamy peanut butter. Definitely not creamy.

63. Sitting on the dock at the University of Wisconsin Union with Mac Daddy, Tony, and Cathy on a perfect summer day (see #22) was one of the most carefree, decadent, fun times of my life.

64. I love to cook and wish I could master a roast and gravy like my mom’s.

65. I cannot bake a thing. Not a damn thing. Not even slice and bake Pillsbury cookies. Not funfetti cake in a box. Not even the cookies that come sliced and ready to bake. I mean it. Just ask my family.

66. I am tone deaf but played the trombone for four years. I was even in the marching band and was the only girl in the entire brass section. I chose the trombone because I wanted to initially play the drums, but my band director said, “Girls don’t play drums. Now pick something else.” My way of flipping him the bird was to choose something equally unladylike and dared him to tell me no twice.

67. I have just discovered tennis and I am addicted. I love it for the exercise, the fun, and the flirty skirts.

68. I have only one giant eyebrow. The fine ladies at Hayes Barton Nails ensure that I fool the world into thinking I have two separate ones.

69. I don’t understand a thing about home schooling. In fact, I think it’s kinda strange.

70. I have a pair of jeans from high school that I can still wear. They are tattered in a way that only Amy Winehouse would sport, but I won’t part with them.

71. I know every word to Paradise by the Dashboard Light and American Pie.

72. My eyesight improved with each pregnancy. Now I don’t wear glasses or contacts anymore. Those babies gave me back fat, but at least my eyes are 20/20.

73. I hated Star Wars, Star Trek, Spaceballs, and all the Police Academy movies.

74. I don’t have a handy bone in my body. There are at least three nail holes behind every picture I’ve hung in our house. Luckily my friend Christy loans out her husband Dominic to be our personal Schneider.

75. I love being part of a big family. Mac Daddy is from a family of six kids and umpteen nieces and nephews. I don’t love it enough to procreate more.

76. I am both ecstatic and a bit saddened by the fact that I will never changhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gife diapers again.

77. When I was in high school I had a poster of David Lee Roth hanging over my bed. I also had one of Sting with a cartoon bubble stuck on that read, “Will you be wrapped around my finger?” I had no idea what those dirty connotations were back then.

78. Send me dendrobium orchids if you ever want to impress me, suck up to me, or cheer me up.

79. There is no room for hypocrisy in my world. Closed minds are also not tolerated.

80. I wish I had the confidence, talent, smarts, and humility that my friend Tonya has.

81. I wish I had the good nature and discipline that Christy has.

82. I wish I had the sense of humor that Tony has. I’ve mentioned him a lot. He’s one of my favorite people.

83. I joke that Mac Daddy married his trophy wife the first time. We all really know that the truth is, I so married up. I thank my lucky stars every single night that he chose me. And then I pray not to fuck it up.

84. Cream cheese frosting is my weakness. The fake canned stuff. Whipped. Just a finger full every time I open the fridge. On the sly, of course. I must set a good example for Bird and Deal, right?

85. Once I had an Excel database of homonyms. Think about it. Homonyms are freakin’ everywhere. Where. Wear. Ware. See? Sea.

86. Numbers elude me. I could never grasp the concept of intrinsic value when I was learning math in first grade. Why is 1 + 1 not 11?

87. I hate nature. This is becoming a problem since I have two boys who love to explore in the woods and pick up every creepy crawly that winds its way onto our path. I’m trying to keep my disdain for nature under wraps lest I set a bad example. You sensing a theme here? By the way, my dislike for nature in no way means I do not support saving nature. I’m all for protecting the planet. I just don’t want to touch anything dirty, slimy, fuzzy, wet, or sticky.

88. Baths are gross. We don’t even have a tub in our master bathroom. In boarding school we only had tubs, so my long hair used to get stuck down the drain when I washed it. Plus, I don’t the concept of sitting in my own filth. You know it ain’t Calgon turning the water that funny shade of beige.

89. If we had a daughter we would have named her Audrey. See #6.

90. My dad and I have a strained relationship that is perhaps beyond repair, yet he has taught me everything I know and set the example I follow to be a good, decent human being and parent.

91. I learned to laugh and enjoy what life throws my way from my mother.

92. We hate George Bush so much in our household that we refer to the boxwoods in front as shrubs; no mention of the word “bush” in our home unless you desire a lashing.

93. All my cheering at the North Carolina Obama rally left me without a voice for four days. Four whole days of not being able to yell at my kids and order around my husband.

94. I love my Apple. Not enough to name my child Apple, however.

95. Tetris is the most advanced video game I’ve ever played. It stresses me out. But now I want a Wii. Surely it will help my tennis game.

96. Madison, Wisconsin was my favorite place to live. We’d still be there if it weren’t winter for more than half the year. The Union is the best place on the planet to chill out.

97. I was once a groomsman in my friend Marc’s wedding. I did not wear a tux. He and his wife had the good sense to let me wear a dress and stand by the groom. I’m pretty sure this was Julie’s doing.http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

98. Once as a bridesmaid I had to wear a with a dress that looked like Scarlet O’Hara’s drapery couture. The bride and I are not friends anymore. It had nothing to do with the hoopskirt. Really.

99. I can pack three week’s worth of stuff in a rolling carry-on suitcase. Not including kids’ stuff, just mine. I’ve done it. I never checked a bag until I had children.

100. I am my own best audience.

Baring Claws

Here's a snippet of John Dickerson's article on slate.com entitled "Obama Wins Split Decision." You can read the whole article here. Dickerson's words are far better than the rant I was conjuring up.

"When Hillary Clinton questioned Gen. David Petraeus last September, she famously said that to believe his description of progress in Iraq required "a willing suspension of disbelief." After the Indiana and North Carolina primaries, the same may now be true about her case for winning the Democratic nomination. It's not that she can't win, but with only 217 delegates up for grabs in the six remaining contests, the scenario for victory has become more fantastical, narrow, and painful.

Clinton won Indiana, but, as she pointed out repeatedly to Petraeus, individual victories—even a surge of them in Ohio, Texas, and Pennsylvania—don't change the whole story. The larger reality still holds. Barack Obama has the lead in elected delegates and the popular vote. Those leads increased Tuesday as he widened his margin by 15 delegates and roughly 200,000 more votes. For Clinton to move ahead in those numbers now, she must bring more states into the union."

It seems to me that Hillary is trying to claw her way to the top of a scratching post that has lost its carpeted sheath. This makes it even more evident to me that she's in this race for herself. To outdo her personal best. A mere check mark on her life's oneupmanship to-do list. I'm not seeing any gumption for the people, the issues, the paradigm shift that our country so desperately needs. After Hillary's plea for money in her Indiana victory speech last night, she just seemed pathetic. Hanging on to the shred of carpet that was worn off ages ago.

By the way, I am indeed on a first name basis with Hillary. She branded herself that way to seem more accessible and open. As with all brands, the promise must deliver. It didn't.

Now don't get me wrong. I started out a Hillary supporter. My family has a long love affair with the Clintons. When my mom shook Bill's hand at a book signing she called me and vowed to never wash her hand again. I too met Bill, sax in hand, when I was in college and first getting involved in and excited about politics. We all defended Hillary's universal health care proposal and thought she was not given a fair shake. We dissed the men who were so obviously threatened by her, for she is a woman who is undoubtedly bright, fierce, distinguished, and tenacious.

What tugged at my doubt in this campaign were the elements of warmth, empathy, passion, and earnestness that were clearly missing from her long list of values and attributes. I found myself supporting Hillary because she is a woman. And only because it would be amazingly cool and empowering to have a woman in the Oval Office who is not serving (or servicing, a la Monica) the President. I found myself moved emotionally, and into action even, when I learned more about Obama. He made me hungry to learn more and motivated to do more. That's when I shifted my allegiance. Simply having the X chromosome wasn't enough. I wish it were, for I still hope to see the day a woman rules this country.

But for now, let's just sew up the oozing abdominal wound in the Democratic party and move on. Let Hillary exit with grace and dignity. And a standing ovation for her efforts. But please, pass the baton to Obama, and let's kick McCain's war monger ass.

Tagged.

High Heeled Mama tagged me to share 7 random facts about myself. Oh, it will be hard to keep it to 7!

Rules are as follows:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share seven facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. For many, many years (I actually lost count.) during my grade school and middle school days, I slept on my bed in a sleeping bag. Being the neat freak that I am, I found it easier to roll up my sleeping bag, tuck it away in the closet, and straighten the bed before going to school. Not making the bed was (and still isn't) an option so it took less time in my hectic mornings before school to just use a sleeping bag.

2. Audrey Hepburn has been my idol since I was 16 years old and saw "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for the first time with my friend Nancy. I own every book ever written about her. The "Breakfast at Tiffany's" movie poster hangs in my office over my desk. The Italian version is propped up on a table across from me, and a pencil sketch of Audrey is on my bookshelf. Two guesses what our girl name would have been had Mac Daddy and I had a daughter.

3. There are only five foods in the world that I will not eat: liver, lima beans, cherries, raisins, and black licorice. Otherwise, I am likely the least picky eater you will ever meet.

4. I have mingled with and broken bread with several famous baseball players during my charity event days in Minneapolis. I never recognized a single one of them and had to be told who they were. This includes the likes of Bobby Bonilla, David Justice, Cal Ripken Jr., and Kirby Puckett.

5. I can put my whole fist in my mouth.

6. When I lived in Minneapolis I broke out in an inexplicable rash. Doctors later revealed that it was urticaria, caused by exposure to the cold. See, I told you I was allergic to those frozen tundra temps.

7. I played the trombone in middle school marching band. I was the only girl in the whole brass section. This was after I informed my band director that I wanted to play the drums. He said, "Girls don't play drums. Pick something else." I figured he wasn't going to say no twice. You can probably tell that the flute was too wussy for the likes of me.

I said I'd share 7 random facts about myself; I never promised that any of them would be interesting!

Now here I go tagging 7 more lucky bloggers out there.

1. Crouton Boy
2. One Chic Mama
3. Ginny
4. Mom 101
5. Crabmommy
6. Friday Playdate
7. Misfit Hausfrau