The Day My 6 Year Old Asked Me About Abortion

I drive by a particular Catholic church in my neighborhood almost every single day for one reason or another (mostly because that route leads to Target and Trader Joe's). Normally I'm a big believer in letting people believe whatever they want. While I am a vehemently opinionated soul, I do not use my breath to spew my ideals to anyone who will listen (As for this blog, you choose to come here, right? No prodding or payment from me. No payment for me either, for that matter.). I don't believe in proselytizing. I don't believe in incendiary messages spouted from soapboxes. I don't believe in subjecting children to hideously complicated adult paradigms.

What I believe is it is my job, my duty, my honor, to protect my children.

Please check out my post on Deep South Moms about what has me up in arms about what this particular church is doing to pollute precious, innocent minds.

Here's a hint:

No mother of a six year old should have to answer the question, "Mommy, what does 'abortion kills babies' mean?"

I Just Don't Get It

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


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

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

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

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

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

Ferrets. And their owners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

The Monsters Among Us

My fair city of Raleigh has seen its share of shame lately. It is not even October, yet monsters lurk among us. They disguise themselves as our doctors, neighbors, bankers, teachers, pastors, colleagues, friends. Believe me when I tell you that there are indeed monsters underfoot. And you never know when one is going to send you in a tailspin.

A successful doctor killed a promising young ballerina just a week ago. He was drunk, careening his Mercedes at twice the posted speed limit and ran a red light. This case has me reeling, and I can't seem to shake it. Taste my venom on the story here.

And today, I read in the paper that someone I know awaits sentencing for child pornography. David Chatham. Someone I have broken bread with. Someone I respected. It makes the skin on my neck shiver into icicles just to write these words. As a mother, nightmares such as this are the fibers my worst fears are made of. One of the excruciating details of this story involves a six-year old boy.

The same age as my Bird.

I taste bile and hate and disgust and repugnance when I think of it. My skin shivers, and my eyes get crossed at the back of my head. My heart races, and my fingers gnarl into stiff clenched fists.

To know this man, to have sat across the lunch table and the conference table from him on multiple occasions, makes the facts of the case surreal and more potent.

The reporter's coverage fuels my disgust. I don't know if Mandy Locke is a journalist, a tabloid reporter, or a public relations spinner. What I can tell you is she's likely not a mother. At least not the kind of mother I am.

Let's start with the headline:
"N. Carolina Man recalls how porn obsession cost him his life"

I don't give a damn about his life! He's a grown man who made choices. Don't play the victim fiddle here. This headline is all about the criminal, laying its case for the subsequent sympathetic angle the story unfolds. Nothing other than getting caught fueled his desire to seek help.

And here's the disclaimer that follows:
The following story contains explicit descriptions. Readers may find portions disturbing or offensive.

Is this what sells papers these days? Boy am I glad we canceled our News & Observer subscription a few weeks ago. The term "child pornography" is descriptor enough; readers do not need to visualize any more than the horrific images those words conjure up. It is unprofessional, insensitive, and plain blasphemous. The writer takes the cheap, shock approach here. The heinous details do not improve the story; they simply show that the writing is amateur tabloid journalism at best.

This is how Cornell University Law School defines child pornography. Suffice it to say I couldn't stomach reading past the first few lines. Even the legal mumbo jumbo is painful to read. We certainly don't need Locke's shock value details to complete a story here.

Read on to see how the writer paints this man in a victim's light:
"These children weren't real to him. They had no mothers or fathers, no baseball games to play, no school field trips. There, on a flat computer screen, Chatham convinced himself this was make-believe. He didn't hear their screams, didn't notice their vacant expressions. This was his personal, private fantasy, and they were actors."

Actors?! You have got to be kidding me! Even if they were actors, they were CHILDREN. Children acting in ways that no parent, not even the worst of the Toddlers in Tiara breed, would consent to. These kids were not acting, you dumb ass. They experienced horrific crimes of humanity acted upon them. Without their consent. Without a choice. Without a voice. These are someone's sons, daughters. Innocent no more. Hell on earth that will burn the flames eternal wherever people like Chatham and his ilk end up.

Transparent spinning:
Clearly admitting culpability, finding God, and promising to help others are the ingredients to spin a tale of forgiveness for any crime. No one knows this better than David Chatham, the consummate public relations spinner. And here he goes down spinning his own crisis management tale. He must have still had some press contacts on his side to yield a story like the one in the News & Observer.

Let's add to the cliche to show him in Bible study and toss in references to his discussions with his pastor. And is he welcomed and embraced by the same church that has banished homosexuals from its ranks? Let's hammer home the sad, pathetic story line of the supportive wife awaiting his return from jail by focusing on their whispered I love you's, frolicking in the waves over the summer, and forfeiting of the wedding ring as he's whisked off to jail while she raises her ring in a show of solidarity. Let's milk those cliches to play us all into seeing him as a do-gooder who's found God and wants to help others stricken with his "craving," as he puts it.

A craving is sneaking shots of Ready Whip in your mouth at 10:30 PM when you need a sugar fix, not amusing yourself with pornographic images of children being obscenely defiled.

This is how Mandy Locke describes Chatham:
"Chatham is a public relations specialist who knows the power of a compelling story and the need to get ahead of a negative one."

No shit. This article is nothing more than transparency at its finest. David Chatham turned to God and promises to repent simply because he got caught. I see nothing earnest and genuine here. What I see is someone monstrous.


And now a word to my local newspaper:
New & Observer, you failed. You failed your readers. And worse, you failed our children. It is incumbent upon every single one of us to protect our children. When we fail to protect them, we must step in to advocate for them. We owe our children every ounce and every breath we can muster to keep them from harm and punish those who harm them.

We must adopt a zero tolerance policy for such unspeakable crimes against children. We must equip parents to be vigilant. We must encourage parents to trust their instincts. We must serve our communities one child at a time.

Mandy Locke's article made no mention of the lifetime of pain these children endure. No mention of resources to seek help. No mention of empathy for the real victims here. The David Chathams of the earth do not deserve to be within reach of our heartstrings.




Since the newspaper provided no information or resources for parents and care givers (or even just concerned citizens), I will do so here. Here is the website for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. And here is where you can find more resources on the sexual exploitation of children. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children also has a cyber tipline. You can access it at www.cybertipline.com or call 1.800.843.5678.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

A Pedestrian Topic

Dear Walkers of White Oak Road,

Please do not glare at me as I drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed limit. Always.

Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.

But I see you, in your matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks. I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh, 3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.

I happen to be a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks; that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk. Danger! Danger! Danger!

From the myriad skateboarders, bikers, scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind curves, don't walk on it. If you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.

You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.

Sincerely,

An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger

High Jinks

The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.

Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.

The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.

There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.

I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.

Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).

I think I just wrote her match.com profile.

Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.

Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.

The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.

Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.

Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.

Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.

Kidz Bop Suckz

I hate Kidz Bop. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. For starters I can't stand when companies spell words in a cutesy way, especially when it comes to children. Here I am trying to teach my just-learning-to-read rising first grader that the plural of "kids" does not end in a "z." Of course he argues with me because he holds up the damn Kidz Bop CD case as evidence. Granted, Bird is a contrarian by nature (just like Mac Daddy, ahem, just sayin'), but in this case he's not being argumentative. I am a mother and a marketer, and in both roles I can't stand cutesy spelling. It's no different than the nonsensical babytalk that the Rugrats and Wonder Pets babble. All that Ga Ga is Ka Ka.

Those baby voices and Kidz Bop make my ears hurt like the entire city of Cleveland grating their fingernails on a chalkboard in unison to the beat of Rock n' Roll Hoochie Koo.

Unless my children are the ones singing, I have no interest in hearing a bunch of kids sing. Sorry, folks, but that ain't music to my ears. Kidz Bop takes top 40 pop music and records a bunch of kids and tweens singing those songs, many of which would not make the parental rating cut in my house. When the lyrics include things like "just shut your mouth" or "stupid," I turn it off. Likewise when the lyrics crank out some homeboy garble and attitude like "witchchoo" instead of "with you." Obviously poetic license reigns in song writing. For adults. Kids's music is a different story. I cannot stand the too cool for school attitude and lost innocence of youth that Kidz Bop purports. Besides, the original is always better. Kidz Bop bastardizes the songs, making car rides painfully numbing.

I think such music perpetutates the grown-up-too-soon attitude, lack of manners, and disrespect in the same way that all that writing on the hiney of girls' pants does. It's simply not age appropriate, not that words sprawled across one's fanny is ever appropriate. My sons are almost 6 and 4. They got those damn Kidz Bop CDs in McDonald's Happy Meals, that are age appropriate (And save the McDonald's lashing for another day, folks. Yes, we eat there occasionally and dig it. Move off the soapbox.). Personally, I think it was a sucky move for McDonald's to include those CDs as a Happy Meal toy. I'm all for music instead of made in China junk, but at least make it good music that isn't so precocious. I don't know about you, but I see plenty of bratty kids running amok. The last thing I need is for those kids to start cranking out orders for chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side.

There's plenty of good music for kids out there. I don't buy a lot of music that is kid specific, but my boys do listen to music not in the kid genre that is perfectly fun and appropriate. Here's a sampling of some staples on our iPod:

Journey - especially Don't Stop Believin'
Abba - Mamma Mia is a crowd fave.
The Beatles - We even build an Octopus's Garden every time we go to the beach.
KC and the Sunshine Band - Boogie Shoes gets us all dancing.
Cats soundtrack - Magical Mister Mistoffeles just might be our next cat's name.
Jimmy Buffet - Chanson Pour les Petits Enfants is a sure fire way to chill out the kids. And it helps with the French lessons.
Squirrel Nut Zippers - Just fun to jam to
Beach Boys and anything beachy - Good ole happy tunes with a bit of shag mixed in
Bare Naked Ladies - Fun music, but I just tell Bird and Deal that the band's name is BNL.

And these days there are plenty of good bands out there geared toward kids. We just saw Dan Zanes a few nights ago, and the show was fantastic. I'm ready to be a groupie! The Sippy Cups are also fun without being dorky (OK, but a bit of dorkiness is part of their appeal.). They Might Be Giants is awesome music whether it's the original stuff or their kid stuff. I mean really, "A little birdhouse in your soul" is so lovely and lilting. And they all beat the freaking Wiggles by a long shot.

Palin/Coleman 2012

I hate to give Sarah Palin any air time but I must shake out the fuzzy details of the nightmare I had recently. I realize that statement is redundant.

You see, Mac Daddy likes to watch a bit of news before he hits the hay. The man is a news junkie, yet he somehow manages to also be tuned into all the latest hip hop and R & B music and slang that the cool kids are mumbling. I'm pretty sure he's not getting all that from the same source. Last I heard Anderson Cooper (heart be still!) wasn't beatboxing the headlines. Do people still beatbox? Is that even cool anymore? Clearly I am not the one in tune with music, unless you count anything from the years 1985-1986.

Mac Daddy and I are not generally TV-in-the-bedroom type of people but we do have a wee 13-inch television in our room. The thing is so small that Mac Daddy, with his bat in broad daylight vision, cannot read the news crawler or sports scores from bed. That is a sign of how small the TV screen is, not how enormous our bedroom is. I, however, can see the crawler and scores perfectly. Oddly enough, my eyesight improved with each pregnancy. Those boys gave me back fat, but at least I don't have to wear glasses anymore. I realize this has nothing to do with Sarah Palin. Well, she does wear glasses so I guess my non-sequitor is a sequitor after all. Anyway, I hate to watch the news before bed. Nothing like some sad, maddening, irritating, explosive news to bid you off for a journey into dreamland. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is; I don't need visions of Sarah Palin taunting me. And I sure don't need her whiny croak to be the last voice I hear before I fall asleep.

Because when the stars misalign, I have nightmares.

If both Sarah Palin and Norm Coleman tapped you on the shoulder while you were wasting away in Margaritaville, you'd bolt upright in bed too. All I heard was their inane chatter and Coen brothers' Fargo accents guffawing at deafening decibels in my dreams. I saw their Crest Whitestripped teeth glistening in their caricature smiles. My god, those two are living caricatures anyway! They were holding up a slew of sandwich boards, signs, stickers, banners, and other such paraphernalia announcing their bid for the White House in 2012. Palin/Coleman 2012. Shall I get you a bucket to toss your cookies in? I might have been dry heaving in my own dream. I'm pretty sure I was at least quivering, shaking a fist. It was one of those moments that I was asleep but knew I was dreaming. No matter how I tossed, turned, and stole the sheets, I could not wake up. Try as I might, I couldn't shake those two party crashers. It was as if Sarah and Norm were holding my eyelids shut and my brain tuned into their song and dance routine. "On with the show!" they barked.

Nothing like a presidential run from two people who are more cut out to be pageant contestants than running mates. Oh wait, Sarah Palin already did that, right? These two Limelighters thrive on speculation. They are ringmasters in their own media circus. Have I mentioned before that I loathe the circus? That's another story...

Let's see here, Norm Coleman fought, fangs and claws gripping at shredded threads, for a Senate seat he lost to Al Franken. He left his state in the hands of resident Nut Job Michelle Bachman while he tied up state resources to overturn Franken's win. Way to leave the people voiceless, Norm. Wow did he act like a high school forlorn boyfriend grasping pathetically to hang on to the girl. There comes a time when you must realize your options are exhausted. If Coleman really wanted to serve his state, he would have stepped aside, oh, seven months ago. He was in it for himself, not to serve his people. Duh. Transparency in government, right?

And then there's ole Sarah Palin, still trying to play the victim while she plays us. We are all on to her, aren't we? Tell me there aren't still Palin lovers out there. She's not even finishing her term as governor, and the half she did serve was spent mostly on the campaign trail in her $500 boots. I suppose Alaska will be in better hands now, right? Perhaps less soiled hands anyway. I don't really care if she writes a book, hosts a talk show, or runs off to the snowy wilderness to be seen only by the Planet Earth film crew. I just want her out of my life. If she continues to force feed herself to us, she's making herself a part of my life. An unwelcome part. America will never grow, improve, and thrive with the likes of her in the captain's chair.

It's time we arm ourselves with smart people at the helm. People who give voice to the mute, a hand to the disenfranchised, an olive branch to the enemy. Contrary to popular belief, and admittedly the bias of this blog, there are smart people on all sides...dare I say some smarter than others. Can we just agree to keep Sarah Palin off the national collective radar? Her 15-minutes expired months ago, and the clock battery died.

I need my sleep. And I could use some Disney-esque dreams to come true.

What America needs is less hubris, more humility.

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Stepford Mom Encounters

Snark alert! If you are searching for a feel good story about rainbows and unicorns and a couple hand holding verses of Kumbaya, look elsewhere. In fact, you'll never find that here so surely you're misdirected, misguided, or mistaken.

I happen to live in an area teeming with Stepford Moms. I bet they lurk where you live too. I have a hunch their uniforms are different in each locale. Surely the Stepford Moms inside the beltline of Raleigh don't look like the hipster chic moms of Santa Monica or the earthy bohemian moms of Portland. I'm talking about the women who have dogeared Lisa Birnbach's Preppy Handbook and are on the perpetual hunt for the ideal bloody mary recipe. The prep school crowd, whether they went to one or not.

Full disclosure, I went to prep school and I live in the same zip code in the same coveted neighborhood as many of these moms. I am not, repeat not, one of them. For starters, I am likely one of five brown people in my whole zip code. I've met one other brown person who happens to be a good friend (but not just because we're brown). The Stepford Moms are not brown, at least until August after three months of sunning themselves at the beach or the club. They don't grace the municipal city pools, no siree. I'm talking about my town's version of Kate Middleton wannabes. A whole swarm of women Holden Caulfield would loathe.

Allow me to illustrate my point. Here's what I just saw in a habitat known to be a common gathering ground for Stepford Moms, the public library, in said zip code.

It is fact that these women have fantastic taste and svelte pilateed bodies. Not a thigh touches or an ass sags, breasts are perky, natch (with the help of Doc Op or Wacoal). The majority of the Stepford Moms are blondes, approximately 2% of them are natural blondes. Not a soul has red hair and freckles. The typical outfit on a spring day consists of white designer jeans with a striped grosgrain belt (mostly I see Paige, J Brand, Hudson, or Citizens of Humanity: the Sevens are reserved for roughing it on the playground or for preschool volunteering), Tory Burch flats in colors that are not practical in the least bit but nonetheless fabulous (lime green, orange, mustard yellow), Lily Pulitzer tunic or Trina Turk ruffled blouse, hobo or otherwise slouchy bag (lots of Kooba and Marc Jacobs), Nicole Richie-esque sunglasses bearing an obvious logo perefectly propped upon their heads (I'm guessing there are a lot of fake Chanels.), and something monogrammed, like a sunglass case, library tote bag, or water bottle koozie. And monogrammed children are a given. I could write a whole separate post on the culture of monogramming among this set. These are not women who buy clothes at Target, Old Navy, or god forbid, the thrift store or yard sales.

The Stepford Moms chatter about all of life's most important topics. When to go to the beach, what private racquet club has opened up the waiting list, tennis match pairings, nanny bargains, private school application pitfalls, sample sales and boutique party nights, Bunco, diamond cleaning, interior decorating guffaws, and the latest fiasco involving the help (their word, not mine). From what I've overheard, the economy, health care, education, reproductive rights, civil liberties, civil unions, equal pay, planet earth, or CSAs do not creep into conversation, even in passing. I'm guessing these women are not Facebook fans of Rachel Maddow or NPR. But maybe I don't give them enough credit.

What strikes me is not just the apparent shallowness of this ilk; I am in awe of how they all look and talk and laugh and point and toss their hair in the exact same way. I swear if you put a Glamour magazine black bar across all their eyes you'd think you were looking at the same woman. Apparently individuality is not a core value among this set (my favorite quote ever about individuality is found in this song).

They all try so hard to be the same, sound the same, think the same. It seems to me that they are afraid. Afraid to be themselves, to stray from the crowd, to think irreverent thoughts, to break the pink and green mold, to turn their paradigms sideways and backwards and upside down. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of not belonging. Afraid of being singled out. Afraid of being exposed. Afraid of being an individual.

What scares me is a flock of lemmings.

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.

Bra Makers Take Note

My new bloggy friend San Diego Momma inspires me every Tuesday. 10 minutes. 250 words or fewer. One letter of complaint.

Dear Bra Manufacturers,

Must these contraptions be so f-ing uncomfortable? Seriously, wires that dig into my belly shelf, bands that squash my squishy parts, straps that slip off when the wind blows, and cups that crinkle in the wash do not a decent bra make. And don't get me started on the sizing. I worked at Victoria's Secret one summer after college. I know what shenanigans you people are up to.

A bra's intent is to support and shape breasts. Breasts of all women, regardless of age, size, or state of motherhood. Why is it that the only bras that seem to fit are the cute little microfiber ones made for the AAs out there? I'm a solid B, and nothing fits. Nothing. I've been to the German matriarch of the lingerie department to be professionaly felt up (er, fitted) at Nordstrom. I half expected her to whip me with the seamstress tape hanging around her neck. She steered me to the Wacoal section. You know, the $60 bras. Was that Boob Frau on commission?

I'm just asking for a bra that is actually as comfortable as my microfiber Calvin Klein seamless undies. Must looks, comfort, and functionality be mutually exclusive? Let's consider technology today for a moment. We can collect dirt samples from Mars and help a man give birth to a baby girl.

Why are we so rotten to our breasts? Surely we owe them more than you offer.

Uncomfortably yours,

Momma Dirt & Noise






If you want to read a real letter of complaint I wrote a while ago, take a look here. Warning: it's long.

September 29, 2006

Gerard J. Arpey
American Airlines
333 Amon Carter Boulevard
Fort Worth, TX 76155

Re: Customer Feedback

Dear Mr. Arpey,

Is American Airlines so successful that the company is ready to bid farewell to an entire segment of customers? Does the customer matter at all? If you’re trying to discourage families with children from flying on American Airlines, you’ve accomplished your goal. Just note that you might want to rethink your “Customer Service Plan.”

Customer Service Plan
American Airlines and American Eagle are in business to provide safe, dependable, and friendly air transportation to our customers, along with numerous related services. We are dedicated to making every flight you take with us something special. Your safety, comfort, and convenience are our most important concerns.

I was flying with my two sons, ages 3 and 15 months, from Chicago’s O’Hare to Raleigh/Durham on Tuesday, September 19 at 12:35 PM. Since my husband had to stay on in Chicago for business, we chose a direct flight for the sake of everyone’s sanity and comfort. It was our first time flying as a threesome, though we have traveled across the country extensively as a family. My boys are already seasoned travelers and like many children, they are fascinated with planes and pilots. They were excited, not wary, of the trip. I, on the other hand, was wary. I prayed for timeliness, good behavior, cooperation, and the kindness of strangers.

As an über-prepared mom, I packed all the essentials and tricks to keep the boys safe, fed, clean, and occupied. Now imagine this, I am a five foot tall, 100 pound woman carting a lot of gear for the flight – stroller, backpack that was stretched to the max, and a child’s backpack full of toys and books, not to mention two small kids in tow. The boys were both well dressed and well behaved – model citizens to make a mom proud.

We normally fly on Delta, where the service and help have been impeccable. Someone is there to help us get situated, fold the stroller, chat with the kids, and even hold the baby if necessary. Even from my days as a frequent business traveler, Delta was my carrier of choice. Call me spoiled, but I had grown accustomed to such stellar customer care. And yes, I choose my words wisely; I mean care.

My experience on American Airlines was quite the opposite. There was no chitchat with the kids or offers of help. Sure, not everyone likes children, I didn’t either until I had my own, but I expected some grain of care and assistance when a mother is traveling alone with two small boys who are helpless on their own. And keep in mind that my children were cooperative and well behaved.

Here’s how my American Airlines experience played out:

1) I managed to get through security with two children in tow who, like I, had to take off their shoes and be cajoled through the metal detector. As you can imagine, it was chaotic trying to get everyone’s shoes back on, setting up the stroller, repacking the laptop and bag that were opened up for screening, and reloading everything. The security personnel was incredibly patient, helpful, and friendly. They helped me set up the stroller and engaged the boys in laughter while I got things settled. Since security was my first stop on this journey, it was encouraging to get through with so much help. I commend O’Hare’s security team for being both thorough and friendly.

2) When the flight was boarding, my three year old said he had to go to the bathroom. Zone 3 was boarding, but we were in Zone 5. I asked the gate agent if we could board early so I could take my son to the bathroom on board the plane. Her curt answer was “You have 15 minutes before the gate closes.” Not quite understanding her point, I asked again if we could board. Keep in mind, time is of the essence when a recently potty trained three-year-old says he has to pee! The gate agent again, more curtly this time, said, “I told you. You have 15 minutes.” I was dumbfounded! This lady was not going to let me board early with two small children, one of whom had to use the bathroom! Luckily we rushed to the bathroom and made the flight in time. Even strangers were gasping at the gate agent’s reaction.

3) Once on board, I was offered no assistance getting my kids situated and buckled in. Note that the flight was not full, and I was the only one traveling with children. And by the way, I purchased three seats for our family to allow the most comfort for fellow passengers and us. For the wellbeing of my children and all passengers on board, I planned to travel during my baby’s nap time. He was sleeping soundly over my shoulder just before take off. I was holding him securely with both arms wrapped tightly around his back and waist. Note that a rear-facing infant is the safest position for car travel so I figured the same must hold true on a flight.

The flight attendant woke up my child and made me turn him around for take off. Needless to say, he was cranky (who wouldn’t be if you were suddenly jarred from a much need slumber?!) and could not get back to sleep. This left me with a cranky baby on my hands, and the plane got an earful of whimpering for two hours. Of course I want to honor safety first. I take no issue with doing whatever the rules dictate to follow safety guidelines. If indeed facing forward is the safest, I should have been the one to awake my son and try to reposition him. Instead, he was startled awake by a complete stranger in his face.

4) When the flight attendants brought out refreshments, I asked for a small bottle of water for the three of us to share. She gesticulated pointing to the whole plane and rudely said, “I only have a large bottle of water for the whole plane.” Every other flight I have taken provides small individual bottles of water so I didn’t think I was asking for anything special. Then I asked for one small cup with no ice. Then the flight attendant accusingly asked, “So you didn’t bring your own cups?” What ?! I did bring cups of milk for my children but was unable to load up on anything but essentials for this trip. Like I said, I’ve always had small bottles of water on every other flight. So, in the end we got one cup of water with ice.

The cart was gone before I could ask for a cup with no ice as I originally requested. Now imagine balancing this ice and water filled cup with a squirmy baby on my lap. I was trying to give my children a drink without spilling. Most importantly, I was trying to keep my laptop dry, which is the one thing that kept my three-year-old entertained, quiet, and well behaved for the duration of the flight.

5) After we deplaned, I was waiting for our stroller. And by the way, my three-year-old thanked the flight attendants and pilots without being prompted by me – another model citizen moment to make a mom proud. We were still waiting when the last people left the plane. The flight attendant asked me why I was just standing on the jet way so I explained we were waiting for the stroller. She shrugged and did nothing. The guy who brought out the jet way ended up going downstairs to get my stroller. He opened it up for me and apologized profusely.

Not one flight attendant or crew member was helpful from the gate at O’Hare to the jet way at RDU. In fact, I sensed hostility towards us from the beginning. My children were well behaved except for some fussiness from the baby. There were no meltdowns, screaming fits, whining, or uncontrollable crying. There was admittedly non-stop chatter from my three-year-old until we could turn on a DVD, but that is to be understood by anyone who has experienced the curiosity and wonder of a child. Fellow passengers were courteous, understanding, and even helpful. The kindness of strangers was underscored, while the rudeness of paid professionals was disappointing.

Is this the brand experience your big marketing dollars support? Are utterly poor service and rude behavior the hallmarks of American’s brand promise? Do you see no equity in your brand after all these years? Is it really just about dollars and cents; are people (customers!) out of the equation? So much for lifetime customer value (remember, my children are already frequent flyers, and their mom is a marketer).

I won’t choose or recommend American Airlines again, even if that means I forego a cheaper fare. The bulk of customer compromises just aren’t worth it. I’m going to stick with Delta, who never fails to deliver at every customer touch point. And believe me, everyone I know will hear an earful about this travel experience. Hopefully you can make amends to welcome other families traveling. “Something special in the air” takes on a whole new meaning now.


Regards,
Ilina
Mother, Seasoned Traveler, Influencer, Marketer


PS
I’ve sent this letter to Delta too so they know they’re doing something right.



cc:
Isabella D. Goren
Daniel P. Garton
Ralph L. Richardi


Jerry Grinstein
Lee Mackenczak

The Outcome:
American Airlines sent a form letter (postcard, actually). Several months later I got a $100 voucher with no letter or instructions for use. Turns out I had to redeem the damn certificate at the airport. A customer compromise even when it's an apology (lame as it was)!

Delta's president Fed Exed a handwritten note and two remote control airplanes and T-shirts to Bird and Deal. I love that the shirts were printed in retro airplane graphics instead of Delta branded merchandise. Still have those planes in the toy box. Still love Delta.

What's Buggin'?

In light of the 136 mosquito bites I got just in the time it took to walk six blocks to Rite Aid and back, I am posting about random things that bug me.

1. Mosquitoes, natch. I am allergic so the little bites turn into giant welts. Now I look like someone took a switch to my legs. Poor Deal has inherited this frailty from me.
2. I bet Posh Spice has a kick-ass kitchen. The woman clearly doesn't eat so I imagine she doesn't cook either. In general, one must cook to eat, no? I see a lot of take out cartons in the Beckham household. Somehow I don't think Posh dons an apron and makes homemade cookies, flour flying everywhere, butter dripping on the hardwood floors, mixer thingees being licked. That's what I did with Bird and Deal today. A warming drawer would have helped. So would a Kitchen Aid mixer.
   
3. Kids with bad manners is one thing. I have no tolerance for adults with poor manners (granted, they started as kids with bad manners). Guess what Lady in the Stationery Shop, I am not interested in the hives and red splotches on your nasty-ass scaly feet. Do not take off your sandals so I can get a better look. The absolute last thing I want is a closer look. Your feet make Mac Daddy's feet look freshly pedicured by the adorable Vietnamese ladies down the street.
4. The sound of a cat puking. Must it sound like a waterfall of guts spewing out? I love my Casey, but the nightly throw up is putting unconditional love to the test.
   
5. Nature. Why can't it just be brightly hued blossoms sitting pretty, sedating streams trickling, lazy clouds puttering, dolphin-rich waves billowing? I don't need the itchy grass, relentless weeds, creepy crawly critters, bugs whizzing, snakes slithering, rocks underfoot, or dirt of any kind.
   

So tell me, what's buggin' you?

A Blogger Mom's Week in Review

I've taken to carrying around a wee notebook and jotting down things that strike me. I feel like a reporter, minus the press pass and fedora. I do have a degree from a journalism school. Now I know how the editorial half must feel.

I see the world through my own two eyes. Incidentally, it used to be four eyes, but my eyesight improved with each pregnancy. I got a wrinkly stomach and back fat, but at least something actually improved on my body. Once I had kids, I started to see the world through their eyes too. And oh, how delightful that has been! Since I started blogging, I've begun to see the world through Dirt & Noise lenses. What would my readers get a kick out of? What inspires me? What can I teach or change? In essence, I take note of things that are blog-worthy. Does this officially make me a "blogger?" I dunno. I don't get paid (though I wish I could figure out that one!) and I'm not one of those viral blog celebrities. I blog because it's cheaper than DSW therapy. And I really dig it.

I'd like to share the items that made the notebook cut. So here are the noteworthy events of my first week as an official blogger, in no particular order:

I don't have any ribbon magnets on my car. I have a University of Virginia decal and Obama 08 bumper sticker on my car. And the registration and inspection stickers that are chronically overdue. I cannot keep up with those ribbons and have no idea what all the colors mean, except for the red and pink ones. On my way to the gym the other day I noticed a navy blue magnetic ribbon on the back of a Mustang (not a cool old one, mind you). I paused to look and boy am I glad I did! The magnet, with tongue fully implanted in cheek, read "Support lap dancing." Come on, that's funny stuff! Deal asked me why I was laughing, and I hadn't even realized I was laughing aloud.

One morning post workout (man, I sound like an exercise maven...I assure you I am not...see back fat comment above), Deal and I went to Starbucks for a treat. We were sitting outside in a somewhat swanky part of town. Let's put it this way, it's where the middle school girls get weekly mani-pedis and have designer handbags that cost more than three months of our mortgage payments. I was not shocked to see a well coiffed gent in uber preppy attire. Khaki pants with no pleats and a tish droopy, blue oxford cloth shirt, blue, red, and yellow striped prep school tie, Weejun loafers sans penny, Omega watch. And get this, white socks. The kid he probably just worked out in. This is the South. No socks would be perfectly acceptable, but white socks?! No way. It gets better. He also had a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck. I was prepared to see those Croakies lanyard thingees that are ubiquitous among men down here. But no, this prep of the white sock clan chose to hang his reading glasses on a jerryrigged strand of mardi gras beads. New at your neighborhood Brooks Brothers perhaps?

When I dropped Bird off at camp one morning there was a white Suburban parked next to me. That damn vehicle was so big it was practically parked on me. I feel no pity whatsoever for that guy's fuel bill. On his car was a bumper sticker that said "Honk if the twins fall out." What the?! I am amazed at what messages people feel inspired to advertise on their cars.

I am guilty of exposing my children to bad music. For this I feel some shame, but mostly I see humor. I was unexpectedly surprised in the car the other day when Bird was singing along to Scotty's Lament by the Connells. I was a huge Connells groupie back in the day. I have all their CDs (and some on cassette, which tells you something). I can't bear to get rid of my Fun & Games T-shirt. You can imagine my utter delight and downright giddiness when I realized Mike Connell himself lives down the street from me. He's a lawyer now but will always be a rock star to me. And you know what? He's a super nice guy who asks about Bird and Deal and is quick to share a smile. And then my friend Will introduced me to a couple of his friends at political event a while back. The guy looked so familiar, but I couldn't place him. He took the mike and I knew instantly...George Huntley! My friend is friends with George Huntley! How could I continue to act laid back and cool when I was thrust back to a 20-year old groupie?! I told Bird about how I loved the Connells (still do, actually), showed him my CDs, and then whispered that one of the singers lives down the street. Bird was duly impressed. That might compensate just a tad for the other musical damage I have inflicted.

Is there anything grosser or funnier than an obscenely fat kid belching at 53 decibels? And no, he did not pardon himself. That wasn't so funny, but proved to be a good teaching moment for the boys.

I am in love with Eric Stolz of Singles, the Waterdance, and Mask fame. You will be too when you hear him sing this. Bird and Deal dig the song Snuggle Puppy, and we sing it to each other in the car. It was my lullaby of choice when I realized Bad to the Bone was a poor choice.

Deal and I went to the children's museum last week. Being the naysayers of Team Tardiness we are, we were at the front door as the clock struck 9:00 so we could be the first (the first!) people there. Though we have been there, oh, seven million times this summer, Deal was as excited as if he were yelling Wake up, Jeff! to Jeff himself. Those little three-year old legs barreled their way up the ramp, leftover jigglies of baby fat still bouncing. God, I love those mushy thighs (not so much mine though). There is nothing cuter than the canter of a slightly off balance preschooler.

I just bought two new bathing suits. I tried on 95 just to settle on those two. No kidding. 95. It tooks 3 1/2 hours and it wasn't fun. Imagine my horror when a saggy, wrinkled tattooed grandma with about four gold hoops in each ear and an organza ribbon in her hair at the pool was sporting the same suit I just bought. I didn't think a ruched brown tankini was so Golden Girls (no disrespect, Estelle!). Luckily I had worn it to the pool the day before so there was no Us Weekly "Who wore it best?" contest. And then another grandma was wearing the bikini that I had in my hand at the register and decided against at the last minute. What totally bummed me out? She looked better in it than I did.

Also at the pool was a heated game of Marco Polo going on. Marco! Polo! Marco! Polo! Gosh, that brought back memories of childhood at the Sugarloaf Pool. My brother and all his buddies tricked me into thinking they wanted me to join their reindeer games, when in fact they used me as their Marco Polo pawn. Rule number one of Marco Polo: don't play on or near the steps. This is basic pool etiquette, folks. Mac Daddy and I were trying to safely guide one kid who's learning to swim while trying to cajole the other one into the pool to at least get his feet wet. There were noodles flying, dive sticks sinking, floaties floating away, beach balls bouncing, children wailing(well, maybe just Deal was wailing, but it was loud enough to count as multiple children). One of the Marco Polo kids rammed into me while I was minding my own business floating lazily on a noodle. No big deal. I'm sure I did that too back in the day. Imagine my horror when that five-year old little shit looked me in the eye and yelled, "Get out of my way!" WWHHAAATTT?! I know this makes me sound old but I'm going to say it anyway. Kids today! Geesh.

Lastly, I would just like to share what Mac Daddy is doing right now. He's watching his second episode of VH1's I Love Money. That's TWO episodes. Back to back. I don't get the premise of the show and cannot get past the extraordinarily high cheese quotient. The collective IQ of the participants is just slightly higher than George Bush alone in a room with a bag of pretzels. And guess what? Mac Daddy is laughing ALOUD. Over and over again. He's gonna love reading this.

I guess there are things in life that are even more than notebook-worthy.

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.

Good Riddance, Jesse Helms

I am not from North Carolina, though I've lived here for over six years now and have no intention of leaving any time soon (only because Madison, WI is too freaking cold!). It is home, and I have a lovely, happy life here. When asked where I'm from, I always answer Virginia (with a qualifier that I live in North Carolina). It's where I grew up after all. And let's be honest, once a Virginian, always a Virginian. My friend Will gives me grief about not claiming NC as my home state. He wonders how long I must live here for North Carolina to qualify as my answer when the knitting chick next me to on a plane asks me where I'm from.

At this rate, never. I'm a bit miffed at my state right now. They just laid Jesse Helms to rest this week. Good riddance. Mac Daddy and I saw him at a local restaurant when we first moved here. When Mac Daddy saw him, he muttered under his breath, "I'd like to knock that walker out from under him." Apparently his mutter was more of a snort, so lots of people looked our way. Only a couple folks smiled sheepishly in agreement, expressing their solidarity more with their eyes than their words. Ripping on "Uncle Jesse," as our conservative neighbor calls him, was clearly against the rules in our new state.

I remember growing up in Virginia hearing about the racist vitriol that spewed from his lips. I remember my parents shaking their heads, thinking damn, I'm glad we don't live there. My nanny, a black woman with grown children and four grandchildren, has lived in North Carolina for decades and had to experience Helms' racism firsthand. A local newspaper columnist summed up what the Helms way would have meant to the black people of North Carolina. This is a man who was a vocal segregationist, openly discriminated against AIDS victims by opposing federal research and treatment dollars (PSHAW to his later regret...too little too late, my friend), and was opposed to instituting Martin Luther King Day. Social conservatism, ha! That's putting it mildly. This is a man who referred to our state's flagship university as the University of Negroes and Communists (UNC)!

Jesse Helms was a divisive man. His first bid for the Senate centered on a separationist philosophy: "He's one of us!" barked his slogan in response to his Greek-American opponent. Remember Ryan White? The kid who contracted AIDS at age 13 and subsequently died? Helms refused to speak to Ryan's mother when she went to the Hill to speak to representatives about AIDS research funding. Know what he said about the horrific disease? "There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy." Oh, it gets better. Know what he did to Carol Moseley-Braun in the elevator? He whistled Dixie. Yup, sure did.

You gagging yet?

Simply put, Jesse Helms was not a good man. I don't care how affable or gentlemanly you perceived him to be. A tip of the hat and a hidy-ho with an offer of a glass of sweet tea to passers by do not a gentleman make. Does a truly friendly, good natured man wish for the demise of an entire race? Good people do good deeds and inspire goodness. Helms fueled a racism and xenophobia so deep and hateful that it is still palpable today. Is this goodness? Are these the kinds of values you want your children to live by and pass on? I am sick that North Carolinians voted for this man for so long. I am sick that in death, North Carolina revered him.

No flag should have been flown at half staff if you ask me. Just because a man is dead doesn't mean it is time to celebrate his life. Grace does not befall the fallen if it was not due in life. Helms lived his life trying to suppress the rights of others; his was not a life lived by the decree of respect for all. So tell me, Governor Easley, why should we bestow respect on this man by flying flags at half staff? He was not worthy.

You can imagine my outrage at this.

I want Mr. Eason to run for office. If more people lived by their convictions as he did, we might be a better place. Sounds like the spirit of Paul Wellstone to me. Man, would he have been a refreshing jolt to the red blood running through the veins of North Carolina. Now let's think about something, police officers accidentally shoot and kill people and get a temporary desk job until the proverbial dust settles. Eason refused to lower the flag for Jesse Helms and is fired...oh, I mean forced into "retirement." Just or unjust?

Here's a comment from a local blog that a delusional Kristy left. It's almost laughable to me that people actually believe this crap. Last I recall from my history class days with Ms. Malone (and I majored in history in college), the nation was not knit together by God and the bible. Um, separation of church and state ring a bell, Kristy? Oh, you were probably homeschooled so you missed that chapter. I guess you don't know who Darwin and Martin Luther King Jr. are either. For starters, Kristy, your message would be more tolerable with some proper grammar and a comma or two. Punctuation simply can't be overlooked, my dear. If you're going to spew a load of crap, you might as well do it correctly.

1. "What a great Senator Jesse Helms was. To have never lost a political race is quite an accomplishment. I hope those who have opposed him realize that those who voted him into office are walking along side you even now and are continuing to vote for the values Senator Helms upheld. Knowing this state put him into Senate for as long as they did is only one of the many reasons I am proud to be from North Carolina. If you saw him in a negative light I implore you to look beyond secondhand information and read first hand his voting record (which is public information for those of us who like to make up our own mind about things rather than having our opinions handed to us by a third party). He believed every person was created equal in the eyes of God and voted to protect each one of this states citizens, even those who hated him. As for moral issues, if you disagreed with Jesse Helms and oh so many other more conservative thinkers please don’t take it out on us because sadly we can’t take credit for the ideals we try to uphold but rather look to God and the Bible from which the nation was knitted together. That is definitely who your disagreement is with."

   By kristy on Jul 10, 2008

In the South it would be perfectly appropriate to recount Kristy's story and end with a, "Bless her heart." Translation: "That Kristy is an idiot who refuses to take off her blinders. What a shame we have to deal with her."

Sick About Being Sick

I don't like to shake hands. Not because I'm snooty, though I admit I can be. Because of all those nasty freaking germs out there. Like tampons, handkerchiefs, and mascara, some things should not be shared. I'm uncomfortable touching other people's hands, especially strangers. Think about it. Do you know where that hand has been? What's worse is when you do know and someone juts out her manicured hand in a gesture to make corporate niceness. No thank you.

I'm talking to you, Roxanne! I know you don't wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, even though you're dressed to the nines, fooling your minions into thinking you are a maven of cleanliness and perfection. Even my boys know better, and they scrub extra hard after a few good plops in the potty. You, Roxanne, are a germ infester. And I know you don't give a rat's ass about sick days, considering you once sent a CAB to your 10-year old daughter's school to pick her up when the nurse called you at work saying your child had a fever. You were the boss, the head honcho, the big cheese, and you kept on working, even though telecommuting and working from home were acceptable and even encouraged at the time.

And by the way, you were still at your desk when I left at 6:00 that day.

Germs make us sick, and I don't want to get sick. I work for myself and don't have the luxury of paid sick days. On those days that mucus flows like Niagara Falls, I simply work in my bubble and stay away from clients. I do have the luxury to be productive in my own wee little world. I was struck to learn that about half of all private sector workers don't get paid sick days either. Are you as incredulous as I am? Did you naturally assume you have paid sick days? Better rifle through that new employee handbook that HR handed you on day one with the soggy sandwich in orientation.

Raise your hand if your kid has been in daycare/preschool/school/gynmastics with another kid who has clear case of the runs or a runny nose?

Raise the other hand if you have ever pumped up your kid with Tylenol/Motrin/Benadryl to mask a minor ailment because you couldn't afford to take time off from work?

Now how does it feel to be sitting at the coffee shop/your desk/library/McDonald's (yes, they have free wireless!) with your arms up in the air?

Seriously, those parents, most of 'em anyway, aren't to be blamed. The finger pointing goes beyond the mom and dad just trying to get by (especially these days!). The fault lies with the system. If bosses like Roxanne don't value paid sick time, who will? Clearly the people in the C-Suite have the pull, and they're pulling in the wrong direction. That leaves us parents being pulled in all directions.

As a culture, it's no secret that we value productivity more than people. It is a utilitarian (not to be confused with Unitarian) society indeed. I could even make the leap to call our philosophy Darwinism, but some folks out there don't want to hear all that crazy talk. Just take a look at the state of our healthcare, maternity and paternity leave, heart disease rates, and poverty levels. For a first class developed nation, we pretty much suck at the things that make, and keep, our citizens happy and healthy. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Does that ring a bell? All that productivity is literally killing us, but hey, those fine folks at Halliburton and their ilk are making a killing. Our culture, policies, politics, and philosophy must change.

If you think it's tough to juggle work and family when you're sick, just wait til you add ailing parents to the equation. Now that's some murky territory that you definitely don't want to be treading in. It takes a village, my ass.

THE MAN, you know, the one we all work for, is a bastard. Make that with a capital B.

Click here to tell THE MAN what you think. The hard work is already done, thanks to the fine moms at Moms Rising.

I'd like a side of advice, please.

Dear Dowager at Panera,

Was I asking for your advice? Did I look like I wanted some advice? Do you have a shortwave receptor to my brainwaves to detect I was in need of advice? Was I wearing a T-shirt pronouncing, "Go ahead, give me your opinion?" Um, no on all counts.

What exactly made you think that I was interested in your unsolicited advice?

Do I give a shit that you have eight grandchildren and raised four children? The act of simply having 'em does not qualify you to dole out advice, lady. Let me see some SAT scores, job evaluations, eHarmony profiles, psychiatric evaluations, sperm donor applications, and resumes before I choose to take advice from you. For all I know those kids of yours are whack job Neo-cons who actually think Bush has done a great job in office. For all I know those grandkids torment preschoolers on the playground and sneak weed from their parents' sock drawer. For all I know those kids eat applesauce with their fingers because they never mastered those fine motor skills that their parents deem overrated.

I am not interested in talking to you. Especially about my children. Sure, if you want to chat about the weather or how busy the parking lot is, I'm all ears. I'll at least grant you smile and head nod like I do when I hear "Hey Mommy" for the 1400th time in a day. But don't come to my table and inquire about what my kids are eating. And do not park yourself next to us and wince, groan, or sigh every so often when you look our way. If it wasn't such a pain to make two kids move, carry three trays, and keep track of a teddy bear, I would have switched tables. Oh, but then I wouldn't have blog fodder, would I?

For the record, my kids have astoundingly great eating habits. A grilled cheese panini on wheat bread with some fruit and an organic yogurt is a perfectly acceptable, healthy even, meal. Have you checked out the sales of Lunchables lately, woman? I assure you that crap will never make its way into my shopping cart. So what if Bird and Deal had a chocolate milk treat? Don't assume that they belly up to an Ovaltine tap at home every night. And seriously, you're hung up on cheese? First of all their dad is from Wisconsin so there's no in hell we're giving up cheese. Secondly, cheese represents truth in advertising because it really does make everything better. Thirdly, did I mention it's not your business? Um, as I recall, I wasn't talking to you and was avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Bird and Deal exhibited excellent table manners that day. For a 3 and 4 year old, they exercised amazing restraint, sitting quietly while I happily munched away on my salad. They actually ate half of my salad. Did you notice that? Oh, I suppose not. You were probably scouting your next victim. Your snorting and omigoshing made way more noise than my kids did. And yeah, we totally noticed you were eavesdropping on our conversation. That's why we talked in our super special, ultra secret spy inside voices.

You should be ashamed and embarrassed. Did you realize that all the other people in our vicinity were staring at you aghast and giving me consoling looks of sympathy (and glad they weren't your prey)? Of course not. You were too busy being self-righteous. Here's a tip, next time you feel the urge to inflict your opinions on a mother, leave. Walk out. Go to your car and talk to yourself. People will be more forgiving if you're busted talking to yourself than if you're chastising a mom who's just trying to get her kids fed before nap time.

By the way, when we got back in the car, away from your creepy watchful eye, my kids asked, "Mommy, who WAS that old lady and why was she talking to us?"

My sentiments exactly.

Signed,

A Bad Mom Trying

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.