Moonlighting

I've been moonlighting.

Read here about what I think of being called Mommy.

And here's a blurb on the book that changed my life.

WRAL GoAskMom: I Get Around

While I might seem like a willy nilly blogger here at Dirt & Noise, I assure you I am no slacker. I've been writing at other places and have been too busy to even get the word out. It's ironic that I write about myself and am a marketer yet neglect to pimp myself effectively.

Don't hold it against me.

I'm contributing to WRAL's GoAskMom blog these days. Check out my post about eating out with kids here.

And if you want to read the weeks you missed, you can find them all here.

I Get Around.

Lest you think me a slacker, I figured I'd share some other tidbits I've been writing. While Dirt & Noise is my home in this web of a well, The Web, I do settle my boots to dry in other equally inviting spots. None, however, so out of OSHA filth and decibel level standards as this honky tonk.

From my Foodie Mama Outpost:
Check out one of my new favorite dishes that hails from my very own kitchen. Now beware, I don't really use precise measurements so don't curse me if you can't cook and muck this up with your own messed up teaspoons and metric conversions. If you just cook with your gut and trust your hunches, you'll serve up some splendid suppers.

Gnocchi. Butternut Squash. Mmmmmm.....


And those uber cool women at Silicon Valley Moms actually let lil ol' moi contribute to their regional blog, Deep South Moms. You'll see that I do an inordinate amount of bitching over there. It's all easier to swallow if I end each post with "Bless her heart."


Here's what I had to say about what I think is the worst part of parenting.

Journal Therapy

When I was a junior in high school, Mr. Harrison made us keep a journal. I found writing cathartic, as I do now. I never looked at that black and white composition book as homework. I regarded it as an extension of my brain, my heart. I could be creative or sassy or impudent. I wrote with unabashed flair about my crushes, my longings, my worries. I didn't care that my English teacher was reading. I got lost in a world that was 100% my own.

My pen my voice, my paper my therapy. And being the anal perfectionist that I was (rather, am, ahem), I used lined paper only. Still do.

One of the most simple exercises I'd write every so often was a list of 10 things that made me happy and 10 things that made me shudder. It's been a good 20+ years since I've done this, but here goes:


10 Things That Make Me Smile

1. The sound of Whoppers when you shake them in the cardboard container. Try it. It will make you want to dance.
   
2. Smores. Preferably cooked over our outdoor fireplace, with the boys and I eating the marshmallows before they hit the graham crackers.
   
3. The sound of my Bird when he says "Bye bye, Mommy" as he ambles out of the car to school in the morning.
4. I'm Not Really a Waitress on my toes.
5. Chai, the homemade kind with honey instead of sugar.
6. Deal's voice when he mispronounces his "l's" and turns them into "w's."
   
7. Mac Daddy when he sends me a text message just to tell me he loves me.
8. Fall cooking; nothing like the smell of root vegetables roasting!
9. Indulging in People magazine and not having to pretend to be erudite and deep at the coffee shop.
10. Discovering blueberries in my freezer.
    

10 Things That Make Me Gag

1. Ill mannered people.
2. Spam, in my inbox and the icebox.
3. Camel toe and Tammy Faye mascara clad women at the gym.
4. Discovering snot or other bodily juice on my shoulder...at the end of the day when I'm changing out of my clothes.
   
5. Hearing "Stop that or I'm going to spank you" in the grocery aisle.
6. Men who leer and can't make eye contact.
   
7. Gum stuck under the restaurant table.
   
8. My kid rolling said gum around in his hand.
9. Fathers who call parenting their own children "babysitting."
10. The smell of my car when it rains: a most unfortunate lingering effect of leaving my sunroof open during a torrential downpour.
    

So tell me, what makes your Smile/Gag list?

Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Dirt & Noise Featured on My NC!

Click over to about 2:52 to see what Ginny (of 30 Threads and Ginny from the Blog fame) says about Dirt & Noise on this morning's My NC.

Now visualize me reaching behind the stretched out bra straps and folds of back fat to give myself a big ol' pat on the back.

Grin.

BlogHer 09 Requisite Recap

I am always amazed that people who didn't give birth to me or otherwise contribute to my mere existence, people who share my last name, people I pay, and people who know me up close and personally read my little blog. My readers are better than a live audience (mostly because I'm not affected by any rotten eggs or tomatoes aimed at my head and no one counts how many glasses of wine I polish off). I count my readers as friends and fans, affectionately known as frans.

I finally got to go to BlogHer in Chicago last weekend. I met many bloggers whom I have been stalking and adoring for ages now. We are not all just a bunch of words and mouse clicks in the blogosphere; we are people. We all have a story. In many cases, we have been reading each other's stories for a while. We exchanged knowing glances and shared personal jokes, even upon having just met. There were hugs and squeals and "Oh my Gods!" and high fives and fist bumps and ass taps. Or maybe that was just me feeling up the rocking Silicon Valley Moms in the photo booth.

I laughed with my new friends. With some I cried. We broke bread. We toasted. We got snap happy. We ate cake. We wore McDonald's paper bags on our heads. We tickled our funny bones with feather boas. We cut a rug.

In a word, meeting my blog crushes was...

exhilarating.

And I am cursing for not having a freaking camera. Note to self: buy a pocket doohickey to tote around.

I should have packed Depends because I about peed in my britches when I met Ree, Redneck Mommy, Vodka Mom, Backpacking Dad, Black Hockey Jesus, Jessica Knows, NYCity Mama, Maggie Dammit, Bossy, Stephanie, Neil, and so many more whose business cards are squirreled away in a box on my desk. I would have asked for autographs but I was too chicken just like the time I saw Melissa Gilbert in an antique dress shop in Sausalito when I was 12.

I don't give a rip about the swag, but the BlogHer parties were cool. I especially enjoyed the endless supply of cheesecubes, coffee, and sweet tooth aphrodesiacs. Oh, and the champagne cocktails at the Nikon soiree. I hear there were some swag hags ruining it for the rest of us, but seriously people, BlogHer was about the people, not the free shampoo, socks, and laundry detergent. All the sqeeing and peeing was worth it. My favorite bloggy friends live in different time zones than I do. I hate that I'll have to wait a year to see them again (Yes, Mac Daddy, I'll be going again next year.). I met amazing people, and that's not even including Carson Kressley (sarcasm people, saracasm).

Most people thought I'd be taller in person and even seemed a tish disappointed to see all 60 inches of me. Perhaps I need a disclaimer in my header stating "Beware, blogger's voice appears larger than her person." Someone I met at a Triangle Tweetup once told me he was disappointed to meet me in person because he thought I was more fascinating online. Um yeah. I was floored by that too. I didn't ask him to expound; I just ran to a corner and wept. In any case, I was delighted to meet everyone in person, live in Memorex. Blogher was a bloggy honeymoon for me.

And now Mac Daddy can stop calling all these twitterific folks my imaginary friends.

Word Up

I hereby present to you a challenge. A word challenge. Insert evil laugh here. Bwahhhhhh!

Following are Bird's spelling words from the Word Puzzle Box in his kindergarten class. Use them in order in a sentence. I'll award the winner bragging rights. Consider it my MasterCard gift to you; it's priceless.

Now tie on those thinking caps and get ready to write!

Shell
Mucous
Land
Foot
Tentacle

Dear Diary,

Before there were blogs there were diaries. Diaries scribbled in purple glitter pens and #2 pencils. I was a diary kind of girl. I remember having a Holly Hobby diary with a tiny gold key when I was a kid. That key was pretty flimsy so I knew better than to write anything damning in it. By damning I mean anything about boys, my older brother, or my parents' constant fighting. I did write about how that neighbor girl Anne stole my turquoise and silver horseshoe shaped ring. Instead I even left the diary open in front of her in hopes that she'd read it and know that I was on to her. I also wrote about inane things like what I wore to school. I chronicled every outfit I wore for a full year in fifth grade. I know, I know. Boring. Imagine if that were my blog. Even my own family wouldn't read it. But that was only the beginning of my diary keeping.

I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of Europe and India. I kept a travel journal on every trip. On one trip through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy I jotted down every meal I ate. Thankfully I didn't count the calories. On an annual Key West trip I used to capture funny quotes that anyone in our little foursome said. Most of those are not fit for blogosphere consumption. We still read those quotes when we get together and bust a gut, our guts a bit bigger than they used to be.

My mom happened upon a travel journal I started 24 years ago to the day. The first entry is March 8, 1985. I was 16 years old, traveling alone from boarding school to visit my mom in Washington, D.C. Here's a taste of my high school junior self.

"I'm on the train now so this is gonna be pretty messy. There are a ton of CHAUD guys in today. I played my moves cool and ended up sitting beside a good catch. From a distance he looks just like Scoot (minus the braces). Close up he looks like a cross between Scoot and Michael. Not bad! In front of me is a tall, good looking golfer and skier (he had one helluva time getting on the train with golf clubs and skis!). A couple of seats behind me is a real sexy guy who is a chich dresser. He kinda resembles Stephan but this guy is plus chaud. Scttered around up front are various fellas, most of which are rated as at least an 8.5. This is great! Well, I better aller. I wish it wasn't raining. Tres depressing!"

Now for the writer's scalpel.

I told you that tidiness has always been paramount. I even felt the need to justify messy handwriting. Notice my fine use of French. I'm certain Madame Pealer, my high school French teacher, would be proud. I love how I thought I had any moves, much less cool ones. I still don't have any moves, at least any that don't embarrass my kids and Mac Daddy. As for Scoot and Michael, I have no idea who they are. Did I really know a boy called Scoot? Was he named after a verb or a dog? And exactly how much does a 16-year old girl know about sexy? I mean, it was 1985, before girls shopped at Hoochies R Us. And again I ask, who was Stephan? Was there a foreign (s)exchange student I've forgotten? Clearly those hot guys made a lasting impression. I'm also curious what constitued an 8.5, much less a 10. Clearly the hot boys were not enough to perk me up from the rain.

Suffice it to say I simultaneously cringe and crack up reading this. A peek into my 16 year-old self sure makes me damn glad to be 40. We'll wait and see how these blog's words make me feel 24 years from now...when I'm 64. Cue the Beatles.

The Birth of a Writer: On Why I Blog

I've been blogging at Dirt & Noise a little over a year now. I started just to have an outlet to write and get thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Well, proverbial paper. I missed my gig at the local newspaper and figured a blog was the next best thing. Soon I learned that blogging was even better. My readers are my editors. And my fans, my cheerleaders, my challengers.

Then blogging became a part of me. An addiction if you will. It also transformed me.

I think it's safe to say that all the crazies having a dance party in my head were causing a fair bit of anxiety in my overall being. I often felt overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the same time; a strange paradox of an existence. I was full of energy and ideas. And admittedly full of piss and vinegar. I was a veritable rolodex of zany ideas and blasphemous thoughts. I was all dressed up for the dance, but there was no high school gym decorated for the big event. And so there I sat alone with my thoughts, billowing tulle falling at my ankles, patent leather slingbacks slung through my manicured fingers.

And so I created my own dance party.

I blog for the obvious reasons. It's fun. It's an exercise in writing. It's a storytelling wonderland. It's a walk down Memory Lane. It's a way to share out of the ordinary anecdotes with friends and family. But it's so much more.

Blogging is therapy, but a whole lot cheaper. And thankfully for Mac Daddy, it's also way cheaper than retail therapy. Blogging forces me to dig deeper than I would otherwise let myself go. I come face to face with some buried emotions and experiences. I reflect on my own brand DNA, my shortcomings of motherhood, my worries, my celebrations, my fears. Some things I've seen crop up in my head are still too painful or controversial to manifest into words. But thanks to blogging, they're there, off the so called back burner and poised for capture and introspection.

Blogging also makes me think. I see life's events great and small through a different lens now. Rather I see them through various lenses. I can leverage my words to share ideas, heartaches, causes, or simply reflections. I can even use my words for good. Through my writing I vent, rant, judge, wail, and whine. I also use my cyberspace real estate to inspire, promote, tease, and tickle.

I have always aspired to be a writer. When my hopes were dashed to get into medical school, I turned my dreams to writing. Then the real world whacked me upside the head and forced me to get a job. A paying job. After years of building a retirement nest egg from the tender age of 22, funding an obscenely expensive graduate school run, and starting a family, I have decided that now is the time. The time is now to put my writing goals in overdrive. So my blog provides me with fodder for that book deal I covet. I won't see my name embroidered on a lab coat but I just might see my name on a book jacket. A girl can dream, right?

And so, my blog gives me a voice.

Delurking Day: Lurk No More

Today in the place I call my second home, the Blogosphere, it is Delurking Day. What? Heavens no, you haven't heard of it?! Truth be told, I hadn't either til Goon Squad Sarah turned me on to it. She did not turn me on, mind you. Not in that way. Although she probably could. That Sarah is something else, I hear. Word gets around this lil Blogosphere. I'm not starting rumors but I'm just sayin'.

Back to today's point.

If you read this blog but never comment, go on. Do it. Get dirty. Make some noise. All the cool kids are doing it. If you've never left a comment on a blog before, free yourself today. Now's your chance. Embrace this global holiday in the spirit of blog peace. Cross the ole "leave comment on Ilina's blog" off your checklist of 2009 goals. Try it. You'll like it. I swear. One lousy little comment won't hurt you. Just this once, I promise. If it doesn't feel good you don't have to do it again. But I bet you're gonna like it. Do it. Just do it. If Nike can just do it, you sure as hell can!

You get the picture. All you lurkers out there, say your piece! Let your voice be heard! Even if it's just a wee whisper I'll really appreciate it. Really, I will.

Hugs and smooches to all who read, lurkers and otherwise!

Now go ahead and post a comment.

A Very Special Toast for 5:00 Fridays

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to our cocktail...

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

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

Cheers! Mwah!

PROMPTuesday

San Diego Momma has a new prompt today. I finally have a free 10 minutes to participate. To recap her ever so stringent rules: Each writer has 10 minutes and no more than 250 words to plot something with her prompt. Today's prompt is the following scene set up:

“You are in a corn field, with your dog, when all of a sudden, a plastic…”

So there I was, in the corn field that looked more like a maze of dead maize than the luscious farmers' fields off highway 29 I remembered from back home. I was enjoying a bit of peace after study hall and inhaling some fresh country air that didn't reek of the foul stench of horse manure for a change. Living in a 100 year old house converted to a dorm with 35 other girls was a drag. Too much squealing, giggling, cat fighting. Whose idea was it to send me to that all girls boarding school anyway?

The headmaster's dog, Archie, had jumped the fence again and was at my side for a bit of company until Mr. Maddox started howling for him. I reached down to nuzzle Archie's floppy ears when out of nowhere, a plastic pipe tip flicked Archie square on the nose. He yelped, and I leapt.

Then came the tell-tale giggles. Swisher Sweets to end the day, apparently. The senior girls had been frolicking with their favorite friend "Mary Jane" and had indulged in some dime store cigars from their day pass into town earlier. As I was inhaling the shit-free air, they were inhaling too.

My Life in 6 Words

Mommy Pie has tagged me. That might explain the four pieces of pie consumed by my family last night (strawberry, lemon meringue, coconut cream, and coconut custard in case you were wondering). And yeah, I had a taste or two or five of each.

So in this little meme I'm supposed to define my life in six words. I'm a chatty one so keeping this to six words is a doozie of a challenge. Here goes:

1) MILF (surely acronyms count)
2) anal
3) tired
4) Obamaholic
5) writer
6) chef

Now here's my tag:
Cubicle Monkey
High Heels and Highchairs
A Crafty Mom
Apathy Lounge
Slacker Moms

The Incredible Edible Egg

San Diego Momma has doled out the most eggsellent writing idea for today's PROMPTuesday. I have 10 minutes and 250 words to write about an....drumroll, please, egg. An egg. So what comes to mind? Fertility? Chickens? Omelets?

Here's what came to my mind:

At 20, they were plentiful. At 30, their legions were slimming. At 40, worthless. From enviable to inviable in 20 years.

And yet, the swimmers came. Somewhere between 32 and 42, there was a love connection. Puzzle pieces adjoined. Penetration yielded penetration. One egg is all it took. And from that egg was borne the son who starts kindergarten tomorrow.

A Specific Task

OK, so I'm a day late with my Prompt Tuesday from San Diego Momma. I'm in a bit of a tizzy this week. This week's task is to get specific. To make the details scream. Here's my stab at it. Forgive my tardiness and enjoy.

Perched in a specially cut out oval nook within the toffee and milk hued tile, was a perfect memento from Paris. An oversize version of the intoxicating hotel soap. The one that took hours to scavenge and uncover from a tucked away parfumerie in the Latin Quarter that a local led me to. Alas, I gleefully unwrapped the luxurious paper with the romantic French prose and watermarked lilies. Even the text on a simple bar of soap is somehow more decadent when written en Francais. The sagey olive color and the simple scent of lily of the valley were pure and poetic. A subtle fragrance brought with it a tidal wave of memories.

The bar too big to grasp in my petite hands. The memories too big to recount while the six body jets were massaging my worn muscles. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes ever so slightly, preparing to sense the slow motion movie playback of our brief but sweltering love affair in Paris. All those years ago. The details fading yet I could still make out the three lines in his forehead and the one dimple on his left cheek. I reached out to trace my fingertips along the lines as if he were in front of me at this very moment. The steamy shower made it difficult to breathe. Or perhaps the memory alone left me gasping.

Head thrown back, waterproof mascara bearing false advertising, the scent of lilies filling my lungs. Then I opened my eyes and the moment shattered like a compact crushed under the weight of an over stuffed day planner. That one lousy pubic hair on the lovely soap killed the moment. Done. Lights out. Paris over in a flash. The soap, my last memento, tarnished.

The Big O

This morning Bird was working on writing his upper case alphabet in a little workbook I got for him at the Teach Me store. He was doing a great job, and we had fun cheering and squealing together as he rounded out a perfect G and stayed within the lines on a particularly difficult J.

The next thing I know, he's breezed through a bunch of letters while I stepped away to make blueberry blintzes for breakfast, and I hear, "Here comes the Big O!" He said it with the same sarcastic yet humorous tone that Mac Daddy would have used, so I worried for a moment that Bird indeed understood the context of his exclamation.

Alas, the next thing he said was, "Here comes the Big N!" The way I heard it, however, the N got less fervor than the O.

And speaking of the Big O, you gotta see the T-shirt that I'm dying to muster up the moxie to put on my boys.

It's About TIME

Here I am writing about sports again...kinda. My old friend from UVa., John Hollis, is an accomplished sports writer. Check out his article in the latest issue of Time Magazine. (You can see it here. http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1707253,00.html)

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I am in the company of a TIME writer. I knew John waaaaayyyy back in the day when there was more partying than writing going on. He's now a dad, a husband (not mine, mind you) and a real, published writer. It's good to see that all those mistakes, indiscretions, and profound errors in judgement from college did not translate to a cesspool of a life. Of course, I've only read and heard about said mistakes, indiscretions, and errors in judgement.

Knowing that Bird and Deal just might turn out as well as John Hollis makes all the future trauma of college antics a bit more palatable.