Give me an O! B! A! M! A!

I am doing a wild, maniacal jig right now! My heart is thumping. My arms are flailing. My whole being is atwitter. And yet, I am speechless. Awestruck. Star struck. Proud. Humbled. Energized. Inspired.

I would be remiss to not write about history in the making tonight. I will remember forever and always where I was when Barack Obama became the Democratic Party presidential nominee. I’ll have to embellish the story a bit for Bird and Deal, considering I am sitting on my ass, laptop burning my lap, on my leather couch that is hot and sticky on this humid June night, cat hair flurrying about with a fat cat purring loudly and getting in the way of each keystroke. I feel like I should at least swipe on some lipstick or something to mark the occasion. Mac Daddy and I have champagne ready to pop. Tiffany crystal glasses ready to toast. OK, so we don’t generally need much reason to drink champagne since we keep a few bottles stocked and chilled at all times. But tonight is different. In a word, MOMENTOUS. We’re stoked and extraordinarily proud tonight. For the first time in a very long time, oh say, like 8 years, we feel like our fellow citizens did not let us down.

It’s always so demoralizing in business to see the fat cats getting fatter. I see this in my consulting business everyday. It seems that the folks making strides and making money are all assholes. Obama represents a change of tide. The good guy finally prevailed. Integrity finally won. Fingers crossed that the honeymoon continues through November.

As my loyal readers know, I campaigned and volunteered my heart out for Obama in North Carolina. His overwhelming victory over Clinton was more than a notch in my belt. It was a wake up call that yelped louder than a horny rooster in spring. North Carolina, a traditionally conservative state that still struggles with race relations, raised its hand to vigorously support Barack Obama. I met many a Republican who changed her voter registration to vote in the Democratic primary just to cast a vote for Obama. I met many a first time voter, ranging in age from 17 to 79. North Carolina is actually poised to be a potential swing state. The fact that Obama has a real shot at carrying this red state speaks volumes to his appeal, message, and plan.

I am ready, willing, and able to start campaigning for November. My buddy Will, of video fame (No, not the Paris, Lindsay, Pamela kind of video!), and I have some ideas brewing. Stay tuned for more… My sleeves are rolled up; I’m ready to get to work!

It is rare that we actively live and acknowledge history as it is happening. Indeed it is a privilege. Sure, we all live history every single day, leaving our own DNA and footprint on something that is worthy of the history books. We generally stumble through life oblivious to the historical impact of our actions and decisions. Posterity is an outdated concept, stuff that our grandparents and great aunts are made of. We live at a lightning fast clip and wrongly think that only technology and celebrities make history. The next generation will be asking “Britney who?” while Barack Obama will be a political superstar, and this year’s race will still be the bar against which all other campaigns are measured.

Only in America.

This is why my parents moved us here, leaving their own home and country 39 years ago. This is what makes America unique, casteless (albeit in theory), the real land of opportunity. The melting pot is alive and boiling. We all have reason to be proud tonight. Take a moment to drink in the history. Savor the weight of what our country is experiencing. Consider this: 50 years ago Obama would have ridden on the back of the bus. Now he is running for leader of the free world, hyperbole fully intended.

Obama has inspired legions of citizens of all ilks to participate in the system, flawed as it might be. He has single handedly reintroduced pride, citizenship, and patriotism to what has become this sickly nation of ours. And now he is charged with healing the ailing Democratic Party…in just a few, short months. A tall order for an upstanding man. Obama makes me want to stand tall as a proud American again. Granted, I’m only five feet tall so I mean this entirely figuratively. After the last presidential election Mac Daddy and I went to Paris. Friends made us sandwich boards to wear that read, “I voted for John Kerry.” No need to be on the defensive now. Dang, it feels good to be part of a winning team! Paul Wellstone would be proud.

As the mother of biracial children and a minority myself, I feel a special kinship to Obama. Perhaps I am living vicariously through him since I cannot be President. He represents all that my boys can accomplish. I grew up with dolls that did not look like me. Role models that did not look like me. Storybooks replete with blond hair blue eyed girls. Magazines with nary a minority in sight. Brown girls like me weren’t smart or pretty or worthy. At least that’s what social messages would have led me to believe. The world is an entirely different place now. Bird and Deal will grow up in a society with more than two colors of the Crayola box. They will see a minority president lead our nation at a time that will mark the early years of their long-term memory. They will remember this man, this bastion of American-ness. They’ll have their Yes We Can! T-shirts as mementos of their small role in his success . Hopefully the anointing of Barack Obama will be the beginning of a long life of civic duty for Bird and Deal.

And yes, I am confident Obama will win in November. It’s his time. It’s our time.

Barack Obama, I salute you.

Fugitive Fear

We were awakened by shushing voices murmuring in hasty clips last night. There were distinct voices coming from the garage. Though we were, ahem, otherwise occupied, we were distracted by the voices that were right outside our bedroom window. Then the sirens started. Then the lights flashing. More sirens. More lights. Neighbors' dog barking. "We should get dressed," Mac Daddy and I said in a rather delayed, startled manner.

We checked the boys and worked our way downstairs to ensure everything was securely locked, silently acknowledging the recently added chain locks and motion detectors. The police cars kept coming. Sirens still blaring. Dogs still howling. Then out of the pitch black a spotlight shines up our front walk. Mac Daddy and I froze, he more brave than I, since I was literally hiding behind him, thankful for his 6'2 frame. Ding Dong. Ding Dong. We stood there, unsure what to do. Movie montages flickered through my mind. WWJLCD? That's "What would Jamie Lee Curtis do?" for you Halloween neophytes. Then the spotlight pointed straight through the (glass!) front door. I saw a face peering in, hands framing the eyes so he could see in. Eyes frantically flickering about. Right. Left. Right. Left. I didn't move a muscle, and had I not just peed, there would have been a puddle at my feet. Mac Daddy approached the door gingerly. As he got closer, the face was peering at us more and more intently. Not moving. Not talking. Just staring. Glaring. At us. Our little boys, asleep upstairs. Our sweet, innocent children curled up in their new Superman jammies, each clutching his teddy.

More montages played out in my mind. Damn, I wish I didn't have a slasher movie phase back in high school.

Mac Daddy flicked on the porch light in a hurry, and we jumped back a step, or four, or five. It was our neighbor, John, neighborhood watch dude extraordinaire, at the door. He had come to explain the sirens and ensure we were OK. That's the kind of guy John is. He's uber equipped for any emergency and would drain his own blood into a flask if it would save you from distress. John certainly had cause for alarm last night.

Fugitive on the loose! IN OUR PRISTINE NORMAN ROCKWELL NEIGHBORHOOD! I can honestly say that the word "fugitive" has never entered my vernacular, unless you count 1993 when my friend Pat made me see the movie.

Aw CRAP. This stuff doesn't happen in our parts. We chose a sleepy neighborhood in an inconsequential city for a reason. It was a nice change of pace from the paranoia of Chicago post-9/11. And while we are neither scared nor paranoid, we like it here, sleepy and inconsequential as it is.

Mac Daddy and I hunkered down and went upstairs to be with the boys, who were thankfully obliviously dreaming in a blissful slumber. They sure would have dug the police action though. When we heard a police officer shout, "Hands behind your head!" and "Cuff 'em!" we knew it was safe to peer out. That's the crap I expect to hear in a movie theater action thriller that my stepdad watches, not in my own backyard. Clint Eastwood and Denzel (who needs no last name) say stuff like "Cuff 'em!" A cuff to me is lovely arm candy, the perfect minimalist accessory to a simple tank dress in summer. I suppose that tells you that kinkiness is not my thing. Nonetheless, I don't think anyone has been handcuffed in my hood before, except for those who are into that sort of thing by choice. Oh, and I have my suspicions who those folks are!

It turns out there was a mega drunk driver pulled over up the road. He blew a .23, thrice the legal limit. Said drunk and menace on the road also had a revoked license. Imagine that. The idiot thought it would be better to slip away and run for it than face the music. Granted, he was not thinking rationally. He was apparently a fast bugger, running on adrenaline alone. Or maybe he had a case of Red Bull and vodka (GAG). After a 15 minute chase, weaving in and out of our yards, a cop tackled the guy. And off he went. Handcuffed. Sobering up pretty quickly.

Our neighbors don't need a reason to converge outside on a warm night, and we certainly don't need more conversational fodder. However, the fugitive of 5/31 still had us whopping it up today. That kind of excitement generally passes us by. And we like it just fine that way.

But you know what kept me up all night? The moms and dads who live in constant fear everyday. The nameless souls paying the price for irrational wars waged or policies and a social caste system stacked against them. The ones who can't afford to sleep with even one eye shut. What about the working folks in the rough neighborhoods of Detroit, St. Louis, and Flint, the cities bearing the title of most dangerous cities in the United States? What about war ravaged regions in Iraq, Israel, Palestine, Kashmir, and Afghanistan? Those children, who learn fear from a tender young age, go to sleep in a state of fright every single night. Safety is a luxury. I felt a heavy, heavy heart last night thinking what it must be to fall asleep worried for your children's well-being every night. During the most vulnerable hours of the day. Night time. When the world should be at rest. At peace. When dreams should wrest power from nightmares.

Last night I said a prayer for all the moms, dads, and children asleep in homes less comfortable, less secure, less stable than mine. I will continue to add those nameless families to my prayers. I experienced but a moment of fright last night. A life lesson no less.

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.

Coupling

Dating was bad enough when I was single. I sucked at it then, so applying the rules of that jungle to the jungle gym now seemed too overwhelming to bear. I shied from making new friends for a considerable length of time. Who knew that I'd be reliving those tentative dating steps again. Only this time Mac Daddy and I are flirting with other couples to befriend. It's a whole new courtship that is exponentially more complex with the addition of spouses and kids. Oh, I meet my share of women with whom I get along great. When it comes time to make the next move someone's kids don't click or the husband is a bore/jerk/pretty boy/dud. The deal breakers abound in the world of couples dating. Time and babysitter dollars are in short supply to be wasting either.

Mac Daddy and I went on a date last weekend. Only it wasn't with each other.

We went on a date with Kat and Sammy. Our first date. Yes, we were nervous. Am I dressed appropriately? Does my hair look OK? Does my breath stink like Cheetos? Will they hate my perfume? Did I remember deodorant? Do they have a sense of humor? How do you pronounce their last name? Do we have an exit strategy?

Kat and Sammy invited us over to their place for dinner, which would seem forward for a first date except that we had four kids among us. Under the age of 5. Oh, and dinner was at 5:00 if that tells you anything. It was actually a full family date, way deeper than a couples date. And the kids got along famously. Check one off the stress list.

Kat and I met a few times at the park and various play dates. We checked out each other thoroughly enough to chat on occasion and we found ourselves drawn to each other time after time. Perhaps it was our liberal leanings, ties to Philadelphia, penchant for shopping deals and steals, biracial kids, or just plain good taste responsible for our magnetic pull. Who knows. We chatted easily, laughed at the same things, gritted our teeth at our wailing children, and checked our watches in anticipation of nap time.

We decided it was time to introduce the husbands. A giant step. Mac Daddy is not a naturally social being. Sure, he's easy to talk to but he loathes small talk and has low tolerance for so many types of people - snobs, good ol boys, know-it-alls, rednecks, dumbs asses, artsy fartsy literati, thugs. He pretty much clicks with down to earth sarcastic types who value a dry sense of humor and don't mind a comfortable lull in conversation mixed with a few gulps of bottled brew. And me, I can talk to a curio cabinet full of Hummel figurines. My own voice keeps me going, and I'm my own best audience. A real live person is frosting on the conversational cake.

Mac Daddy and Sammy met once during a spontaneous extension of a happy hour play date that spilled over to our house one evening months ago. There were four families and 8 children under the age of 5 running around so there was more chasing and yelling "NO!" than real conversation going on. Oh, and don't go judging me for the happy hour play date. My goodness, by 3:00 on a Friday a glass of wine is what every mom and dad need. No one is lush enough to slur and stumble. And the kids don't drink wine since they are actively participating in wine's homonym form.

So back to our date...Kat and I hit it off swimmingly as usual and followed the kids downstairs. Why does this always happen, moms keeping a watchful eye on the kids while the dads drink Newcastle and watch Nascar? I knew things were going well when neither Mac Daddy nor Sammy came downstairs with a lame excuse to exit their conversation. Things seemed to be working out nicely. No fake smiles and talk of the weather. No resorting to sports statistics from the Celtics big game in 1972. No one was even talking about the obvious common denominator: kids. Could it be? Did we actually make a new couple connection?

All the stars are aligned so far. All of us enjoyed easy conversation and weren't shy about picking out corn from our teeth or stealing a fingerful of cupcake frosting (homemade at that!). Beer, wine, and juice boxes flowed, laughter ensued, children splashed, adults breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I think we might be ready to take the plunge to invite them over to our place next. Perhaps even a couples night out without the kids. Maybe weekends of double dates and a future of vacationing together is on the horizon. Is a trip on the Big Red Boat in our future? Or am I moving too quickly? I tend to be overzealous by nature. If nothing else, we've found new friendship all around. Cheers to that!

PS
There's a funny video out in cyberspace about couples dating. My friend Susan emailed it to me once, but I can't track it down. 10 points to whomever can send me the link.

Sharp Shooter vs. Sharp Tongue

Movie star good looks. Swarthy charm. Poised demeanor. Confident style. Inspiring discourse. Unfaltering courage.

We have seen this before and grasped for it in our darkest hour. Deja vu? I was but a growing fetus in my mother's belly when Bobby Kennedy was shot. My parents weren't even living in the United States then. Still, I know what that fateful moment meant. I grew up knowing the weight of the nation then and the gasps heard around the world. Indeed it was the weight of the world. We are oddly at that crossroad again.

I've been mulling over and steaming over the comments Hillary Clinton made about Robert Kennedy's assassination. The Kennedy family is coping with quite enough right now. Invoking the possibility of Obama's assassination due to Bobby Kennedy's June 1968 demise is downright cruel, reckless, twisted, and indicative of her nature during tough times. Someone else has articulated my venom much better, with more insight than vitriol. Thanks to Will for sharing this.

00. The new 0.

So there are apparently enough women out there who are 5 feet tall (like I am) and 88 pounds (definitely not me) to warrant the fashion industry creating a size 00. Now this is not new, though it is newsworthy. I'm not mathy, in fact, I like to say that I'm the only Indian in the world who is bad at math and science. OK, so that schtick is old for those who know me. Nonetheless, while I was no Mathlete, I don't recall learning about a double 00 unless there was a 7 at the end. The integer preceding 0 is -1, right? So why don't we size those doll clothes made for hideously skinny women a -1? Oh, pardon me. I meant those women who are naturally petite. Wink. Wink. I suppose a size denoted by a negative number would carry a negative perception. Because we all know that the introduction of a size 00 is completely positive. I mean, now those skeletons have a place to shop aside from the little girls' department! Oh yeah! But let's face it, even the girls' department is looking more and more hoochie everyday.

Are women really skinny enough to warrant a size 00 or are clothing designers pulling a fast one on us, creating vanity sizing to boost our egos? Either way you look at it, the practice perpetuates unhealthy, unrealistic expectations. Thin does not equal beautiful. Let's get that straight.

I am 5 feet tall. 105 pounds, give or take that time of the month when I consume more chocolate than anything else in the food pyramid. I am naturally petite. Anything smaller is plain unsightly. Unhealthy. Unnatural. Yes, I have my mushy parts, my thighs are practically Siamese twins, my arms jiggle. I can't complain...well, not too much anyway.

The fashion industry has a long history of creating unreasonable physical "norms" in our society. Girls and women of all ages fall into the trap. Present company included. I lived in a sorority house in college that had a designated puking bathroom. There was a silver spoon on the back of the toilet that the girls used to gag themselves. They'd clean up the spoon and lay it back down for the next bulimic victim. It was a secret sisterhood within a sisterhood. Gross on so many levels. I was horrified when I learned of this practice, and the house mother and sorority president turned the other way. I later found out that the sorority president was a frequent spooner. No wonder her figure looked like that of a 10-year old boy.

My childhood friend Lisa died at age 16. She was always taller than the rest of us, though being a grown woman of 5 feet tall, you can imagine that everyone was taller than me my whole life. She was chunky, but in that baby fat way that you knew she'd outgrow. I moved away and lost touch with Lisa. We were living in different cities during those gawky, confusing, teenage years when we were learning to understand our new bodies and struggling to get to know and like ourselves. Apparently Lisa's baby fat wasn't melting away with puberty so she took control of the situation. That's when she became anorexic. Severely so. After a long battle that left her body weak, decrepit, and unrecognizable, Lisa's heart gave out.

This, my friends, is what anorexia looks like. It is not sexy. Or pretty. Or desirable.

That was my first brush with death. And my first brush with eating disorders and the battle to be thin. Granted, I have been naturally thin my whole life, even being force fed protein shakes for a while to try to keep weight on my tiny frame. Ironically, I was downing calorie laden shakes at the same time Lisa was starving herself 200 miles away. One in the name of health, the other in the name of vanity.

Lisa's ideals of pretty and thin were from 1978.

Fast forward 30 years to what our little girls (and grown women) see now. Bratz dolls, Victoria's Secret Pink ads, Britney, Lindsay, Lauren, Miley, the list goes on. Even DQ has gotten into the act. An entire generation of girls worships celebrities and tries to emulate their outrageous diet fads and styles. Seriously, we're subjecting our children to unrealistic ideals from such a young, tender age. A 5-year old girl should not be worrying about her big belly, as a friend's daughter does. Such influences are coming from the flippant ways we degrade our own bodies, the flurry of inescapable marketing messages, the Disney princesses with waists the size of my upper arm, and those damn celebrity rags.

Look in any catalog, magazine, billboard, movie. You'll see women who don't relish the pure joy of butter oozing on hot bread or giggles over strawberries and homemade vanilla ice cream. What's worse is those women likely smoke to keep the weight off. And we pay them TOP DOLLAR for it. Be thin, be pretty, make a shitload of money. Be smart, be healthy, eek out a living. The pretty girl visions our children conjure up are detrimental to them both physically and emotionally. Lisa starved herself to be thin, simply a manifestation of larger, deeper self-esteem issues. It's our responsibility to arm our children with confidence, self-worth, and dignity.

What messages are we sending to girls these days? Are we encouraging them to be smart, assertive, passionate, powerful? Or pretty, demure, silent, passive? Isn't it our responsibility to society, to our girls and boys, to reinvent the definition of beauty and femininity? To establish the difference between "fit" and "skinny?" Sure, there's a severe problem with obesity in our country. The focus should be on FIT, regardless which side of the weight coin you land on.

A size 00 is an outrage. And that's coming from a girl who wore a 0 until she bore two healthy children. I've come to grips with never wearing a 0 again. I donated all those clothes, with no remorse, tears, or regrets for not having done more crunches or time on the elliptical machine. And I'm cool with that. My body carried and delivered two healthy children. Nothing defines beautiful more perfectly.

A Bad Mom Trying

Am I a bad mother if....?

I let Deal wear sunshine yellow socks to school with his gray New Balance sneakers?

I add a wee bit of sugar to my kids' cinnamon toast in the morning?

I let Bird and Deal see me naked through the glass shower door?

I use the TV as my own personal mute button to make my kids settle down so I can (pick one): breathe, pee, poop, cook dinner, check email, bid on a Trina Turk dress on eBay, order new sheets from Pottery Barn, call a friend, pet the cat, shut myself in my closet?

I tell my kids when their behavior disappoints me?

I scream at my kids just shy of letting the f-bomb drop?

I pretend to be asleep when Deal peeks into our room in the morning before 7:00AM?

I look forward to my nanny time?

I sometimes want my children to STOP. TOUCHING. ME.?

I pretend to have to go to the bathroom just to get 3 seconds of peace?

I let my kids eat Spiderman fruit snacks before dinner?

I rarely (pick one): vacuum, dust, mop, sweep, change sheets between cleaning lady visits?

I don't feel guilty for working part-time?

I don't feel guilty for missing bed time to meet friends for drinks instead?

I don't feel guilty for not feeling guilty?

I pick the books at the library that have the fewest words?

I nap during a movie at the theater, after being overstuffed with popcorn?

I don't make home baked birthday cakes, cookies, or other treats?

I don't keep a scrapbook?

I have more pictures of Bird than Deal?

I sneak fries while my kids eat fruit?

I will never make a home made Halloween costume?

I already hate of my sons' future girlfriends?

I forgot for a wee moment that I had kids while away on my girls' weekend?

I don't want to be on the PTA?

I kiss my husband in front of my kids?

I don't tolerate Raffi or other such kid tunes in my car?

I don't say bed time prayers?

I am saving for my kids' future therapy?

I stopped trying to be perfect?


Let's face it. I can't compete with the uber moms of the world. You know who you are. I used to spite you. Then I was jealous, with a hint of envy. Then I became disinterested, thinking that if I pretended you didn't exist you would go away. Now I surrender. I stopped caring. Not about Bird and Deal. About competing.

Trying to be perfect, or fit someone else's version of it anyway, sucked when we were in 8th grade. It sucked more in high school. It still sucked in the sorority days of college. I figured at the ripe age of 39 I'd be over the Queen Bee drama of womanhood, motherhood, peoplehood. I am done. I can't and won't compete. I'm in a good place, even if that means being a not-so-great mom once in a while.

How about you? Tell me your shortcomings and victories.