Lets have a cocktail...

Tequila: It is the Devil's drink

2015-05-29T11:18:00.001-04:00

We recently had a discussion in our house about Tequila. The word alone makes me shudder. Once you have big fight with a devil drink like Tequila, you shall never go back. One of my girlfriends asked, "Could your previous hangover from Tequila really be that bad?" It wasn't a hangover. That makes it sound manageable like a mere inconvenience you could counteract with an Advil and a bag of Cheetos. My experience with Tequila was far more bitter. How bitter? Here is a classic story worth sharing again.

Dear Mr. Patron: I realize we crossed paths again recently. You seemed kind of interested in getting to know me. I can not reciprocate your feelings. While you tried to seduce me in Mexico, I ignored you. You winked at me over the 4th of July holiday party scene, but you will see that I am quite resistant. Oh, your lovely words of encouragement on my birthday fell on empty ears.

These lips shall never touch you. Admittedly, you are sleek and fancy, and considered by all to be top shelf. But alas, we shan't get familiar, and here are the reasons why.

You have some wretched compadres. Yes, perhaps far less stellar than you, but since you all share the same lineage in some form or fashion, I shall lump you all together. There is such a long list, I won't name names. However,

The absolute worst is your ugly cousin, Jose Cuervo. I detest him most of all. He knows I don't like him and neither of us really needs a refresher on why I don't like him, do we? In fact, I haven't liked him for a long, long time. Let me explain.

I met Jose the summer before my junior year in high school. My friend LL and I went down to watch a rowing event at the University of Washington and somehow ended up on Greek Row. Some boys from Kappa Sigma invited us in for a little early-afternoon Jimmy Buffett party. How could we resist. Older, handsome college boys with Jimmy Buffett? In the door we go. (Foolish, foolish girls).

Your cousin Jose Cuervo mixed himself into some frozen margaritas. A cooler, more delicious elixir I had never before consumed. Since wine coolers and light beer was the extent of my alcohol repertoire, the frozen marga-treat-a was divine. Jose told me one more wouldn't hurt. So I had one more. And then one more. Jose told me he tasted even better straight from the bottle. Oh, and since we told our hosts we were freshman in college, they assumed we were already savvy in the ways of Jose's hedonistic world. Jose said it wouldn't matter. He said we seemed sophisticated and mature. Never mind I tripped over a rug in my attempt to sashay over to a cute boy, Jose said no one even noticed.

Jose said he would refresh me. He told me I was pretty. And the best dancer. Ever.

Jose said to drink and dance. I did. Jose said that it was hot in here and why wear my sweater when a tank top is fine. I listened, oh so closely. Jose had a firm grip. And then, Jose turned against me. He told me to take a catnap. In the middle of the floor. Then he said goodbye.

I asked him to help me get home. He laughed and said he was too busy with other party guests. Jose let two other people carry me to my car and deposit me on the floorboard. LL had to drive us home.

Jose told me to open the door at a traffic light. In the middle of 45th. With hundreds of cars around, since this was the University District of Seattle after all. Jose told me the only way to feel better would be to crawl out of the car. And throw up. On the pavement. In the middle of one of the busiest intersections we could find. Then Jose told me to get in the car. But he didn't tell me I had barf on my shirt. LL pulled off on a residential side street. Jose told me how calming the sidewalk would feel on my face. He told me to lay down. He told me to let that dog lick my mouth.

I barely got back in the car. Jose didn't warn me that we would pass my parents. Jose merely laughed and said "Arriba! Arriba!"

My parents did pass us. And LL pulled over. My mom came STORMING to the car inquiring on my whereabouts. Jose didn't tell me to keep quiet. Jose told me to speak up. Share my thoughts. He said I sounded clear, crisp, intelligent. My mom looked at me, looked at LL, and asked what was going on. LL told her I was drunk. Thanks friend.

I tried to tell my mom about Jose. I tried to point him out. But he had disappeared. Left me with a sordid tale, bad breath, and a shirt I would be soon throwing away. Oh, and punishment.

I never saw him again that year or the next. And then, as a freshman in college, I saw him resurface. He must have followed me to a party. Me, all sunny and bright. He, with all his liquidy amber glow. He came onto me. He said he was delicious. He assured me he had changed. He said it would be different this time.

Jose Cuervo is a liar...

He asked me to dance and after ignoring him for hours, I gave in. He told me we would take it slow. LIAR LIAR LIAR. Jose told me drinking was fun but shots were better. He told me dancing was fun but dancing on tables was better. He said to play Thumper. He said to play Quarters. He said smoke cigarettes. He said I looked hot. He said I was the funniest girl in the world. He said play air guitar. He said pee in the front yard. He told me those photos of me drinking shots wouldn't matter, they would only make me laugh. Oh, Jose, he is one smooth talker.

I had a headache that lasted one month. I cursed him and the day I laid eyes on him. I saw him influence others to run naked and jump off roofs but not me. He tried to corner me on other occasions. I screamed in his face. He tried to up the ante by introducing me to his friends Don Julio and Dona Carlota. I spit on him. Jose Cuervo is a sadist. I will warn others.

And while I do make a fantastic margarita (just ask JohnnyMac), and while we stock Cabo Wabo in our house, I know better than to dip in myself. So Mr. Patron, your interest in me is a dead end. I am wise now. And tell your horrid cousin, Jose, I don't even want his aroma within 20 feet of me.

When I am old, I hope I am cool as hell....

2014-10-15T10:50:00.000-04:00

When I'm old, I hope I am cool as hell. 5 ways to be sure.

Waiting to board a flight last week, I stood next to an older couple. The gentleman complimented my handbag. It is Hermes and candidly, I am rather fond of it too. I smiled and said, "I like your taste." His wife laughed and said, "Oh, he knows what's what."

I looked at both of them and laughed. They were beautiful and it seemed to stem from their perceived happiness. They were also elegant, stylish. She told me they were in their 80s. Our dialogue extended another 20 minutes or so which I thoroughly enjoyed.

Later, I recalled her comment and again it made me laugh. Oh, he knows what's what. Also known as "he is cool as hell." I hope when I am in my 80's, I also know what's what which I really want to mean I hope I am old and cool as hell. What will I have to do?

1. I will think carefully about what I discuss. I will remember there are certain topics I shall not rattle on about on the daily. Top of the list: Ailments. When I want to talk about ailments such as an achy back, plantar fasciitis, or my ankle surgeries, I will pause and refrain. Unless I have some serious situation trying to take me down, I am not talking about corneas and cataracts. The pills, the ointments all to be kept on the low down. Strike me with lightening, if I mention "irritable" or "bowel" or "syndrome' in the same sentence.

Instead, I am going to talk about wine tastings in Napa, good books and how to make croquembouche. I will talk about awesome things I have done. This will not include walking barefoot in the snow. I never did that. My parents drove me to school or I rode a giant tank like yellow bus. If others try to talk to me about ouchy parts and icky stuff, well, I am going to politely listen for a minute. After that I might say, "For the LOVE of BABY JESUS Diane, there is a reason the Doctor closes the door during appointments! No one outside of that room is deeply curious about your GI issues."

1a. I will remember not to prattle on about kids and grand kids. I will give highlights. I will not talk about how many cheerios my grandchild ate that day. I will not talk about what my grandchildren do from the minute they wake up until they go to sleep. I will love my family. I will be excited about their lives and successes. I will not trap people at the Starbucks with a long highly detailed story of my son's first homerun in the Majors (his dream) or my 6 year old grand baby's first trip to Disney. God forbid I talk about potty training. Ever. I will remember NO lengthy discourses on that topic happened when I was living it. Double jeopardy for me if I update my Facebook status with any such topics. Extra cool points if I am old and still on Social Media. Help me if I am still linked to people who use Facebook as a diary instead of its intent: public bulletin board.

2. When I drive, I am going to maintain all my skills. If I shrink and can't see over the wheel, I will buy a booster seat just like little kids use. I will go for a compact car versus a boat. I will pledge not to make a right hand turn from the left hand lane. If someone cuts me off, I shall not respond with inappropriate hand gestures. If someone else is driving me, I will not 'give them suggestions' the entire time. I will not reach over and honk the horn for them. If I am unable to drive, I will say "Hallelujah Uber!"

3. If I need to move into a retirement community, it is going to be one like the bad ass Melrose Place of Retirement communities in Florida called The Villages. When I live there, I am going to seek out fun things to do and fun people to do them with as well. I'm going to avoid Betty who talks about her bunions. I am going to avoid Lydia who talks about her daughter my exclaiming "Now, my Leslie....." because Lydia didn't read 1a above. If I am doubling-down at the Blackjack table and Lydia saunters over to tell me a "My Leslie" story I will suggest she saunter off and call "My Leslie" instead of saying "Your Leslie sounds like someone with a lot of cats." If I am unable find fun things to do, if I have not developed interest in activities that involving making things with yarn, I will create fun things to do. First order of business: Dance Party. I won't play Jazz or even Sinatra. Lets' turn that Mother out and bring back the old school. Never too old to appreciate some Salt & Pepa. And I will be asking that nice handy man to bring in some fans for that show too.

4. Since dance party is one of my favorite things of all time, I will not miss opportunities to enjoy one. If I am at a wedding and all the old timers are having a respectful seat while the young whipper snappers take on the dance floor, I will hop to it. If its loud, I will adjust my hearing aide. If I have to listen to Nicki Minaj, so be it. If they are bucking their hips like dogs in heat, I will snicker inside and remember I grew up with "Dirty Dancing" and the "Lambada"! Perhaps I will make friends with the DJ and request Vanilla Ice for old times sake. If he laughs and scoffs, I will politely ask him to step the _____ back and I will bring out the Running Man. Have you ever seen an old dame do the Running Man? You will.

5. I heard a teenage girl being monstrously rude to her Mom at Nordstrom last week. I was a touch surprised the Mom took it like she did because it was eye-popping awful. I was a smarty arse hair-flipping oh maaa gaawwwwd hissing teenage girl at one point too and even I was not bold enough to pull off the snark on this child. When I am old and hopefully cool as hell, if I hear young people being sassy and disrespectful, I will shake my head and silently think to myself, "Young people today!" But because I am old, I can do whatever I like and I will be able to say, "Listen Missy, why don't you spend the summer in prison camp and then come back and tell me all your woes. Seriously. I will sit right here with my smoothie and my iPhone waiting for your full report on how prison camp changed your shitty attitude."

Tomorrow is not National Barbeque Day

2014-05-25T12:13:00.000-04:00

Happy Memorial Day. Originally called "Decoration Day" this holiday is a day to remember those who have fallen while serving the US Armed Forces. It is not National Barbeque Day.

I don't have the nerve to do what soldiers do. I have heard so many stories but a photo like this brings so many emotions to bear.

For all those who suit up, swallow fear when necessary, travel to locations as far away as physically and emotionally possible, who sleep in dirt bunkers, walk into the unknown, kiss their families and their babies goodbye for maybe a year at a time, who don't have the luxury of complaining about how long the line is for the morning latte, or the traffic, or the fact an emergency news brief interrupted the season finale of Scandal, we salute you.

I don't want miss my son's baseball games, or friends birthdays, my morning workouts or trips to Anguilla. I want the freedom and the critical steps that need to be executed to protect it but I am not brave enough to do it. I would be if I had to be but that is one additional amazing component of our country: I don't have to go to war if I don't want to sign up for it. My freedom is protected by hundreds of thousands of other people. The blanket of freedom that not only allows but encourages women to become educated, make choices, vote, buy a home, live where you choose.

This is the same freedom which allows people to openly criticize our government and our leaders. Criticism that in other countries would earn you beatings or life in an underground prison or death. Those people should thank the next person they see in uniform for protecting your right to free speech. PS: Do you know who really cares if you like or don't like Barack? Or George W. ? Or Mitt? Or Hillary? I don't know the exact metrics but my guess is: NOT Barack, George W., Mitt, Hillary and 95% of people you are friends with on Facebook.

While we are all enjoying our Memorial weekend, it is a weekend of gratitude. Gratitude for freedoms. These are freedoms paid for by other people. Love my country? Yes. Willing to suit up and die for it? Wait a minute. I think we all want to think we would do it. It is an easy supposition to make from the comfort of my living room. Bravo to the hundreds of thousands of men and women have committed to serving; many of them so young they have likely never left home, lived on their own, had sex, or had a legal cocktail before. But the majority of them willing to go even knowing what kind of environment they could be deployed to in the very near-term.

Thank you to not only everyone who signed the dotted line but to their families as well who surely endured trials during the absence. God Bless the USA.

...in a squealy, breathy, giggly rush.

2014-04-04T11:40:00.002-04:00

I am thinking about my hometown quite a bit today. While my Mom knows this story full well, she is waiting on news about a friend and probably really needs a laugh right now. I am happy to share this again. And what better way to spend time on a Friday than laughing at my plight.

When I was a youngster, I was a bit of a late bloomer. And by "bit" I certainly mean I was the last one in the door to puberty. In 7th grade, I finally became a woman, or in reality, an already hormonal girl suddenly with a reason to buy feminine products.

My older brother had a friend for whom I had a mad, mad crush. I would always ask my brother about him. And this friend was at our house frequently so I made myself very present during these visits as only annoying younger sisters can do. He wore the levi jacket with the big puffy faux sheep's wool lining that I thought was super cool. He also had the pencil thin mustache circa 1983. WOW, I set my bar VERY high, didn't I?

One afternoon that summer found me, my brother, and a mixed bag of our friends all lounging about the pool. The cacophony of 12 and 13 year old girls talking about C.Thomas Howell and Adam Ant songs only worsened by the rude commentary and fart jokes of teenage boys.

But my big crush was there. And at one point, he said to me, "I like your swimsuit."

This old thing? I can't believe he noticed me, after all, parading in front of him on the upside of 200 times. I showed my grace and poise by opting NOT to smile and politely say thank you in a cool and demure way but rather jumping up and down and exclaiming OHMYGOD-YOUDO?!?!?! in a squealy, breathy, giggly rush.

I sat down in a chair near him and started chatting with him about my brother's Van Halen album of which I had committed all lyrics to memory and thought this trivia would be impressive in an cool, older boy kind of way. He was very kind to me and his bemused look I mistook for a fraction of interest.

Until he leaned over and in a low voice said, "You have something hanging out of your suit."

Me, ever quick on her feet, rather than excusing myself like a lady, I
asked the single most foolish question available at that exact moment: Really? What?

He, being so much older and mature, merely answered: I think it might be your tampon string.

Wait, did he just say tampon string? Did he actually use the word tampon in front of me? Does he not know we do NOT discuss feminine products? That is why they are called "feminine products" so it makes it sound like you are talking about perfume, or rainbows, or sparkles.

Oh nevermind my scrawny body, a size zero at the time, so the tampon string likely looked like one of my pale skinny legs. I know he was trying to be helpful hence my brother find this out and I be mocked into ruination. I rose immediately giving off a crimson hue of hideous embarrassment. And then I sprinted away like a scalded dog.

My tampon string. The mere discussion of it serving as a verbal version of him spraying teenage girl repellent all over himself. Had he known that one simple sentence would be the catalyst to me avoiding him like the plague for a minimum of one year, he might have used it sooner.

How it feels to win

2014-02-08T10:04:00.001-05:00

In honor of my home town and my home team, I am posting on a weekend. Even if you are not a sports fan, the story can still resonate with you. In the Spring of 2012, Donald Wood wrote a piece for the Bleacher Report about Draft Day Fails. Here is an excerpt:

With the 2012 NFL draft over and done, it’s time to look back on the teams that failed on draft day and give them a grade.

Certain teams had amazing afternoons, but others teams (I’m looking at you Seattle) completely missed on the concept of trying to improve.

All of the following squads screwed up, but it’s very clear that certain teams have major internal issues. I’m sorry to the fans of all the following teams for the poor drafting.

No. 1: Seattle Seahawks
After one of the worst picks in the first round I can ever remember, the Seattle Seahawks didn't draft any positions of need or draft for the future.

Pete Carroll is proving why he didn’t make it in the NFL the first time. Not only was Bruce Irvin a reach at No. 15, the Seahawks proved they were oblivious to their madness by celebrating their selection.

As if the day wasn’t bad enough, Seattle selecting Russell Wilson, a QB that doesn’t fit their offense at all, was by far the worst move of the draft. With the two worst moves of the draft, Seattle is the only team that received an F on draft day.

Grade: F

F? What do you mean? I finally decoded the mystery and narrowed it down to simple options:
1. F is for F___ Off Donald Wood
2. F is for Did you kiss my SB48 ring? Does it not taste F____ delicious?
3. F is for How you F____ like me now?

I am betting on Option 2.

My Father coached Little League football teams my entire youth. He was a hard ass because he had a precise combination of athleticism, technical understanding of football, intensity, intellect and passion for the game. He could have easily coached at greater heights but did not choose to do so. He was adamant that as a female, I didn't stand on any side line yelling "Yeah...HOMERUN!" so we watched Seahawks games together and I learned about I Formation and the empty backfield. This was old-school Seahawks year #1 of the franchise with Jim Zorn, Steve Largent, Sherman Smith. I have been a fan ever since.

You might not like football. You might not like sports. You might not even know Seattle has a football team. But what many of you can appreciate is anytime someone is told they can't achieve when in fact they can, and will and do.

Young QB Russell Wilson's mantra of Dream Big, Work Hard, Stay Humble is a simplistic but on-point concept. Derrick Coleman, the first deaf Offensive player in the NFL, was also written off as someone who could never take his athleticism and skill to the professional level because he was deaf. Guess again? My favorite by-product of his Super Bowl presence is the letter he received from 9- year old deaf twin girls who wrote, among other sentiments, "because of you, we believe that anything can be done even if you have a disability." That is real power. The trajectory of Derrick Coleman and his impact on these girls moved their needle from "Not me" to "Why NOT me." Maybe I am Smarmy Spice but I hope to never lose the ability to be moved by anecdotes like this one.

Let's include Malcolm Smith. He made an elite trifecta by winning the Super Bowl MVP award as only 1 of 3 NFL linebackers to ever do so. After not a single interception in 43 previous games, he took his first interception during the Super Bowl and returned it 69 yards for a TD. Oh, and Minnesota laughed at Percy Harven? Some Vikings fans mocked: He wanted to get traded and now he has a boo boo! Is it funny now? And The Chancellor? Or what I like to think of as: Part Man, Part Machine. Do you know what the black face mask visor means? It means Grade F like Donald Wood wrote. But F as in "Do Not F with Me."

These levels of commitment and tenacity are inspirational. And we got to participate in sports history.

I am not biased because this is my home team. I am biased because I like champions. I applaud the fact Pete Carroll had a vision he then realized. How many people actually do this? It is incredible whether you are 12, 32 or 62 (Coach Carroll's age.)

Oh, the backlash after the conference championship game regarding Richard Sherman? He is a thug? That word has now has a variety of connotation and is used on such a sliding scale, I am uncertain it means what people hope it means when they use it. Does it mean he's an arsehole? A dbag? A criminal? Or is he just someone who says, acts and thinks in a way people don't like? If so, he can get in the back of the line behind thugs like Rob Ford, Justin Beiber, Kanye West, Michael Grimm, Donald Trump and half of Congress. Richard Sherman went to Stanford which I am confident Biebs and Kanye couldn't string those letters together to successfully win their way out of a 3rd grade spelling bee.

You know who doesn't care if people don't like Richard Sherman? Richard Sherman.

In regards to the team, it is stacked with hard-workers and a 'no-name' defensive players. One of my favorite quotes came from Nancy Gay, NBCSports.com:

Anyone who figured the No. 1 scoring offense powered by Manning, a five-time MVP, might get the upper hand on the NFL’s No. 1 scoring defense was drastically underestimating the ferocity of Seattle’s Legion of Boom.

Legion of Boom? How awesome is that?!? You know what I say? I am in Tennis League or I am into running or I am in PTA. These men, with the ferocity and speed of panthers get to say, "I am in the LEGION of BOOM."

I loved watching them rise. I loved watching them win. I loved watching them do the thing Donald Wood and MANY others said was not unlikely but impossible. Because of social media, it was also spectacular to be completely connected to the action as well as the emotion and reverie of all my friends and family at home and around the US who were experiencing the same elation I was. I want to experience greatness as every one does but I am also thrilled to witness greatness and cheer it on, in whatever form and discipline it comes in. In this case, pigskin style delivered via Seattle. How does it feel to win? Proud of the team who found out during the Super Bowl and all the 12th Man friends along the way.

This little light of mine

2013-12-31T11:50:00.003-05:00

I read a question recently I found quite compelling:

If you woke up tomorrow with only what you were thankful for today, what would your life look like?

As we wrap up the year, I am thankful for many things. Perhaps one of the greatest aspects of this year happened during this month of December with our son. He is lucky. He is surrounded by love, opportunity, options. We also strive to surround him with leadership, discipline, choices, creativity and the ability to use his voice and weigh in on some decisions.

Every year since he was two, we do some kind of service project. They grow every year and because he is 6 now, this year could introduce a broader level of interactive service projects. We want him to understand how fortunate he is and the importance of giving back, doing something, having empathy and being involved. He embraced it quite well this year. Believe me, at age 2 it was a little more of a struggle.

Me: Hey, lets buy a bunch of toys and give them away to kids in need.

Him: Lets buy toys and keep them.

As he has gotten older, I have added one or two additional projects. This year he helped me make the list and we are two away from full completion (which we will do today.) In all of the activities, he took a big role in communicating the message of sharing with others. My absolute favorite part is the day he took his acoustic guitar in to a Senior Center/ Assisted Living Facility. He played rock and roll acoustic versions of Christmas songs to a crowd of seniors. He was happy, they were happy and we were tremendously happy.

Who can predict what our son will remember from his childhood when he is an adult. Maybe it will be his teams, his trips or birthday parties with friends. I do hope it will include my awesome ability to make pancakes into numerous different shapes and faces. More importantly, hopefully he remembers all of these actions and activities he did every year to reiterate the importance of giving. We look forward to a new list next year and hopefully it becomes instilled in his own pace and plan on how to build his life. For that, I will be truly thankful too.

Happiest of New Years to you all.

JennyMac

A few pics from our Kindness Projects:

Time to cry....

2013-12-17T12:41:00.001-05:00

My favorite dog, Nixon, got a bee stung once. After the bee stung her, it continued to zoom around her poor ever-increasing in size face as I pulled out my kung fu moves and yelled at that SOB like I was a prison guard. Nixon's face was so distorted, she looked like a float in the Macy's parade. The road to recovery was well paved with baby benadryl for her and a long sip of Cabernet for me. This slight injury had me sick to the gills because my job was to keep her out of harms way. (The time she ate her own ____, well, that's all on her and another story for another day.) I loved her beyond what I ever thought capable for a human to love something covered in fur.

Dog-stories of all kinds impact me but this perhaps holds the gold star. A few minutes that will make you laugh and cry. Well, mostly cry but crying releases toxins so don't be afraid.

Why does it matter? Annually, over 100,000 animals in the US are abused. Approximately every 11 seconds, an animal is put down in a US Animal Shelter. A puppy is not a Christmas present to be loved in December and ignored in July. It takes a special kind of person to advocate for the furry population and it takes a heart of gold AND steel to participate in animal rescue. Could anyone? Yes but I would cry so much and so often, my actual 'help' would be watered down and fall onto the shoulders of others. This holiday season if you are looking for ways to help, you can donate to Hope for Paws, the group behind this rescue and rehab. If you want an additional location to donate, a friend from college works with this organization in Wisconsin: Northstar WI Dog Rescue and Advocacy.

You can also save a dog from a puppy mill at Milldog Rescue.

MiniMac and I are going tomorrow night to take dog toys to a local shelter in Atlanta. You can call a shelter nearby and ask for specifics and if you can also donate food, treats, etc.

Santa's sleigh might be pulled by eight reindeer but Nixon looked like a deer, had the energy of eight toddlers and could pull that sleigh alone. On behalf of my favorite dog in the world (and I had other boxers but yes, she was my favorite) do something to help another dog in the world. Santa will like you more. Here is a photo from when she was a puppy. If you Dr. Doolittle, The Dog Whisperer or otherwise versed in 'what is that dog trying to tell me', let me help. See this picture? Her expression isn't really saying "How much longer 'til Santa?" it is actually asking, "What in the F---- is the matter with you, Mom? Seriously. Fake pose picture? Deer toy with bells on it I am scolded for trying to eat? REALLY? Someone, help me."

The Price of Doing Goodness

2013-12-03T10:22:00.001-05:00

Last year, we spent one full day in December with MiniMac doing acts of service and kindness. We filled the backseat of my car with toys for a shelter (all of which were toys he picked out.) We bought gift cards at Starbucks and passed them out to people in line. We took dozens of cookies to fire stations, banks, and a Christmas tree farm. We even stopped by to visit some workers at a hand carwash to have one of them talk to my son about crunk. (We might skip that stop this year.) I have a long list of wishes for our son. One of them is that when he is an adult he will remember the constant iteration that being philanthropic and charitable is not only easy, it is a necessity.

We started December 1 with a reminder that acts of service and kindness are easy. My Mom is in town for the Thanksgiving holiday and we went to Starbucks on Saturday. After our purchase, I give my credit card to MiniMac and tell him to pay for the beverage of the person at the front of the order line as a way of saying Happy Holidays. He went to her, told her he would like to pay for her coffee and she gave him the biggest smile. He then handed her my credit card and turned and walked back to me and Grammy. Whoops. We need to clarify the logistics but the positive take away was: him smiling, her smiling and the guy behind the counter smiling. The price of doing goodness? $3.19.

When we exited, I asked Mini if he remembered why we do nice things for strangers. Answer I was hoping for: So they in turn will do something nice for someone else. His answer: So they will do something nice right back to me. Well, good option but we can expand on that a bit. We are currently working on our list for acts of service for the remainder of the month.

For the past several years, I have posted a blog at the beginning of every December called 31 Days of Goodness which are compilations of opportunities to give time, money or heart to worthwhile organizations. For a great overview you can find each list:

31 Days of Goodness December 2009
31 Days of Goodness December 2010
31 Days of Goodness December 2011
31 Days of Goodness December 2012

This year, I am going to highlight a few at a time.

For my Mom and all others that love horses: Save a Forgotten Equine (SAFE). This group vows to make a difference in the lives of at-risk equines. I didn't realize the number of equines at risk until the blizzard in South Dakota earlier this year. As a horse owner, this is a critical issue to my Mom and I am happy to pass it along.

As I have shared on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day, there are many willing to go and do what I am not willing to go and do to protect our country and all of our freedoms. For those who come home altered and broken, there is an organization called Wounded Warrior whose vision is to foster the most successful, well-adjusted generation of wounded service members in our nation's history.

In Disney a few weeks ago, Mini and I briefly spoke to a Make-A-Wish child. Nothing will snap your perspective back in to shape more quickly than seeing a family, filled with true wonder and amazement as their terminally ill child embraces all of the magical aspects of Disney. What I did not realize is there is an adult version of this program granting wishes to terminally ill adults called The Dream Foundation.

One of the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary, Kaitlin Roig-DeBellis, who saved her class from the tragic events last December started an organization teaching children compassion through the classroom. Classes4Classes engages teachers and students to pay it forward by supporting classes in need. When a class receives a gift, they find a classroom to donate to going forward.

December is only made better by sharing it with a 6 year old. It is a wonderful time of year to see things differently but also realize that with every impression we make on our son about charity, empathy, service and honor, we are shaping his life and his potential as a future leader. It is hard work but so incredibly worth it.

Lessons from high school: Please wash your hands immediately after

2013-11-19T09:27:00.001-05:00

I came across the name of one of my high school teachers last week. Although my parents are still in Seattle, I have resided elsewhere since I moved away to college. I thought of this teacher years ago while writing a blog post about an incident I appreciated more in the retelling vs. actually living through at the time. Recently, I kept seeing his name popping up on FB and curiosity led to the discovery he has been diagnosed with cancer. My first thought was, Cancer? Really? Isn't he only 30 years old? Not that cancer checks ID or cares about age. Well, this is an example of practicing what I call 'Hometown Math'. Hometown Math is when you remember a person at the last age you saw them or when they were most prominent in your mind and you simply don't add any additional years to their life. So in the same way I was surprised when I saw an old friend this summer and her daughter was leaving for college, I thought, isn't your daughter only ten? I remember this teacher as he was back in the day: strong, larger than life and 30.

It also made me realize as children we give our teachers very limited dimension. Who is Mrs. Chambers? She is the reading teacher. Who is Mr. Black? He is the math teacher. Who is Mr. G? He likes US Government. We don't think Mrs. Chambers, Mr. Black and Mr. G have entire lives outside of school. We don't see them this way so we don't realize the layers that create them. Maybe they go boating or fishing on the weekends. Maybe they listen to Creedence Clearwater or Steve Miller and drink Manhattans or red wine. Maybe they meet their college buddies once a year for a long weekend when they reminisce about college girlfriends and the time they were front row at the Supertramp concert.

As children, we often don't realize or fully comprehend the primary reason these people became teachers was to enhance the lives of kids. Their entire career choice was one of impact and dedication. Teachers were graded on our own internal scale of 'easy' to 'hard' to 'impossible mountains of homework.' They were narrowed down to a tiny scope of either "Cool" or "Sucks" and believe me, we, with our abilities to recite facts about WWII, spelling skills and a firm handhold on how to solve algebra problems with grouping symbols felt totally capable of deciding what qualified whether a teacher made it into the "Cool" or "Sucks" categories. With our limited views of the world, we weren't really capable of fairly making these distinctions but it didn't stop us.

We also fail to realize these teachers might also discuss us and as a result, hold strong opinions of who we are as people. Maybe those conversations sound like this: This one? Smart as a whip. This one? Gifted but lazy. This one? Misguided but responsive to leadership. This one? Punk. I think these teachers dedicated themselves to making a connection with every type of student from superstar to punk because if they could find that thread, the way to sync, they could reach inside a child's mind and influence it to greater heights. There is a post on his get well page from a former student: Mr. G, After college I joined Teach for America. I became a teacher because of you. WOW.

Mr. G was tough in school. He had high expectations and a forceful demeanor. He was a competitive athlete (hence the story to come) but those high expectations and that fundamental tenacity is what he demonstrated to his students. Those that paid attention benefited greatly. As an adult now 20 years out of high school, I don't know anything about him present day. He was honored earlier this year for his leadership and civic focus but that I gleaned from an alumni article. Maybe he likes lacrosse. Or listens to Steve Miller. Maybe he has a spouse or kids taking the news quite heavily.

I do know there are many, many other people from our hometown who when given the occasion to think of him would recall He was a great teacher and then realize it is a sentiment we have never shared. It is an appreciation holding even deeper meaning to me now that I have a tiny child in school and what constitutes a good teacher has more relevance and complexity than ever. Mr. G., I am sending heartfelt sentiment and prayers to you for fast healing and a healthy road ahead. And I should have told you long ago you were a really great teacher.

PS: This story is likely one you don't remember but trust me, I will never forget it.

__________

Back in the day, one of my junior high classes was tasked with the well known “informative speech.” I wanted to do something more interesting than How to grow a Chia Pet or How to do the moonwalk. I loved athletics so I looked to that genre. Casting aside our daily sports of tennis, football, volleyball I opted for something more exotic: lacrosse. Lacrosse was not as common in the PNW (Pacific Northwest) so I set out to learn as much as I could. Do you know Lacrosse? I think the Iroquois (from which the sport derived) translation means: have fun getting your ass kicked. Between lacrosse, hockey, and rugby, I am not certain which crew is tougher. Or crazier.

One of our teachers at school, Mr. G, played in a league. It occurs to me now that after a day with hundreds of 8^th graders, many an adult might need to run with a stick and smash people but I digress.

Mr. G was happy a student had an interest in the sport and offered to loan me all of his equipment for my speech.

I was first to present so after fetching the equipment from Mr. G’s car, I displayed it on a table next to the podium. I proceeded to deliver in a humorous fashion all the little lacrosse tidbits I had prepared. The history, the field, the players, the lingo. Then I proceeded to show the helmet, the stick , the gloves and pads. Inside the helmet, Mr. G had stored the lacrosse ball in its container. This was placed on the table as well so I lifted it up and showed the ball (or cookie as it is called) in its triangular case and explained this was the ball, and the ball holder.

The girls in the glass have no reaction. They don’t know lacrosse well either, and because they, like me, are innocent doves. Most of the boys in the class giggled quietly because I merely said the words “ball holder.” A few boys in the class, laughed out loud but I had no idea why. Later, two of my male friends in class came to give me the business.

Smirky McJerky: That was a riot about the ball holder. AND you held it up.

Me: I was showing the equipment.

Smirky McJerky: You showed the BALL HOLDER.

Me: Juveniles ( or more likely: I am SO sure. SHUT UP.)

Smirky McJerky: Wait, you really don’t know what that was?

Me: The plastic ball holder? DUH!

Smirkey McJerky: HHHHHAAAAAAAA. Falls down laughing with our other friend. It is for balls all right. But not the lacrosse ball.

Me: Blank stare and fuming face about to go full tilt. I sense something very embarrassing to me is about to occur.

Smirky McJerky: HHAHAHAHAHAHA. It’s Mr.G’s CUP. For his balls.

Me: I hate you. And whaaaaaaaaaaaat?

So he explains to me what a "cup" is and how it is used.

I followed this with some OHMYG___ and yikes!!! and SICK!!!!! ! and OHMYG___.

Did I really just stand in front of my entire class and our male teacher and show the plastic protective device Mr. G placed on his manly bits? Did I really just display it so proudly and with more flourish than Vanna White? Did I touch it with my bare hands? Was I one degree of separation from Mr. G’s nether region?

My older brother played sports but I had never seen such a device. I saw a jockstrap once prior to this moment and thought it was an old school sling shot.

I attempted to avoid hyperventilating as I scurred away to wash my hands a dozens times and scrub them with steel wool. And a warning to anyone else interested in giving informative speeches on lacrosse: If you are handling the sweaty equipment worn the night before by a male you are not married to or raising, the triangular plastic device is NOT what you think it is. You probably don't want to touch it let alone snuggle up to it like the Hope Diamond. And if you DO hold it a little too closely, please wash your hands immediately after.

Why dogs are the superior animals

2013-11-15T09:06:00.000-05:00

A cold morning here in Atlanta, tucked in the house reading the news online when I came across this and loved every word of it. This is why dogs are the superior animals. No, not because I believe they can actually text. But if they DID, this is what they would say. Our boxer, Nixon, was a sassy spitfire of a dog so I found these a much better read this morning than how Joe Biden screwed up traffic in Atlanta last night for hours. If you are a dog lover AND you love to laugh, enjoy this as you kick off your Friday. From Sad and Useless.

Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it...

2013-11-11T12:45:00.002-05:00

In honor of this day and the individuals impacted globally, I am sharing a poignant memory of meeting a soldier. Again, there are thousands of people willing to go and do what I am not willing to go and do. Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it. For those that stand up, suit up, show up and brave up, I am thankful. I am not brave enough to do what you do. Happy Veteran's Day.

________

Excuse me, ma'am," he offered as he nodded toward the window. I didn't notice until I stood to let him pass and he tucked into the seat next to me. The lower half of his leg built by cosmesis rather than what he was given at birth. He wore his standard issue fatigues but the pant leg on one side revealed an artificial limb. His persona seemed old soul. And the fatigues and limb would lend an older, more seasoned appearance than his face ever could.

He didn't look old enough to buy cigarettes. We were flying to Seattle from Atlanta. He had recently returned to the US from a third consecutive tour in Iraq. This time, with a permanent injury coupled with an honorable discharge. As we shared a conversation, I was astounded at the level of calm and ease he used to talk about the real-life scenarios that seemed brutal and surreal to me. When he revealed he had just turned 22, I sensed the formidable sadness in his voice that his "career" as he hoped it would develop, was terminated. It wasn't the loss of part of his body that disenchanted him, but that commitment to the Armed Forces had been prematurely disrupted. His willingness to serve, to stand, to sacrifice could no longer be engaged by the United States Military.

I asked him how he maintained not only the enthusiasm to rise to be assiduous every day in such an extreme environment, but also the belief that the war was the right action in the grim and very real face of death. He said everyone doesn't. War and the caustic realizations of what it truly means is not the same as reading about it in the news. But he felt he had no alternative.

Once you enlist, you are committed for life. He followed with, "Or until you have no choice," indicating his leg. I certainly could not compare notes or offer anecdotes about "I know how you feel." My greatest imagination could not conjure up what a single and real day in that environment would be like. "How do you feel about returning home?" I asked. He was contemplative before answering, "A little lost." Death could have taken him. Another name on a long roster that goes beyond this war into every corner of every country. While he did sacrifice a limb, he certainly never forfeited his valor, or his ambition. And hopefully that ambition would become bigger, and broader to help him navigate his way. A way beyond feeling irrevocably displaced.

In baggage claim at SeaTac, I saw her before she saw him. The face washed with what only comes from holding your breath for three tours of duty. The look of impatience and searching superimposed over a very real foundation of frantic. She could only be at peace perhaps when she could see him, and hug him with her own arms. When she saw him, she pulled on the arm of the man with her. He couldn't get to the boy fast enough. His son.

When he introduced me, I saw in his parents the awe of having their child back. They were proud. And they were relieved. And the force of it made me relieved for them. A force I would not even begin to appreciate in some microcosmic way until I had a child of my own.

Yesterday was Veteran's Day in the US. Originally called Armistice Day in 1919, the day intended to recognize WWI vets. The holiday changed to "All Veterans" in 1945. And this holiday is pertinent to almost 30 million veterans in the United States. I have my own opinions about war, and its cost. But the freedom that affords me to have and vocalize such opinions was freedom paid for by people willing to go to war. And I have gratitude for that gift.

At 22, Corporal Foster was the youngest veteran I had ever met. Wherever you are, I hope you are finding your way.

Why Halloween is like a child's version of a wedding.....

2013-10-31T10:26:00.001-04:00

First, WOW, its been 4 weeks since I posted which is the longest in-between on record since I started this blog. I took a great new job within my corporation on October 1 so there is the reason. But, what better day to post than Halloween because I like treats and a few tricks here and there. I am working from home today because 1. I can and 2. its the worst traffic day of the year in Atlanta. Why? Because if you have little kids, you have been celebrating some aspect of Halloween for the entire month. Halloween is basically like a child's version of a wedding. There is planning, decorating, orchestrating, parties, invites, wardrobe check, many costume changes, scrutiny over who looks the best, always, always someone in inappropriate attire (grown man in diaper carrying a pacifier for example), so much food, so many sweets, and photos galore. Can we talk about the photos for a moment. I am as guilty of over-photo'ing just like a wedding photog. Seriously, last year we had 100+ photos for 30 minutes of trick-or-treating. Oh, look, there is MiniMac walking to the door. Now there he is climbing the steps. Oh, yeah, there he is ringing the bell! Look, he is smiling at the stranger inside the door! SUPER. I know these times have a limited span but maybe I will trim it down to 75 photos this year.

The only component missing from Halloween is alcohol. Correction, we all know the coffee cups the parents are carrying are filled to the brim w/ grown up elixirs. MiniMac is pretty thrilled to be dressing as Wolverine. Which will be more joyful to look at then the 1000 girls who will dress like Miley Virus this year. I did see that even Paris Hilton dressed up to mock Miley's VMA performance. Guess what? If Paris Hilton is mocking you, your stock has fallen to the curb or what I like to think of as 'your sh*t could not go any further south'.It makes me wish we could bring back Bieber Fever and well, that is a sad, sad statement.

So, we embark on Halloween frenzy and because MiniMac does not by nature consume a lot of candy, he thinks it is a BIG DEAL if he gets two pieces in the same night. HOORAY. He did recently inform me that he 'does not care for' whole wheat pasta so it is not all wins around here.

I am the room parent for his classroom and we are decorating cookies with his entire class today. Do you know how 6 year-olds handle sprinkles? They empty half the container in their hands, pour 1/100th of them on their cookie and the rest end up on 1. their laps 2. the floor. But my word, you show kids an array of containers with sprinkles? Stand back for the cheering. Seriously. It's like grown women and wine. I did clear the cookie bonanza project with the teacher. However, she is a sub while his teacher is on maternity leave, rather elderly and quite stern. This means she has likely never allowed a sprinkle bedecked cookie to be made in her house so she will be quite displeased when she is finding sprinkles in that classroom for the next six weeks. No, no amount of sweeping retrieves them all easily.

For those celebrating, hope your ghosts and pumpkins have a great time. Last year, one house had a giant bowl of candy for the littles AND a galvanized tub full of beer for the bigs. Genius. I love parents who have a sense of verve. And speaking of verve, I saw this earlier today. Must share:

Give a damn

2013-10-03T09:04:00.002-04:00

I just read a snippet in the news that made my morning. A 82-year-old retired man named Anthony Cymerys keeps his skills, wits and love for people intact on the daily by offering haircuts to the homeless people or others who might be in a slump in Hartford, CT. He pops a lawn chair up at Bushnell Park and 'customers' fill park benches waiting for their turn. Price? A hug.

Why was this compelling to me? Because I love stories with good endings. I envision this man as one who holds the door open for others, says hello to strangers, gives a hurried person his place in line. I also like that his courtesy and generosity extend to a population of people that might not be recipients of courtesy and generosity as frequently as other people OR as often as they need it. This story is very simple and it reminded me how easy it is to embrace and execute on the simple concept of giving a damn about others.

I read numerous other tidbits of goodness like 1. a rookie Wildlife officer saves a baby fawn from a river or how a 10-year-old girl opted for donations in lieu of birthday gifts to buy a police dog a bulletproof vest.

And how a dying soldier in NC was surprised by over 40 individuals who showed up to help his family move.

And how Allyson Ahlstrom started Threads for Teens as a 14-year-old and now, at age 18, took her boutique on the road via a giant moving truck. What is the purpose? To give free head-to-toe outfits to teenage girls in need. Awesome.

So many people are inherently good and one of the components that connects all of these individuals together is that simple concept of giving a damn about others. Every holiday season, we compile a list and then take MiniMac to do acts of service for others. These posts have motivated me to kick that into October this year so we will plan some activities for the week to come. The truth is, we can do kind things everyday.

Go give a damn. Shine your light. I know you will do something great.

Because you have already started your weekend...

2013-09-20T12:37:00.001-04:00

I read this yesterday in a car to the airport and laughed so much and so loud, the driver thought I was 1. spirited or 2. drunk. For those of you of have not seen Kelly McLean's article on HuffPost called Surviving Whole Foods, prepare to laugh your arse off and hope you meet this girl one day.... In its entirety:

_________________

Whole Foods is like Vegas. You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the newfound knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.

Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods' clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion... until they get to the parking lot. Then it's war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says 'NAMASTE'. Poor lady didn't even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.

As the great, sliding glass doors part I am immediately smacked in the face by a wall of cool, moist air that smells of strawberries and orchids. I leave behind the concrete jungle and enter a cornucopia of organic bliss; the land of hemp milk and honey. Seriously, think about Heaven and then think about Whole Foods; they're basically the same.

The first thing I see is the great wall of kombucha -- 42 different kinds of rotten tea. Fun fact: the word kombucha is Japanese for 'I gizzed in your tea.' Anyone who's ever swallowed the glob of mucus at the end of the bottle knows exactly what I'm talking about. I believe this thing is called "The Mother," which makes it that much creepier.

Next I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I'm not rich enough to have dietary restrictions. Ever notice that you don't meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem. You know you've really made it in this world when you get Candida. My personal theory is that Candida is something you get from too much hot yoga. All I'm saying is if I were a yeast, I would want to live in your yoga pants.

Next I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are. They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaning less pretty than 78 percent of women in the world. On the popular 1-10 hotness scale used by males the world over, that makes me a 3 (if you round up, which I hope you will.) A glance at the extremely close-up picture they took of my face, in which I somehow have a glorious, blond porn mustache, tells me that 3 is about right. Especially because the left side of my face is apparently 20 percent more aged than the right. Fantastic. After contemplating ending it all here and now, I decide instead to buy their product. One bottle of delicious smelling, silky feeling creme that is maybe going to raise me from a 3 to a 4 for only $108 which is a pretty good deal when you think about it.

I grab a handful of peanut butter pretzels on my way out of this stupid aisle. I don't feel bad about pilfering these bites because of the umpteen times that I've overpaid at the salad bar and been tricked into buying $108 beauty creams. The pretzels are very fattening but I'm already in the seventieth percentile of ugly so who cares.

Next I come to the vitamin aisle which is a danger zone for any broke hypochondriac. Warning: Whole Foods keeps their best people in this section. Although you think she's a homeless person at first, that vitamin clerk is an ex-pharmaceuticals sales rep. Today she talks me into buying estrogen for my mystery mustache and Women's Acidophilus because apparently I DO have Candida after all.
I move on to the next aisle and ask the nearest Whole Foods clerk for help. He's wearing a visor inside and as if that weren't douchey enough, it has one word on it in all caps. Yup, NAMASTE. I ask him where I can find whole wheat bread. He chuckles at me "Oh, we keep the poison in aisle 7." Based solely on the attitudes of people sporting namaste paraphernalia today, I'd think it was Sanskrit for "go fuck yourself."

I pass the table where the guy invites me to join a group cleanse he's leading. For $179.99 I can not-eat not-alone... not-gonna-happen. They're doing the cleanse where you consume nothing but lemon juice, cayenne pepper and fiber pills for 10 days, what's that one called again? Oh, yeah...anorexia. I went on a cleanse once; it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I detoxified, I purified, I lost weight. On the other hand, I fell asleep on the highway, fantasized about eating a pigeon, and crapped my pants. I think I'll stick with the whole eating thing.

I grab a couple of loaves of poison, and head to checkout. The fact that I'm at Whole Foods on a Sunday finally sinks in when I join the end of the line...halfway down the dog food aisle. I suddenly realize that I'm dying to get out of this store. Maybe it's the lonely feeling of being a carnivore in a sea of vegans, or the newfound knowledge that some people's dogs eat better than I do, but mostly I think it's the fact that Yanni has been playing literally this entire time. Like sensory deprivation, listening to Yanni seems harmless at first, enjoyable even. But two hours in, you'll chew your own ear off to make it stop.

A thousand minutes later, I get to the cashier. She is 95 percent beautiful. "Have you brought your reusable bags?" Fuck. No, they are at home with their 2 dozen once-used friends. She rings up my meat, alcohol, gluten and a wrapper from the chocolate bar I ate in line, with thinly veiled alarm. She scans my ladies acidophilus, gives me a pitying frown and whispers, "Ya know, if you wanna get rid of your Candida, you should stop feeding it." She rings me up for $313. I resist the urge to unwrap and swallow whole another $6 truffle in protest. Barely. Instead, I reach for my wallet, flash her a quiet smile and say, "Namaste."

To my oldest friend on your saddest day

2013-08-20T10:26:00.001-04:00

I met my best friend from childhood the first week of 4th grade. She had a gold velour shirt on and that shirt was tucked into her underwear which were slightly above the top of her jeans. She denies this but I am quite confident. This was in the late 70's and not a Sir Mix A Lot song so underwear out of your pants was taboo. One day, a boy in our class yelled at her and she marched her tiny self (she still is tiny) right over to his desk and broke every single of one of his crayons. TAKE THAT. He cried like a baby for about 20 minutes and well, I knew this girl had sass and verve. We became the best of friends. That friendship created some serious shenanigans and adventures. Including the time we decided to make chocolate chip cookie dough and then hide the entire mixing bowl in my room so we could eat it raw. Bowl of raw cookie dough + no refrigeration + two little girls weighing in about 45 pounds each = well, you know that story doesn't yield a pleasant ending. PS: Sorry Mom, because you had to be on medic/clean up duty.

We were at Kelly's grandpa's house one day and decided "Let's have fun!" How? Well, we can jump off the roof of the garage onto a mattress! This is brilliant! Her Mom drove up the driveway and jumped out of the car before she even put it in park. She wasn't delighted by our daredevil-ish ways, I assure you. A question was shouted at us 'What in the HELL are you doing?!?! followed by GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY. Once down from the roof, we went down to the river and decide to have mud fight. For hours. We were covered scalp to toes and her Mom made us stand outside and get sprayed down with a giant garden house. We should have opted to stay on the roof!

We had:
matching sleeping bags (super cool gynmastics themed)
matching overalls (Osh Kosh B'Gosh!)
matching roller skates and skate covers (Uber fierce!)
matching parachute pants (Super FLY)
matching haircuts in 4th-6th grade (Super UGLY. It looked like Madge from Golden Girls sheared us and not like cute pixie style like Olympic skaters but rather like boys. Or prisoners.)

We once opted to have a water fight at her house. We filled tiny Dixie cups with water and placed them throughout the yard. It is easy to go through those quickly and one of us grabbed the hose and the other ran in the house. Well, dummy in the house DO NOT open the kitchen windows and sass out statements like "HAHAHA. I am in the house!" because the hose can SPRAY into the house. Which is what happened. Many times. It was not a good story to explain but it was awesome at the time. Did we ultimately rot the kitchen floor? Perhaps. I know we did a terrible job of clean up.

One day her Mom bought us Hostess Tiger Tails. Remember these? Basically, a Twinkie but w/ the added ingredients of jelly and coconut. I have never liked the dreaded coconut. Kelly loves coconut and did not want to share this with me. She knew my disdain and explained to me, I could not have the Tiger Tail because it was covered in coconut. "I will pick it off," I say. She replies, "You can't. There won't be anything left." But she gives it to me and after spending about 30 minutes picking it off, she is only getting more and more irritated with me. At minute 32, I give up as the Tiger Tail has been demolished in my coconut removal process. I simply say, "I don't actually want it now." She picks up the mounds of coconut and what happens next? She throws the entire pile in my face. I deserved it. Tiger Tails? Shudder.

There were dance parties, slumber parties, skating parties. We got older and added our 3rd lifelong best friend, Taz, to the mix. We saw each other through crushes, boyfriends, breakups, moving, fights with parents, car wrecks, cheerleading practice, lip syncing to Push It and hot tub parties w/ boys at my Dad's house when he was out of town. We drank wine coolers, bad beer and one time only: Tequila. We tried smoking, Lee Press On nails, Sun In. Even when separated by college and hundreds of miles, we were best friends, bridesmaids, present for the birth of babies. We have laughed in that really great, from the soul kind of way on countless days and nights.

And today we cry. Kelly's Mom died unexpectedly yesterday. She was found at her home with her suitcase packed to fly to Kelly's house this morning. I have known both of these women since age 9. The news gave me that crinkly numbing feeling. Kelly lost her Dad years ago and spent yesterday afternoon twisting and turning on how to tell her own children the news.

I thought about those many laughter provoking moments throughout my entire childhood and that recall, in the context of death, makes your sadness widen out and push on you. There is no 'sorry' big enough to cover the gap this death has left. As she told me herself yesterday, "It is my mom." I know exactly what she means. After I spoke to her, I immediately called my own Mom. Kelly spent so many nights at our house, of course my Mom called her immediately. And because my own Mom is so good, she offered all that love and support that maybe only parents know how to give when kids are hurting. And aren't we still kids? It wasn't too long ago we were roller skating through mud puddles and prank calling Scooter Peterson, right?

Being supportive and loving your friend through life-changing moments are aspects you would gladly trade if in fact, you could actually do something to alter the outcome of the situation. I want to wrap her entire day in every great caper, every laugh, every Tiger Tail so all of those minutes counterbalance all of her minutes feeling sick hearted. I can't but I definitely attempted last night via text. To which she replied, "How dare you take off those coconut flakes!" Exactly.

Kelly, you and your Mom loved each other. You both knew the depth of it and for that, I am so very glad. It does not make today easier, but one day it might. Thinking of you, my oldest friend, on what is truly your saddest day.

We love you. And because we love you I am refraining from including a pic of us in grade school with our despicable haircuts.

Take A Bite Of: Sea Salt Caramels (also known as "yum, yum, give me some."

2013-08-17T10:29:00.004-04:00

I know you want some goodness and I am here to help. I have made these several times and they are in-cred-i-ble. Scared of caramel? Dont be. All it takes is a large pot, a few ingredients, thermometer and attentiveness. Once finished, you can share with your friends and family so that you do not consume them all yourself. I took a box to one of our customers yesterday and they were a huge hit. Once I cut them as seen in the pic, I wrap them in wax paper. They look a bit like salt water taffy when wrapped except they are not green and they do taste about 1.3 million times better.

I make them in the exact format learned from Ina Garten. From my kitchen to yours, enjoy every bite.

Sea Salt Caramels:

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup heavy cream
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon fine fleur de sel, plus extra for sprinkling
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions
Line an 8-inch-square baking pan with parchment paper, allowing it to drape over 2 sides, then brush the paper lightly with oil or spray with nonstick spray.

Boil the sugar.

In a deep saucepan (6 inches wide and 4 1/2 inches deep), combine 1/4 cup water, the sugar and corn syrup and bring them to a boil over medium-high heat. Boil until the mixture is a warm golden brown. Don't stir -- just swirl the pan.

Heat the cream.

In the meantime, in a small pot, bring the cream, butter and 1 teaspoon of fleur de sel to a simmer over medium heat. Turn off the heat and set aside.

Finish the caramel.

When the sugar mixture is done, turn off the heat and slowly add the cream mixture to the sugar mixture. Be careful -- it will bubble up violently. Be careful also means WATCH IT. I left one pot unattended for a mere minute and bubbled over boiling caramel is a real headache to clean up. Then stir in the vanilla with a wooden spoon and cook over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, until the mixture reaches 248 degrees F (firm ball) on a candy thermometer.

Fill your prepared pan slowly and carefully. It is HOT. I also then sprinkle the top with sea salt before refrigerating. Pop in fridge for a few hours, until firm. When the caramel is cold, pry the sheet from the pan onto a cutting board. Cut the square in half. And then you can opt for small rectangle or square size pieces. It's easier to cut the caramels if you brush the knife with flavorless oil like corn oil. Wrap the candies.

5 Types of Drunk....

2013-08-09T10:40:00.001-04:00

Years ago, we arrived on the front-end of a party at a friend's house. Walking in, I saw another friend who laughingly told us, "I just saw Rick. He is really drunk."
"What kind of drunk?" I asked. She paused, "Ummm, the drunk kind of drunk."

My question was not that off-base. Think about it, it was approximately 7 pm. The party had started minutes before. How can anyone be drunk unless they were inhaling them via beer bong circa 1990 fraternity party style or they were working on it since early afternoon. For those of you who don't imbibe, good for you. Alcohol is a trouble-maker. However, for those of us who do imbibe, cheers to us because there are many compelling reasons to have a sip or two at night, especially when its red wine or what I like to call "daily fruits." The reality is, there are different kinds of drinking and there are different kinds of drunk as you well know. Let's review them, shall we?

1. I-am-finally-legal-to-drink-drunk: Remember this girl? And boy? Oh, you do. This is the person so excited to finally use real vs. fake id, they go big on the big night. And by 'go big' I mean, watch the f------ out. It is not that this person can finally have alcohol because you know that has been going on for years but it is the reality that the taste of wine coolers or Malibu rum drinks are completely legal. This person is easy to identify at the beginning of the night: For girls: she is the one wearing a "I'M 21" sash yelling "THIS IS MY SONG" at the beginning of every song on the jukebox. For boys: He is the one with the hat on sideways (God love you if its flat-brimmed) calling everyone 'Bro" which sounds like "Bra" and "Dude" which sounds like "Duuuuuuuuuuuuude." Later in the night this person is even easier to identify as the girls will be saying "I love youuuuuu. You are my bessssssst friendddddd forevvvvvver: (God love you if you use the word "bestie" which is one of the worst fake words in the English language and hopefully only used by 21 year olds who have been consuming wine coolers ALL night.) You want to warn them, uh oh, you are going to see something you have never witnessed before: Your hair swirling in the toilet as it hangs down both sides of your face as you hug the commode like you just hugged 1. all your friends. 2. the bartender 3. the street sweeper before you lost your shoes, your iPhone and your dignity. For the fellas, well, he will be the one with his shirt off and doing all kinds of 'dares' his less wasted friends can dream up. His warning is: Have fun waking up in someone's yard covered in Magic Marker but sans clothing hugging an orange traffic cone and an empty bag from Crystals. This boy and girl will repeat these actions many, many times before learning any valuable lessons.

2. I-love-tailgating-drunk: WOW. We love football in this house and by 'we' I mean 'Mostly JMac and increasingly MiniMac'. I love a good time but tailgating is a completely different level. Why? Because people park at 9 am and begin the bonanza of beer guzzling and hotdog scarfing. I once made the foolish mistake of agreeing to go to a tailgate party for a WVU vs. Pitt game. Any college football fans know this is a huge rivalry. We arrived at the tailgate party w/ 150 rabid WVU fans at 11 am. Oh, only 150 you say? Yes, 150 in about a 20 foot area surrounded by oh, I dont know, maybe 80,000 other nutso cukoos. I then learned the game did not actually start until 7:05 pm. Do the math. And when you are done with that you will come to the conclusion "NOT a good use of time." 8 hour tailgate? Or what I like to call "Welcome to the Shit Show." What begins as friends happy to see each other in the mandatory dress code of: Everything on your body must proudly display school colors, mascot or symbol quickly turns into: beer funneling, the school fight song bellowed louder than goats in a megaphone on repeat for at least 100 iterations and sloppy drunk men tossing the football around the parking lot which is about as smooth and graceful as watching a dog react to getting a bee sting on the tail. Oh, you jammed your finger on the ball? Right, because you are 1. drunk and 2. old and 3. out of shape and 4. drunk. It ends with fans of the home field throwing beer cans (and bottles) onto their OWN field. Because that is what highly intoxicated rabid fans do. This theory applies to many, many stadiums in both college and professional arenas. "Tailgate Party" is code word for "Free-For-All" worse than Lake Havasu at Spring Break minus the sex.

3. Wedding-drunk: Weddings are almost like the female version of Tailgating. As much as many a gal loves her tailgate party, weddings bring out the fun in the ladies. Especially if you are in the wedding party. Why? It is awesome to be a part of someone's very special day and it is basically a weekend soiree with multiple other weekends dedicated to the wedding e.g. showers, bachelorette parties, dress shopping, shoe shopping, 'something blue' shopping. We have been to many incredibly tasteful and classic weddings. We have also been to weddings where the groom was drunk at the reception and claimed (on a microphone so even 90 year old grandma could hear) "Its my wedding and I am going to get drunk (check) and I am going to get laid (ummm, keep it up and you will be getting just about nothing later. Thank your whiskey dick. ) Wedding drunk is what causes people to RACE to the dance floor to do the Macarena and exclaim with glee: MMMMmmmmberrrr when we did this on the barrrrr in Lauderdale????? I LOVE this dannnnnce! Wedding-drunk also causes people to: Do 10 minute version of the Electric Slide, participate in the Chicken Dance, the Worm or (actually AND) Breakdance. Wedding-drunk also causes groomsmen to pat your buddy's Mother in Law on the keister and light a joint at the reception. NOT WISE on either count. At least the Worm is just an embarrassing photo of you on Facebook. Wedding-drunk also produces some incredible pairings of people connecting over similar qualities and interests also known as "Liquor-based-love." Liquor-based-love starts at high school parties in odd places you would never normally go like "The Quarry" or "The Dunes" or in our case "Top of the World." Liquor-based-love abounds throughout college, trips to Vegas, and of course, weddings. The only favorable part of Wedding-Drunk is when you are merely an observer. And outside of the part where you had sex with the groom's cousin who wore a Peter Pan collar dress to the wedding, get your act together people. This is someone's special, special day.

4. Girls-or-Guys-night-out-drunk: Basically, Girls or Guys Night Out (GNO) are amongst the most fun nights out but definitely nights you pay for the next day in increasing amounts of pain and agony contingent upon your age. For ladies: GNO in your 20s: Feather boas and hot pants, dancing on the bar and jello shots. GNO in your 30's is sassy off shoulder shirts, perfect lipstick, vodka tonic and wanting to dance on the bar but instead, dancing in a circle. GNO in your 40's is sassy dresses, killer heels, red wine and shake your ass like you are in your 20's dance party. GNO almost always involves dancing. For men: GNO in your 20's involves beer, hitting on women and discussions of sports, beer and women. In your 30's it involves better beer selection, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, microbrews and women. In your 40's it involves: whiskey, gin or tequila, looking at women, maybe hitting on them and discussions of sports, whiskey/gin/tequila, children (for 2 seconds as in do you still have them? Yes. Move along) and women. These nights do cause you to think your liver is as healthy and productive as the day you were born so you will often consume a few sips too many, sing as loudly as possible to songs on the jukebox especially songs like: I Love Rock and Roll, Jack and Diane, Living on a Prayer, Funky Cold Medina or Ice Ice Baby. You will know the words to these songs for life so you might as well belt them out. Your spouse loves GNO because to them GNO means randy time or what JMac calls "No Pants Party." Well, sometimes its true and sometimes a few extra sips helps you only to barely undress and fall into bed without brushing your teeth. Don't judge. But oh, the dance party portion of the evening was AWESOME.

4. I-am-only-having-one-drunk sometimes known as I-am-managing-small-children-drunk: This version is hilarious because you came with the best intentions. You go to dinner with friends, you are only having one and uh oh, next thing you know you are all doing karaoke to PUSH IT. You planned on only one, right? This circumstance also it frequently in many a neighborhood. Typcially, on a 'school night' when your neighbors might be outside with there kiddos and everyone says hello and catches up and then someone brings wine and you say "no thanks" because it is 530 pm and then they insist so, well, ok. Then you sip that and it is tasty. So the bottle is open and well, you may as well have another splash. You don't think are you going down Buzz Boulevard because you clearly said only one. Right. Next thing you know, you are home making dinner and your child says "Let's skip vegetables at dinner tonight?" And you say GREAT IDEA. I know many, many a Mom and Dad managing little people who opt for the "only one" theory which rarely if ever works. The bad news is, children do not care what time you go to bed, their little internal alarm clocks ding at the same time every morning so have fun suffering if you go bananas. I have had one hangover in MiniMac's entire life because I learned my lesson. The hard way. And basically rocked myself to and fro on the bathroom floor petting my own head and crying. My child was far away in the house but really? No thank you. I am not sure what "I-have-surly-teenagers-drunk" looks like but I am years away from that discovery.

5. I'm-so-sad-drunk: Oh boy. This is a tricky one because it kind of goes down like this: Your friend has recently broke up with someone. As we know, break up sadness and lost pet, job, phone, dignity from your 21-run sadness are not the same types of sadness. So your friend has a break up. You decide to approach the night out in one of two ways. Either 1. Let's go get our swerve on! You are a hot commodity! This is a new lease on life! Let's help Stella get her groove back! so you get dolled up, shoes=sexy, hair=fierce and you go out to tear it up. Except whooooops, one or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. So-sad-drunk is a drunk many of us know first-hand. The problem is not the sadness, it is the TALKING about the sadness over and over and over and over and over and over. (Girls, admit, you know WE love to reiterate our details. Over and over and over.) The more consumed, the more sad crying/talking that occurs until you are nasal toned and dripping from the eyes AND nose. It will get better but not this night bellied up to the bar. The other approach to the so-sad-breakup-back-in-the-saddle night out is 2, F him! You don't need him! He will RUE the DAY! This is also known as very sad AND angry drunk or very sad AND bitter drunk. Back away slowly. Here is what will happen: One or two glasses of Malbec later you notice the more grape juice in equals more water from the tear ducts out. Then that water turns to venom. Then you are telling stories about Bryan's gambling issues, affinity for kink and his small penis. The more liquor in the louder the volume on the voice box goes until everyone in the vicinity knows all about Bryan and his shortcomings. Once all the poison is out, you go back to crying and being really sad because you realllllllllllly looooooooooooved Bryaaaaaaaaaaan.

Now be good and let all of these examples be a warning to you.

Hot Sh*t

2013-08-05T12:09:00.000-04:00

At the gym yesterday, I overheard two guys discussing a particular female.

One guy: I don't really like her, she is kind of conceited.
Other guy: Me either, she thinks she is such hot sh*t.

Hmmmm. There are several phrases that make no sense to me and this is one. If someone is conceited, do they really think they are hot sh*t? Are there NO other phrases to employ that make more sense? Does anyone who actually is conceited look in the mirror pursing their lips, smiling at themselves and ask what do I remind myself of? A beauty queen? Madonna? A super model? Oh, I KNOW, warm feces. It does not make any sense. The only thing worse than a pile of sh*t would be a hot one. I was once out with girlfriends and one of them was getting hit on a man who most definitely did not lack in the confidence sector (see, a clearer way to describe someone who thinks they are hot sh*t) and she asked him, "When you get home, do you kiss yourself goodnight?" It was hilarious because we were on cocktail #3, but really, even that doesn't make sense and it is STILL better than 'hot sh*t' right?

I realize it is just a phrase but it is a pretty horrible one, you have to concur.

BUT, should you or someone you know suffer from classifying yourself as hot sh*t, do not worry. You know what will knock you down a peg from all your comingled self-love and poopy thoughts? A polaroid picture. Seriously. They make virtually everyone look ugly, especially the close ups. How do I know? Well, because a friend took one for me and when I gazed at it, I thought perhaps I was looking in a funhouse mirror. Except I was not. Yikes. Where is the Photoshop button on those archaic things?!? So, if you have a friend suffering from the disease, snap that polaroid. It will work. I promise.

So, if we can't deconstruct the phrase at least I have offered a cure for it.

Why your child's name should not cause that child anxiety.

2013-07-24T08:39:00.004-04:00

I realize that many, many people are enamored with the royal baby and all correlated activities like what Kate wore on her baby debut and what that baby was going to be named. Baby names, they are so much more creative now versus when our parents named us things like: Jennifer. Or Michael. Hilarious read from Drew Magary at GQ this morning. Must share in total:

You Named Me…What?

If name is destiny (Destynee?), then judging from the dumb-ass, intentionally misspelled, needlessly apostrophe'd names we Americans are giving our kids nowadays—Jaxxon, Branlee, Scot't—we're raising a generation of meth heads. What can be done to stop this? Presenting GQ's rules for naming a baby in the worst baby-naming era in human history

By Drew Magary

July 2013

Congratulations, your wife/girlfriend/au pair is pregnant! A little bundle of colicky delight awaits you mere months from now. And one of the great joys of this period of anticipation is brainstorming all kinds of kick-ass names for your offspring.
But be warned: The power that comes with naming a child can be both intimidating and addictive, and we are currently in the throes of a child-naming crisis here in America. Seemingly rational people are naming their kids Baylynn, and Daxx, and Nirvana. Ethans are becoming Aythans. Marys are becoming Jazzmins. Wannabe elitist parents keep trying to one-up each other, as if a uniquely horrible name serves as some kind of guarantee against little Aston Martin growing up to be merely ordinary. Soon we'll be staring down an army of Apples, and the entire country will collapse upon itself. Each of us will get only a few opportunities (or if you're Antonio Cromartie, two dozen) to help in the fight against this encroaching apocalypse, so when your turn comes, please do your part by following a few simple rules.

Do not invent a name. Most inventions fail. Many don't even make it past the patent stage. What makes you think a name you created out of thin air is gonna stand the test of time? There's a reason why "Jane" and "David" have hung around for so long. They're proven. They've been workshopped out in the field. That's not true of Kaydiss. You didn't even run it past a focus group. You're putting the responsibility for an entire new product launch on that poor baby's shoulders. That's a dick move. This also goes for any classic name that you deliberately mutilated. No one's gonna be dazzled that you took Christopher and turned it into Krystougher.

Think real hard about whether or not a "cool" name is all that cool. Listen, I've been vulnerable to this, too—I had Duke and Rock on the list for my first son, because I'm an idiot. But I wised up, because you don't pick a name for the initial novelty of it. The name you choose needs to hold up for a long, long time. You may think naming your kid Ace will automatically make everyone think he's a fighter pilot, but the culture changes. It evolves. Names that sound kinda badass now become stale and tepid with the passage of time. If you're going to name your kid Ace, you might as well name him 1987.
If you give your kid a kooky name, there'd better be a story behind it. "You see, we named her Veniss because she was conceived in a pensione outside Venice. But Tyler's grandmother just died and her name was Missy and we wanted to honor her memory. And then I thought…Veniss! Plus the name has Macedonian roots, and I'm Macedonian!"

Don't abuse the letter y. It's not a real vowel. It's only a vowel when all the other vowels have been injured and you need to use the emergency third-string vowel. It's not some kind of all-purpose MEGAVOWEL that can be readily substituted for the real ones just because you think it looks cooler. Little Prysylla shouldn't have to grow up thinking her name was inspired by some kind of Croatian village. And another thing…

Go easy on the "extreme" letters. I like x, k, and z as much as any competitive Scrabble player does. But these are children you're naming, not line extensions of Mountain Dew. The only reason to name your kid Jaxxon is if you really want him to grow up to be a Duke lacrosse player.

Do not use double letters if you don't have to. Branlee. That's a real name. People have used it, just as they've used Kylee, Sandee, and thousands of other homemade names that deploy double e's and double n's wherever possible because…well, beecausee! It just looks betterr, doesn't it?! We're on the verge of triple letters. In two years, a Trissstyn will show up at your country day school and everyone's head will explode.

Do not name your child after the following things:
- A television network
- An item in the Pottery Barn catalog
- Some goddamn character in Twilight
- A car
- A type of New Age exercise method
- Yourself
- Food
- Any celebrity baby. We already have one Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette. We don't need a second one.
Consider whether that apostrophe is really necessary. It isn't.

Think about the kid and not yourself. Are you giving this kid a one-of-a-kind name because you're fishing for cheap compliments? Do you want friends and family to be dazzled by your creativity? That's probably what's going on here, even if you can't admit it. A name shouldn't make a person. A person should make a name for himself. He has to go and earn it by fighting bears and seducing the wives of dictators. On his own. Without your help. So before you fill out that birth-certificate application, think hard about the person who's gonna be carrying around this name for life. Put yourself in the kid's shoes, and maybe, just maybe, you'll have the balls not to name her Brixie.

drew magary is a gq correspondent and a columnist for Deadspin. His third book, Someone Could Get Hurt: A Memoir of Twenty-First-Century Parenthood, is out now.

On having your cake and eating it...

2013-07-19T08:15:00.001-04:00

Waking up to turning 42 today. Life is so amazing. It is a great day to be thankful for so many things. The sun is out, great weekend in NYC with my best friend last week, great dinner out with friends last night, fun concert plans tomorrow with great friends, waking up this morning with surprise gifts from JMac and Mini and hearing from friends far and wide. Such a lucky girl.

I am going to share a previous post that is one of my favorite things I have ever written for this blog. Have a fantastic day and thank you for being with me to celebrate today.
_________

Let's pop the cork on this thing.

Now, take a deep breath, and help me blow out all these candles.

38....is great. And I will be blowing out 38 candles this Sunday.

Deep in the matriarchal DNA of my family resides the long linear polymer for I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. Of course, I already pontificated on this subject and told you about Sangria Cha Cha Cha which will be served to the rim this weekend at a bit of a bash in my honor. Since I can't pour you a glass from here (oh, I would if I could honey) if you want to partake, here is the recipe .

I want all of you to join me for a cocktail as I reflect on a very full and fun life.

In this retrospect, I thought of sage advice and prolific words of wisdom I might share if I had the chance to write a letter to JennyMac at say, age 8. Like to hear it? Here it go....

Dear 8 year old JennyMac:

Happy early birthday. You turn 9 in just a few days. You LOVE parties and always will so enjoy your day.

You little girl, are brave, trusting, and good. Smart as a whip and certainly not afraid to clarify that for others who do not seem to grasp it. You are also sassy and have quite a mouth on you. A natural proclivity toward sarcasm is typically not developed so young. Use it wisely. And by wisely, I mean, don't use it on your teachers. As more specifically, don't call Mr. M an "arsehole" to his face. He is your Leadership teacher. This is not good leadership. And you are a kid. Not nice. Oh, and you certainly get in trouble at home so side-step that temptation.

Charm is of utmost importance and the sooner you employ it, the better. It is NOT charming to tell your mom, whilst she is spanking you, that you "can't feel a thing." Wise up. This will induce more spanking. Don't be smug.

You love sports and are quite good. You will love soccer, skiing, tennis, and volleyball for life. Give up piano lessons. Early. Your older brother has the musical talent of ten people. There is none left for you.

Oh, you are a tiny thing. Guess what, you will not grow and look like a real girl until 7th grade. Because of this, when you decide in 5th grade to cut off all your long hair for a Dorothy Hamill hair cut, I will be the first to tell you DON'T DO THIS. People will ask your parents about their "son" on more than one occasion. You will not like it. Pay attention to my words and don't cut your hair, or at least find someone who doesn't cut it like you are about to join the Army.

Your Father tells you at a young age you better find a career that pays you to run your mouth the way you do. You pick Lawyer. From the age of five you aspire to be two things: a Solid Gold Dancer or an attorney. Solid Gold goes off the air but watch it and learn all their skills. Law school is the answer. Although in any given opportunity, you will emulate the deft moves of a Solid Gold Dancer
~~for years~~
~~a long time~~
forever.

And don't tell lies. Like when you borrowed your Mom's bronzer, turned your face orange because you used too much, got it ALL over the impeccable white counters and floor, and then when questioned, you feigned bewilderment and innocence. Well sugar, the writing is all over your tangerine skin. Lucky for you, you learn quickly and just take your licks.

You will get tall, but you will be a size zero until about 13. Don't fret. You will never be a size zero again. And your boobs don't actually feel like participating in the "growth" process so they wait. For about 2 or 3 years. And when they come, its a weak showing. You twist and turn on this. Worry not. Why? Magic words: padded push-up. Plus, Victoria's Secret will solve this problem for you later in life with the first Miracle Bra. Even better ones come. Oh, and the braless, flat girls abound after the 90's.

Skip school a few days in November of 1984. You are only in 7th grade so just hold the thermometer near the light bulb for a few seconds. During November of this year "pants-ing" people becomes all the rage amongst the boys at school. You are not developed yet. You will get pants-ed. You will be called Peach Fuzz. You will react in a way the fuels fire. Not wise. You will need to work on this. Try laughing and telling them you lead the frontier for the Brazilian wax. Instead you will cry. Peach Fuzz sticks with you for about a year. You will laugh about this only DECADES later. Do yourself a favor, and just feign sickness. When you finally do get boobs, these same boys will not be singing Peach Fuzz.

You are going to have a great life. You are so lucky, and so loved. You adore clothes from a wee age when you refused to wear panties and socks that don't match. Nordstrom was the first word you could spell. You will make some wildy poor outfit choices in the 80's but everyone does.

You will wear a velour mid-length snap front bathrobe to school and because it is fabulous and purple, you will tell people it is a coat. Ummmm, one day you and TazBud will get in a fight and she will out you. Save it for the shower, sweetie.

Also, you will put blond hair color on one side of your hair. Right at the roots. Let's not. It will turn your hair orange and you will be stuck growing this out for over one year. This will be in ALL of your cheerleading pics. Your mom will hang these in the living room for ALL to see. If you don't take my advice, enjoy getting hazed. For years.

Oh, and stay out of Mom's jewelry box. Especially without permission. Yes, you like the jewels but you take her black pearls without express consent and then wear them in your class pictures. Ummm. Really? You have them ON in the picture. What more proof does she need? Perhaps you should have got your tiny arse beat because you will also one day take a ring of hers without asking and lose the stone. Turns out her father gave her the ring as a graduation gift. This will break your mom's heart and you will not know that for years to come. And you can NEVER replace something of such sentimental value. Just be respectful and ask first.

But older brother's room is a free for all. He has sh*t hidden everywhere: love notes, Copenhagen, contraband cigs, a one-hitter. You will have such great ammo against him. Start looking now.

You have some of the greatest friends of your life growing up. You will still be friends with many of them to this day.

Oh, your high school boyfriend was actually not the one who informed your Mom about who bought you alcohol in order to gain her good graces. You and all of your friends have big fun calling him Eddie Haskell for about the next decade but he is innocent. She is reading your journals. But, you are so clever that you often write your shenanigans in code. Brilliant move. She doesn't know HALF of what you are up to.

And believe me, you and your gal pals are innocent little lambs compared to teens today.

Oh, but when you get asked by one coach if you were drinking during a high school party thereby violating Athletic Code, DENY DENY DENY. She is a cow and will mishandle it. You and your two close friends will be suspended from the team (only for a bit though). Instead, smile at her as say " I would never." And wine coolers shouldn't really qualify as "drinking."

Oh, and when you pitch a full throttle fit when you are forced to watch 90210 because it's your little brother's birthday and he gets to pick, the least you could do is later admit to him you became obsessed with the show and watched it religiously.

While you think it is AMAZING that your first college boyfriend helps you make a beer bong (with a shut off valve...genius) it is HIGHLY UNWISE to bring this home on your first college break to show all of your friends also home on break. Breath-takingly more foolish is that you actually show your Step-Dad. Ummm, they are paying for education not beer-induced sex fest. DO NOT SHOW YOUR PARENTS A BEER BONG. Especially YOUR beer bong with YOUR nickname on it. And then you tell SD who helped you craft it. When that boy comes to visit, your SD calls him a troll. To his face. Your SD does NOT want to think about a boy funneling beer in your mouth at the speed of light for obvious reasons.

And being in a sorority is a great idea. You will love it. Although, those girls can drink. Wine coolers have not prepared you. Oh, and watch those 3 am calzones. Yes, I know you are hungry. Try eating during the day time. You will spend an entire summer working that off your arse.

And "credit card" is not magical slang for "free money" or "something somehow unattached to actual debt". When you Father tells you to pay attention to your credit, that's not French for "MAD SPENDING SPREE". You are smarter than this. Stop acting like you forgot all mathematical and economic concepts because its your first credit card.

Your first really serious college boyfriend is going to break your tiny heart. And he is cheating on you, sweetpea. Don't change a thing, because you learn more from this particular relationship than you can imagine. Its determinism, and it will change you 100% for the better. Pack your tissues though ladybug, its going to be a tough one.

You follow him across the country because you are so wise and grown up. The positive to this is, it is the best mistake you have ever made for the wrong reasons. PS: When your parents are paying for everything, they do, in fact, get a vote.

You will LOVE the University. Thankfully, you will actually like the "school" piece of it too. And you learn quickly skipping class is not wise. You will learn this the day your Western Civ mid term is rescheduled and you were not in class to hear this. Or the next session when they remind people. Oh, you are one smooth talker and overcome this dilemma but just go to class in the first place.

You will come out of your college experience a different and better person (and you think you are pretty fly at the time, trust me). And you will date stellar men from that point on.

Law school is a wise choice. It will benefit you indefinitely. You will have a hemorrhage over your first law school writing grade. That's what you get for being a smarty pants and not studying. Don't be a jackarse. Everyone here is smart. Oh, but you ace the Wills and Trusts exam that you almost have breakdown over fear of failing. Stop carrying on at your apartment on the phone to Mom. You miss your flight and have one hell of a time waiting at the airport for hours because it is winter and there are all kinds of weather issues. Oh, but you do meet a cute boy so all is not lost. And he likes to buy cocktails but easy does it. Don't get off the plane shatfaced to meet your family.

And going to the Grenada every Thursday night for "80's Night & Dollar Pitchers" when you are supposed to be studying Tort Law is a good idea. You will remember those nights much, much longer than you will remember Palsgraf v. Long Island Rail Road.

And when you graduate, you will have achieved your first life goal. And you will meet some of the best friends you will ever hope to have during this time. Well done.

You will have a great career free of blemish. Don't go to work for Big K though. You will get in an argument with him over open toe shoes at the office. In 2001. He is a clown. And you don't work in a manufacturing plant. His wife actually refers to him as "fat bastard". Just decline that offer. And save yourself a headache of trying to educate someone that you don't need to wear clogs and bonnets.

You will paint the town. You will fraternize. And you make good decisions. It is BIG fun.

But that guy that says you "suck" because you don't like his friend, and you answer "hardly" and laugh in his face, that's just fine. But then he calls your friend a " ____stupid____" because she won't give him her number. You debate throwing your drink in his face for saying that even though that seems, well, a bit of an over-reaction. Well, THROW IT HONEY. He is begging to be b*tch-slapped via vodka tonic. Believe it. And then you and your friend can reminisce about how good it felt to do it.

At your wedding shower, your favorite and beloved Aunt will say "you sure kissed a lot of frogs before finding your prince." But, you will LOVE kissing these frogs. Kiss away.

And you marry someone strong, and smart, and loving. Having a baby will change both of your lives. And when you are raising a son, you will realize the importance of teaching leadership and being a good parent. And you realize how hard it is sometimes and you regret, oh, about 1,000 things you did/said to your parents.

Oh, and then you will remember that one time you went to your BFF's nieces first bday, and all the kids at one point seemed to be screaming. And you said, "For the love of God, I need a drink. How can you bear the racket." And your BFF, MarciaGarcia, says, "Oh, eventually you just drowned it out." And you say, with what for !&%# sake, a hammer? You will finally know what she means.

And the first time your tiny child says "I love you" without you saying it first, you will melt.

And you will achieve another life goal of writing a book, don't be discouraged that after a few agents give you the nod the only real creatures interested are the spiders crawling on the dusty manuscript in the garage, well, we don' t know what's to come of that yet. You just wrote it a year ago. BUT, you want to start blogging three years before you do. Do it sooner. There is an INCREDIBLY witty, fun, sassy, and smart group of people you will meet in BloggyWorld, doing the same thing, and you will become addicted. Soar baby, soar.

Happy Birthday, and yes, you can have your cake and eat it too.

Love, JennyMac at age 38

Sportsmanship: A refresher for some grumpy old men.

2013-07-16T11:37:00.004-04:00

Recently, we took MiniMac to a kiddos birthday party. Bowling galore for the 6 and 7 year olds. The Party Girl has a little 3 year old brother who happened to roll a strike. The look on his face was awesome and we all cheered enthusiastically. Well, all of us except one kid. One kid put a little scowl on his face and muttered, "He got lucky, that's all. " Right. Another kid knocks out a spare. Sir Scowls-a-Lot says yet again, "That was an easy shot for me but he got really lucky." Oh goody, I see a pattern. This kids spends a large part of the hour w/ these comments. Surely his parent would have told him to zip it, except wait, his parents dropped him off at the 'no drop off' kids party. Later, we talked to Mini about it and all the things Mini overheard Scowlywag saying. We stressed the importance of sportsmanship whether you are playing cards, playing CandyLand or playing baseball. Unsportsman-like conduct is pretty ugly on kids. Obviously it impacts grown people too.

JMac is an avid golfer. I have started playing with him and believe me, I have miles to go before I sleep. Golf is a fairly mean game in that it toys with you. You might hit the ball like a star one day, and you are all smiley and shaking hands with your partners as you mentally pat yourself on the back a little bit. However, often and quite easily for many people, the next time you play you are shanking them in the weeds and talking more foul-mouthed than Eminem. We are exposing MiniMac to as much golf as possible right now so he can build the fundamentals, learn the ettiquette and play the game. There is such an increase of young people, both boys and girls, playing golf now. It is a great game requiring a lot of technique and focus.

Because it is challenging game and one that is embracing more women and young people than ever, it is with salty dismay I relate the following story:

JMac played in a Pro-Am tournament yesterday with the Pro from our Club. At this tournament he learns about a recent Club Championship tournament at one of the other country clubs in Atlanta called Dunwoody Country Club. The Club Championship was held recently and won by a 14 year old boy. Obviously, this boy is talented. Apparently he has a brother a year or two older who is also a phenomenal golfer. How awesome. Good for you 14 year old golf star! That is INCREDIBLE.

Oh, wait. What happened? Members complained? Wait, what? Members complained that a 14 year old won because he should not be qualified to play in a Club Championship? Hold on, there's more? You belabored the issue SO much to whomever is running Dunwoody Country Club, those individuals not only listened to some serious whining but they then ALSO changed the rules so no one under age can even play in the tournament going forward. WOW.

This is what I like to call a little refresher in sportsmanship. Guess what grumpy old men, you got beat. You should definitely cry about it. You should cry and stomp your feet. And since your bitter, salty tears do not actually make you feel better, take it a step further. How? Take it up the chain, of course! Go show your dismay that someone so young beat you that clearly, he should not be allowed to play again. Definitely opt out of celebrating this boy's talent. Do NOT cheer him on and hope he remembers you one day when he plays the Masters and might have given you tickets. Oh, I am sure there is a loophole built in there somewhere so you can all feel good about yourselves. I am confident the purpose of a Championship tournament is to actually recognize and declare the best player at your Club is the CHAMPION. Now, that kid is simply going to have to wait several years to come back to your tournament and beat you again. I am sure your red arse will sting for days. Refresh yourself on some lessons in sportmanship like applaud talent in others. Or be the bigger man. Or, if you don't want to get beat by a kid, try harder, practice more or don't play. I hope your pouty face snot nose didnt drip all over your golf shirt. PS: If that was our club, I would be embarrassed by not only the douchy members but that people with decision making ability actually moved your sorry agenda along.

5 Topics You Should Discuss Prior to Your Wedding Day (no, not the obvious ones.)

2013-07-09T11:50:00.001-04:00

As one person falls in love with another person, gets all smarmy and melty-hearted, there are definitive topics that should be discussed prior to the wedding bells ( and in some cases, prior to too much investment of time for that matter.) The majors include religion, finances, children. We discussed these as well as other 'major' topics like family, career aspirations, friends, deal-breakers. There are also several other topics I have learned are important to the overall health and wellness of your couplehood. Oh, do let me tell.

1. Free time: How does your mate like to spend free-time? Seriously, this is important. A good friend of mine is an avid golf and tennis player. When dating, his girlfriend was also an avid golf and tennis player. They got engaged and she then was an avid smoker and reality show connoisseur. Apparently she smoked the entire time they dated. Those are SOME breath mints and body spray. When JMac and I started dating, I realized there was significant time dedicated to pre-game, during game, post-game analysis of all things football. We have Sportscenter on so frequently, MiniMac could recognize Chris Berman when he was two. What JMac did not know about me then is I would start the blog and donate gobs of time to it for years. Surprise. Oh, and that I love all movies involving dance. Not ashamed to admit I watched Step Up to the Streets. Thankfully, we have many, many outdoor interests in common including golf, tennis, beaches and drinking wine (when we do that outside, it counts as an 'outside' activity. People, check the free-time gauge. If your mate like Shakespeare Festivals and you don't, that is fine. If your mate loves to dress in Shakespeare costumes and don a fake accent 18 hours per day, maybe thats a sticking point for you. If your interests don't match up, time to find some common ground.

2. Music: Why is this important? Two words: Road Trips. I assure you JMac knew my affinity for all things "80's Remix" when we met. Does he love to listen to four different remix versions of Salt N Pepa Push It every time we are in the car for more than two hours? No, he does not. Shame on him, I know. While we both love music, we do not necessarily appreciate all the same genres. For example, Whoomp There It Is came on once and he changed it immediately. What? Whoomp There It Is is a classic party anthem from back in the day! He feels the same about Ice Ice Baby and It Takes Two. These are not flaws but poor JohnnyMac! He listened to too much Poison, Kiss, Def Leppard and Motley Crue to appreciate Sir Mix A Lot's many gifts to the world. We play music in the house frequently and he who gets to the dial fist, gets to rule the show. I felt a tiny cringe the first time he uploaded Carry On My Wayward Son onto my iPod for me as a special treat. Delete. He just this moment reminded me it is a 'great' song. Mm hmmm. And now, with MiniMac, it is a total battle royale for control of the music in the house. JMac and his brother have Mini completely into Bon Jovi. I have countered this by hooking Mini onto a great remix of Gonna Make You Sweat.

3. Temperature: I failed discuss with JMac his proclivity to keep his living quarters at the same temperature as the Ice Hotel. Or a meat locker. We have the AC on the minute it turns 65 outside. My limbs have a slight numbness to them right this moment. Yes, its Georgia and its hot but you better check the temp gauge on your mate. As cold as our house it, it is ditto for the car. Even when I'm driving he adjusts the temp to "winter day in Minnesota." We have tried to discuss it many times as I wear long-sleeves and footwear at all time in our house. His suggestion: Layer more. Yes, I should definitely wear MITTENS inside our house. This interferes with my wine drinking, darling! Many times I have made adjustments when he has left the house only to be foiled again each night. Curses. This is a challenge I have clearly lost. BRRRRRR.

4. Food:What do we eat? Well, in this house, I like vegetables. I enjoy smoothies made from blue algae, spinach, mango and protein powder. JMac does not. JMac likes giant pieces of steak. Do does our tiny son. JMac likes greasy hamburgers from 5 Guys. I do not. We learned our lesson on the first car trip. Now I know I am basically not allowed to drink water (to avoid bathroom breaks) and must pack all my own healthy snacks (there is no 'healthy snack stop' on the road.) On long car trips, we make multiple stops: 5 Guys are some other greasy area for John. Some grocery store for me. The good news is, you know I am playing remixes of 80s songs the whole time I am crossing my legs in Mussolini's car. JMac also doesn't enjoy eating at 6 pm like old people, so we have multiple dinner shifts in this house too. We do sit together at the table when Mini is eating so it seems like we are eating a family dinner. I like to eat before 7 or 8. JMac likes to eat at 10 pm. The good news is we love great food so the restaurant experiences are on par. Despite our home eating choices, we do have common ground. We both love sushi, great wine and most menus at our fave fine dining locations offer something for all of us. Thankfully we are both repulsed by any food establishment in which items for consumption are covered by sneeze guards. I do wish JMac liked sweets since I like to bake it up. Although, all my co-workers and friends are glad he doesn't so they can reap the goods.

5. Ambition: We have a friend who was unfortunate to lose his job during the downturn of the economy. He apparently never wants to work again. His wife is reaching the saturation point on patience and I feel for her. He doesnt want any job 'below' him and granted, he was super successful prior. But houses and little bitty children and the food you need to give them requires cash. Unless you are selling lemonade on the daily and making a killing, you need a job. JMac and I are both competitive people (I have tampered my competitiveness a touch or two since we had MiniMac but I will still SCHOOL YOU in Taboo so maybe I need to tamper it a touch more.) I took a year off when we had Mini and was ready to return to grown up conversation and using all my smart skills when that year was up. Make NO mistake: raising children at home whether by the Mom or the Dad is work. All day. Every day. It is a different kind of work requiring a different set of skills and patience. But some people do not want to work, even when their kids are raised. One of my former co-workers decided to stop working when they had several children. The youngest is 12 now and she also doesn't want to work. She owns that decision but she has also told me it is causing many a squabble at their house too. Ambition means different things to different people. As does lack of ambition. I am not identifying these two individuals as lacking ambition: they said it. Maybe you can't predict how someone will react when losing a job, or losing their steam but you can see many a clue during the courtship. "Sitting on the couch eating beef jerky" is not a paid occupation so if that is someone's passion project, oh boy.

These are just suggestions but maybe they are good ones. I really recommend you ratchet that 'temperature' topic to the top because as I type, I am wearing long pants and sleeves in my house in the summer.

Like mud in your eye, only much, much worse.

2013-07-03T13:42:00.001-04:00

July. One of my favorite months. Happy Birthday America? Running the world's largest 10K? Girls trip to NYC? A week long visit to Seattle to see my family? And my birthday? All in the same month? Get out your bells, it is a month long celebration. All we need are some fireworks and we are going to be set for a fantastic America's bday party. (Happy Birthday America. I do love you so.)

Oh, fireworks. As munchkins, we were down with the fireworks. My step-dad loved them so when we got to make the purchase, we came home with a treasure troves of explosive goods. However, in WA, fireworks were contraband. We had to venture north to an Indian Reservation where fireworks were available by the pallet.

We made this trip annually. What a great memory! Oh, except for one particular year. Yikes. When I was 8, we were on our annual sparkler quest. I was encouraging my step-dad to buy everything I laid my eyes upon when nature called me. Loudly. I had no alternative but to utilize the Port-a-potties lined up near the parking lot. My best friend, Kelly Rae was with me and had she been left behind, this story might have never resurfaced.

I go quickly yet unhappily into the Port-a-potty because even at eight I had a strong aversion for the portable cesspool. I touch nothing and quickly exit. As I step out of the chamber o' disgust, and place my foot in the sandy ground covering, I hurry back to meet my family.

Kelly and my Mom look down at my foot and ask, "What is THAT?"

I am immediately horrified to the point you want to flee but you also want to sprinkle pixie dust all around shouting, "This never happened. This never happened!!!!"

I look down at my little plastic jelly shoe. Moments ago a favorite shoe. Now, my shoe was something that could not be mistaken for any other thing. Oh. Good. Lord. My tiny foot and formerly favorite shoe was completely esconced in well, a giant piece of human poop.

Remember how tiny your foot was at age 8? Remember jelly shoes? They are basically full of holes. So instead of wearing my trendy and fabulous gelatin-like clear plastic slipper, I was now wearing a poop boot.

I did what any sassy young girl would do. I cried. And then flung off my shoe. And then cried some more. While laughing hysterically, my Mom and step-dad offer to help. You know they DID NOT WANT to handle the poop boot. I am sure I was gracious in my response. Something like "I DON'T WANT YOUR HELP " in a hysterical fashion when, really? You don't want someone else to scrape the poop off for you? Good job. Dummy. I decide to get a stick to scrape it off. Wise idea. Except it didnt work. It like taking a tooth pick to a dirty tire. Except it smelled 100% more vile. I had to put the shoe back on because I did not want to touch it.

Listen, I scraped my foot on the ground more than a bull in Barcelona and that poop was NOT coming off. Why did I step in the most solid poop available? UGH. What is this person eating? Steel? It wasn't coming off without a pressure washer.

I hobbled back through the gravel parking lot with one shoe and put that ugly thing in the trunk. I stopped crying. I did not, however, want to shop for fireworks again. And believe, the human poop boot story resurfaced many, many times. Luckily, it finally disintegrated. Unfortunately, there were one or two worse stories that took its place.

I have never stepped in poop again. THANKFULLY. Not even with pets and a diapered baby in my house. Its like mud in your eye, only much, MUCH worse.

Watch your toes tomorrow people, learn from my lesson.

Today is a big day...hooray.

2013-06-26T12:56:00.002-04:00

Initially, I started to type 'today is a big day for the Gays, hooray' but this day isn't only for the gays and the recognition of their rights to marry. This day is a monumental moment in history and it is a big day for everyone who loves equality, justice, opportunity and love. And it is for every person who has a gay sibling, child, friend or loved one.

I know many people who are celebrating today, in their communities and in their hearts. Well done, SCOTUS. I used to think all we need is love. Yes, but we also need the right to express that love openly and recognize it is about hearts, not parts.

I applaud this day for so many incredible people I know. And I will say, there will likely never be another day in history so many men will openly and honestly claim, "I cant wait to be a Groom!"

How I am getting invited to your Memorial Day Weekend parties ( key words: my homemade Ginger Beer)

2013-05-23T13:12:00.000-04:00

Since summer is coming, I want to make sure you have the best thirst quencher on hand for all your upcoming summer soirees and poolside fetes. And when I share it with you, you will invite me to all your fabulous parties. (Plus, I am a rather kick-ass DJ when necessary.)

A few summers ago while home in Seattle, I found myself sipping upon a Moscow Mule. Do you know this beverage? Amazing. Comprised of vodka, lime juice, ginger beer, it became my go to beverage if I was opting for liquor. Ginger beer is not actual beer but a jumped up and far more flavorful sister of ginger ale. There are several brands we used at home: Goslings, Barritts, Fever Tree and diet versions of the first two. I happily sipped it the following summer until upon ordering it in one of our favorite restaurants, I noticed an immediate difference in that my beloved Moscow Mule had an upgrade, a kick, an improved personality. The reason: house made ginger beer. Tell me more! House made ginger beer is hands down better than store purchase. However, I failed to get the lowdown on how to create such a concoction at home. The next time we were in, our favorite bartender was absent. I asked our less favorite bartender for the general 'how to' to which he replied 'it is virtually impossible to make ginger beer at home."

Virtually impossible?

You know people are making liquid nitrogen ice cream, right? And nitro siracha on tuna tartare. I mean virtually impossible is a pretty strong position.

So I went to University of Google and tried 4 or 5 different recipes to discover that what he meant by 'virtually impossible' was 'actually rather easy and should be shared with all your friends and mixologists'. I like my ginger beer with a little sass and attitude so after several versions, my final version includes a secret ingredient: Chinese Five Spice. YUM.

Here is what I am working with:

JennyMac's Homemade Ginger Beer

1 1/4 pound of fresh ginger minced in food processor. Minced well.

Split minced ginger between the two pitchers. Add to each:

1 c sugar
1 c brown sugar
Juice from one lemon
1/2 tsp Chinese Five Spice (if you are strong and like it with a little 'how you like me now.'
Fill remainder of vessel with hot water.

Stir, stir, stir.

Let cool to room temp (at least an hour) and add 1 tsp of yeast. You can use brewers yeast if you have it.

Let it sit overnight and then strain.

Mix with any variety of delicious liquids for a perfect summer elixir. If you want my Moscow Mule recipe, by all means since I will be sipping it at your pool:

1 shot fresh lime juice

1 shot vodka

1 shot soda water over ice in a single bucket glass.

Top w/ ginger beer. Sip and enjoy and start penning me your thank you note.

I just made a big batch for the beach this weekend. Have a fantastic long weekend if you are celebrating and remember the reason for this holiday season.