Wakey, Wakey!

Not a morning person doesn’t begin to cover it.  I’m hard wired that way, too, and have been since early childhood.  Whoever said that kids bounce out of bed ready to go never met me.  I was probably eight when I asked my mother why we couldn’t sleep all day and play all night.  With either the wisdom born of ages, or the weariness born of scenting yet another winless argument, she smiled and said, “well, YOU can, honey, but you won’t have anyone to play with.”

I managed to find college classes that didn’t start at dawn, (except the hard sciences- why does anyone think that O chem. will make more sense before coffee?)  and a career that has swing shifts.  Life was good.  Bars stay open late, single people can pretty much do as they please regarding sleep.  Even in our early married life, the fact that I had married an early bird did not faze me much.   There was plenty of time we could spend together.  He could get up early, and come back to bed when I was waking.

But then I had children.

Infants, of course, are the original Zen.  They have no clocks; they live only in the now.  I’m hungry NOW.  I need to be comforted NOW.  My diaper is messy NOW.  Toddlers are only marginally better.  The improvement comes in that they can entertain themselves for short periods, and they themselves sleep longer, not in that they have any more patience.  So the spaces between their demands are greater.  MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!  is only a tad better than WAAAAAAAAHHHH!, but at least it doesn’t usually happen in the wee hours.  It does, however begin as soon as the little dears open their eyes, and continues as long as those gorgeous eyes are open, which is why all mothers love naps.  My darlings didn’t nap.  The oldest believed firmly from an early age that we did amazingly interesting things whenever he closed his eyes. If you consider washing the dishes or also napping amazing, as I did, I guess he was right.  He fought naps.  We rocked, sang, watched golf, even bass fishing worked for a while (who knew THAT was a televised sport!) but eventually he took to biting and slapping himself to stay awake, and I gave up trying for naps when he was about 15 months old.  The only mercy was that he slept a solid 6- 8 hrs at night by the time he was a year old, so I could as well.  

When Propel was about three, his brother came along.  Sarsaparilla was a different breed.  He did nap, but only when he was exhausted, which could be anytime, and then only for long enough to recharge, which might be 15 minutes, or it might be 2 hrs.  Problem was, it wasn’t on a schedule.  That whole schedule thing was not his bag.  He usually slept 6 hours a night, but got up early.  This is not helpful for someone working swing shift.  If you go to bed at midnight, being roused at 5 is unpleasant at best.

But now the worm has turned.  The little angels are teens, and Sarsaparilla, he of the hopping out of bed joyously with the sun, ready to climb ladders and run into walls, has become a sloth.  Waking him is like walking a minefield.  One enters cautiously, and turns on the dimmest light in the room, gently announcing one’s presence.  Gradually, the lights may be increased along with the volume, and eventually, something slithers out of the bed and into the shower.  “Oh”, you say,” where is his alarm clock?  He should be responsible for getting himself out of bed!”  Wise words indeed, if school were optional, or lateness didn’t count.  Re-learning the art of waking is another of the difficult processes along the great climb to independence.  Propel has finally reached alarm clock independence at 16.  He sleeps in a loft, and sets the alarm below the loft and across the room.  It chirps in increasing volume, until I am convinced the smoke alarm has gone off and the house is on fire.  Indeed, he comes down the ladder like a fireman, shunning several rungs,  and emerges from his room with all the cheerfulness of a hibernating bear aroused untimely from his slumber.

Sadly, achieving uprightness is only the first stage we must endure.  It’s like emergence from anesthesia.  Getting the patient to open their eyes does not ensure that they will breathe on their own.  I work in a hospital where we serve the under-served, as well as take care of trauma.  This means street people, substance abusers, and the like.  One of the tricks of emergence is knowing what will reach into the subconscious mind of the patient and bring them into the present.  I laughed myself silly the day a very clever anesthesiologist woke an old alcoholic by saying “Last Call!!”  Anyway, the schools seem to object to unfed pajama clad students, so a mother’s work is never done.

Time does fly when you’re having fun.  But it also seems to go double-speed when a child goes into KOMO Super SLO-MO.  Sarsaparilla has finished his shower, and his morning constitutional, without which not even Chuck Norris would confront him.  I have timed some soft-boiled eggs perfectly for when he emerges, knowing that they do not require chewing, and therefore meet his breakfast standards, while also meeting mine.  But he does not come to the eggs.  He slouches toward the stairs.   “Where are you going?”  I ask, patiently.  No reply.  “Well, hurry up, I have eggs ready.”  7 minutes later, he has not emerged.  “What in the name of Fried Green Tomatoes are you doing down there?” I shout.   “I’m putting on my shoes,” comes the mumbled reply.  “What?  Are they resisting?” I shout back.  “Get up here NOW!”  Not being a morning person myself, I do hate to have to use my MOMMY voice before the coffee has kicked in, but what’s a girl to do?  Of course by the time he gets to the eggs, they are almost hard-boiled, and require butter and much mashing to meet the no chewing standard, which takes time he no longer has.   It also calls the cat, who has the notion that clinking dish sounds mean she should be fed.  Sarsaparilla has the notion that a cat is an excuse for dropping everything because she must need attention and he is about to do so, when the Mommy voice comes out again, and he swallows the eggs in a huff, just as the carpool pulls up in the driveway.  He shuffles out the door, leaving the poster he worked on all the previous afternoon, and which is due today, sitting by the coffee table .

Is it wrong to put Kahlua in your coffee before it’s light out?

Dry Gin Martini M.D., always up for a nightcap.

Taking Flight

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated with flight and heights. My first dream job, at the age of 4 or 5, was to become an astronaut. I mean, how much higher can you get than the ISS? I used to climb anything and everything - from the expected trees and fences, to the unexpected armoires and refrigerators. I would make parachutes out of sheets and umbrellas and jump off of couches, tables, stairs, you name it. One time I even tried to jump off my third story balcony because my 5-year-old friend offered to catch me..... yeah, I guess I owe my life to my grandma, who, apparently, pulled me down just as I was about to go over the edge (I could write a whole other blog about ways I've nearly met my death).

Alas, my dream of becoming an astronaut never did materialize. I know, it came as a shock to me, too. ;-) My fascination with heights, however, never waned. As got older, I took every opportunity to go to the tops of some of the tallest buildings, walk on bridges, peer over cliffs on mountainside view points, and, occasionally, I still climb trees. Short of going to space, the ultimate thrill seeking activity I have found is sky diving. It combines both heights and flight! What could be better? Unfortunately, given that I'm not a Rockefeller, I do not have the funds, or the time, to make skydiving into a regular hobby. Then, about 7 months ago, I discovered flying trapeze!

The first time I went to a flying trapeze class, I didn't know what to expect. This is the part where I brag about myself, a little bit. J  I nailed it. I don't just mean I did well for my first time ever on a flying trapeze bar, I mean, I kicked ass. If you do a trick (that's what they call each maneuver you perform) correctly, at the end of class they offer to "catch" you. That is where you leap off the board, holding on to the trapeze bar, on one end of the rig, and do your trick, while a catcher swings on his own swing on the other end of the rig and catches you by your wrists as you release from your trick. Not every beginner in that class performed well enough to be offered the "catch". Not only was I offered the catch, but I nailed that, as well.  On the first try.  J

For the first time in quite a while, I felt like I have finally found my thrill. Having been athletic and slender my entire life, I was naturally good at it. Flying on that trapeze bar, performing the trick, releasing with outstretched arms to be caught by the catcher, all of it was exhilarating. You see, over the years, life as a stay-at-home mom has become....well... mundane, routine, and boring.  Don’t get me wrong, I love taking care of, playing with, and being there for my kids.  They can be fun and funny, and do and say amusing things all the time.  But at the end of the day, the struggles wear me down and there is only so much pretend make-up I can stand to play.  I’m often left feeling conflicted – I have a great life, wonderful marriage, good kids, so who am I to complain?  I feel guilty about it, but I do complain.  My life is boring.  If you’re a stay-at-home parent who is reading this blog, you might know what I mean.  Sure I find other ways to entertain myself.  I joined a moms’ group, I take my kids on playdates (aka “mom’s time to have a grownup conversation with another adult”), and I get together with my girlfriends where we chat and drink out troubles away.  My discovery of flying trapeze, though, filled the missing gap.  It felt as if I was meant to be doing this.  I’ve been more cautious in choosing my adventures since I had babies, but this one satisfies all my requirements.  It is accessible and affordable, and I can make a commitment to it.

I have gone back 3 times, so far, since that first day and have loved every minute of it. The last 2 times, I was lucky enough to be able to bring my kiddo, Orange Juice, with me. Like his mama, he is slim, agile, and lacks the fear of heights. He is also incredibly strong for such a small creature. Needless to say, he was a natural at flying trapeze. :D He was charming and entertaining, and we had so much fun together! It filled me with such joy to be able to share this thrill with my son. Now I can't wait 'till my fearless little Soy Milk is old enough to join us. ;-)

White Russian, M.D

Tis a Gift to Be Simple

I’ve been thinking a lot about simplicity this Thanksgiving season. Occupy Wall Street is big in the news, and they say their message is all about Corporate Greed.  But sometimes it seems like Corporate greed is just an extension of personal greed.  We all want too much, all the time.  But I guess I always do think about simplicity around the holidays, because there is so much excess on display.  The TV special about 30 million individual bulbs in a big NYC department store window’s holiday display, and the months spent planning for that display and others like it.   Black Friday shoppers macing one another, and fighting, pushing, stomping each other, all to get some item they probably don’t need at a price they may or may not be able to afford.  All this on the day after we celebrate our holiday about gratitude, albeit with a show of gluttony that is so uniquely American you can’t help but admire it.  And I do love Thanksgiving. I love the feast, the football, the parade, the whole nine yards. I am just fine with staggering around with a food baby so large I need a cane to keep from toppling over.

Yet, I still think about simplicity.  We all do.  There are magazines devoted to living simply, though, this being America, the best selling of them mostly try to sell you things which will make you better organized so you can live more simply.  I find this hilarious.

 I’ve seen a lot of iterations of simplicity in my time.  I knew a guy in college who, upon graduation, lived in a one room flat with nothing but a lawn chair, a sleeping bag, a can opener, a pot, and one set of dishes.  He lived that way until his school loans were paid off.  It’s a little extreme, but very effective.  I know another guy who couch-surfs so he can make his child support payments.  That is a priority choice in an economy where you can’t find good paying jobs all the time.  Another perennial couch-surfer I know is one of those magnificent human beings without focus or direction.  He’s not in debt, but he doesn’t own anything either.  It works okay while you’re young, but you wonder about the retirement plans. 

 Probably the most questionable of the simple lifestyle choices would be those of the homeless.  It doesn’t get much simpler than a tent or a cardboard lean-to under a freeway overpass.   I’m not saying it’s a choice a lot of them make consciously, but there are those who just aren’t comfortable with the other housing options that are available to them.  From time to time, as I drive past the freeway encampment that is on my way home from work, I think of Miriam. Back in the day, when I was all about WWJD; my well-intentioned Bible Study group “adopted” a homeless woman, and she lived with each of us in turn.  Miriam was intelligent, articulate, well mannered, and literate.  She was also bi-polar.  She worked part-time as a medical transcriptionist at the University Hospital.  I had a mental image of her typing away on the then high tech IBM Selectric Roller Ball typewriter: “the transverse colon was resected after a thorough running of the bowel, and anastamosed to the sigmoid colon using layers of 3-0 silk and chromic gut.” I imagined her wearing the headset on her perfectly coiffed blonde hair, the multisyllabic words pouring effortlessly from her elegant fingers, without a single spelling error.  I’m sure she was welcomed whenever she chose to show up.  When she didn’t go to work, she rode the metro bus line, taking full advantage of the free transfers, rolling about the city, observing whatever it was she was looking for, riding endlessly through the night.  She only required lodging, and paid for her own food.  While she lived with me, that food was mainly butter.  Now, I like butter.  Not as much as Paula Deen, but I like butter.  Before Miriam, I had never seen butter eaten like a banana: the wrapper on the cube slowly peeled back, and the butter savored slowly, bite by bite.  It actually put me off butter for a while.  Miriam lived with me for several months, I don’t remember how many.  I finally lost patience with her unwillingness to meet my need to close and lock the apartment door.  It seemed an odd social nicety to refuse to honor, since in other ways she had such exquisite manners, but there it was.  When I explained that I’d come home to an open apartment for the last time and she would no longer be welcome as a house-guest, she became less polite.  She suddenly realized that I was demon-possessed, and called down the wrath of God upon me before she left.  I changed the locks.  I’ve never been too concerned about the wrath of God, in any of my religious iterations.  The point is, she had a very simple life.  Every preppie knows that with a good sweater set, white blouse, decent skirt, a nice pair of slacks, a little black dress and the right pair of shoes, you can look good almost anywhere.  Miriam carried those in her shopping bags.  She totally had it figured out.

You can take simple too far, of course.  My MIL, Boone’s Farm, one famous Thanksgiving, decided she would “simplify” the meal by not roasting a bird.  Because she was on a "simplify life" kick, we had baked salmon and broccoli for the feast.  That’s it. No mashed potato and gravy volcanoes, no cranberry sauce, not even pie. Four kids under the age of 8 were present.  We had driven through some of the worst holiday traffic ever, turning a 90 minute drive into just under 5 hours in the pouring rain.  Offers to bring side dishes to help with the meal had been turned down flat, with “oh I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble.”  No prior mention of salmon had been made.  Okay, IF the pilgrims had landed in the PNW, I’m sure salmon would have been the main course at this celebration.  But they didn’t, did they?  They landed at freaking Plymouth Rock!  Where there is precious little salmon, but apparently a plethora of turkeys!  I had to promise the boys to cook a proper Thanksgiving meal when we got home to keep them civil.  And we never visited Boone’s Farm again without a hamper of food in the trunk.  Just in case seaweed salad was on the menu.  The moral here is: Please don’t simplify anyone else’s life for them!

So how do you simplify?  You could do it as Boone’s Farm’s husband, Box Wine does.  He offers to pay anyone who removes or breaks anything in their house a buck an item. He’s been driven to this, of course, by Boone’s farm thrift store addiction and hoarding tendencies.  It’s true.  One of the boys accidentally broke some tsotschke which was a souvenir from a wedding the in-laws had once attended.  We lectured the boys about being careful, Boone’s Farm cried, and Box Wine gave them each a dollar.  Propel was so confused he sat down in the middle of the floor and got very quiet.  Sarsaparilla asked for a hammer. 

In general, in our house, when something comes in, something needs to go out.  The boys are encouraged to clear out their old toys and video games.  If they can sell them, they keep the money. I try to give things to people who will appreciate them or need them.  Folks were very generous with us when we were starting out, and, I want to pay it back.   But we still put out bags to Goodwill every month.  I cull my closet to make room for new clothes.  Like many families, we rent the boys’ pants from Value Village.  The boys outgrow the pants before they can wear them out.  Then the pants go back to VV again.  The two of them have different sizes, shapes, and ideas about what makes a proper pair of pants, so there are no hand-me-down pants in this family.  Value Village is also a great place to rent suits.  Any clothing item worn once a year or so is basically a rental for a teen boy.  It’s amazing what you can find second hand for one-time wear.

The suggestions for simplifying the season are as many as they are hackneyed:  try to give experiences, instead of things.  Draw names to reduce the number of gifts; give money when not sure what would be welcome.  Some relatives request no gifts, or gifts to charity.  Some families have age limits (after college, no gifts) Different things work for different folks.  I don’t think there is a one size fits all solution.  Try to buy quality, things that will last, can be shared, or will have multiple uses.  Cook fresh and eat leftovers. Co-host big meals with other families to reduce cost and food waste.  Reuse wrapping paper, ribbons, and gift boxes. 

But really, like so many things, simple isn’t so much about things, as it is about a way of thinking.  Do I need this?  Can I afford this?  Is there a better way to spend my time, money and energy?  Should we go on the Christmas ships, or just go to the dock to see the Christmas ships, and join the carolers around the bonfire? 

When I was about 8, I really wanted an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas.  I mean, I REALLY wanted one.  That page in the Sears Toy Catalog was lit up like the Star of Bethlehem.  My Mom was not impressed.  “You have an itch to bake?” she asked me.  “Come on in the kitchen, I’ve got an oven for you, and a stool to stand on so you can reach things.”  I was crestfallen.  Easy Bake ovens were the coolest things going!  You could cook by 40 watt bulb!  Miniature cakes right in your own bedroom!  Two flavor choices!  I still can feel the disappointment, but I still marvel at the rightness of her wisdom.  I learned to really bake, and to love the kitchen, to love food, starting about then.  Sometimes, it’s better not to get the hot new toy, and better to get the experience.  Even if you don’t know it at the time.

Dry Gin Martini, M.D.  Straight up, no chaser.

The Great Chef Boyardee Wars of Aught Five

In a way, we set ourselves up for the battle.  I guess most parents set themselves up in some way or another from time to time, but we probably should have seen this one coming.  You see, I think it would be safe to say that we are food snobs.  Not in the sense that we require 8 course meals, or fancy French sauces, or go on and on about the SOURCE of the truffles, don’t you know dahling…No, we just like good food.  It’s not a political agenda.  Some things we eat organic.  Carrots, for instance, taste better if you buy organic.  Some things most definitely are not in any way on the good-for-you list, like Cheetos.  I swear, if there were a black light for Cheeto dust, and you did an autopsy on me, my small intestine would light up like a glow worm, because I’m sure that stuff has the half life of nuclear waste and will be with me forever. 

 

I’m totally neurotic about some things, like grinding my own meat.  We lived in Germany when the mad cow scare first went public, and I learned that the best way to be sure there’s no spinal tissue in your hamburger is to watch it go through the grinder.  It’s a simple solution to a scary problem.   But I’m also a firm believer in the three second rule, in letting dogs lick the plates after a meal, and that raw cookie dough, eaten in the right quantities, will infer superpowers.  I cook most things from scratch, but I love canned beans.  Who has the forethought to soak that stuff the night before?  And Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup WILL cure the common cold, most stomach ailments, and could contribute to world peace, if you add saltines and ginger ale.

But food snobs we are. As our boys progressed from ground Gerber Baby (now with Brussels Sprouts!) to real food, what we gave them was more likely to be bagels and lox (with capers, red onion, and tomato)  or Chilequiles with cotija cheese and Tapatio hot sauce (you can see why it needs the hot sauce, can’t you, sweetie?  Now open wide!) than Hamburger Helper.  Not surprisingly when they hit first of the “you’re not the boss of me” stages of childhood, we ran into some snags.  “But mom!  You know I hate chicken cordon bleu!”, or “Not Paella again!”   We reduced our palate, and served more innocent things, simple spaghettis and soups, extraordinary sandwiches, and semi-exotic rice dishes.  

The power struggle raged on. My oldest, Propel, declared himself a Landatarian; he who had previously devoured smoked salmon.  Sarsaparilla, the younger one, who as a toddler would ask for a cabbage when we got to the grocery store so he could pull of the leaves and snack on it as we shopped, suddenly became suspicious of vegetables.  Battles ensued, and I became Weary.  Because Propel has type 1 Diabetes, food has always been an issue in his life anyway.  When does he eat?  How much does he eat?  Did the amount of carbohydrate match the insulin?  And so on.  Somehow the irrational fear that haunts mothers everywhere overcame me: that their children will STARVE, wither away and DIE, right there in front of their eyes!  I began to prepare two separate meals, one for the boys, and one for the grownups.  That became three, because the boys couldn’t agree either.  And then I had HAD it.  My husband, Reposado, had had it.   And we engaged in what has become fondly known as The Great Chef Boyardee War of aught five. 

It all came to a head one Friday night, when I had prepared a lovely French Onion soup, something everyone should have been able to enjoy.  Since almost everything I cook (except butterscotch pudding) has onions and/or garlic in it, that shouldn’t have posed a problem.  A nice rich beef broth, topped with toasted bread and melted cheese.  What’s not to like?  Apparently everything.  The surly misters slumped to the table and proceeded to to dis every single thing on the menu.   The soup was cold (because they had dawdled forever getting there), the bread was soggy, the cheese congealed.  The salad was boring, the milk a bit off….

Reposado exploded.  “If you kids can’t enjoy and appreciate good food” he thundered, “we can just heat up some slop for you instead!”  The boys looked surprised, but nonplussed.  Slop?  What is this slop?  “When I was growing up, nobody cooked for me, and we ate from CANS!” he shouted.  “CANS and BOXES!”  

 “Tomorrow, we are going shopping, and you will see a whole new kind of food!” I work a lot of weekends, so true to his word, he took them to the grocery store and they went down aisles they had never seen before.  They came home with Spaghettios, Stagg Chili, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Chef Boyardee Ravioli, Tuna Helper and Velveeta Mac and Cheese.  He explained to them how instant oatmeal worked, and forbade them making anything fresh.  (Even at that age they could make a grilled cheddar on sourdough with whole grain mustard). Three meals a day, all weekend long, they ate packaged/ processed food.  Open can, pour into pan.  No slicing, no dicing, no seasoning, just heating.  Their school lunches were filled with processed food: bologna instead of sliced ham on the sandwich.  Applesauce instead of apple slices.  Monday night, we ate Chunky Soup on Rice. Tuesday evening, Propel, the Landatarian , sees Reposado getting out the can of Beef Stew, and very humbly asks, “Dad, do you think we could have blackened catfish instead?”

That my friend, is when we knew we’d won.  I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Spaghettios, if that’s your cup of tea.  But if you’ve grown up eating pasta al dente with homemade pesto, that mush is gonna taste as wrong to you as ham on Chanukah.  Still, we kept that can of Beef Stew around for a good six months.  Just in case.

Dry Gin Martini, MD, with Châteauneuf-du-Pape for the main course, please.

You don't drink water...

The holidays for me have always been about the people around you, the decorations, the food.  The gifts at Christmas are great, but I am most thankful for the love that has always surrounded me at the holidays.  When I was little, and into my teenage/young adult years, I would spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my grandparents, surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins.  As I got older, married, and moved out of state, my surroundings may have changed, but the tradition stayed the same - surround myself with loved ones (family OR friends) and stuff myself with an exorbitant amount of food.  Not to mention the leftovers, oh the leftovers.  Sandwiches, soups, enchiladas made with the leftover turkey and ham, yum!!

One of the main things I remember about my grandfather at Thanksgiving and Christmas was the cursing - fucking football game, fucking croquet wicket (yes in California we can actually play croquet on all major holidays - no snow and all), fucking turkey filling the oven no room for my fucking sides, fucking tree can't fit through the front door (insert goddamn here and there and it's about right).  These fits of obscenity in my, otherwise (oh who am I kidding) devout and proper Catholic, grandfather were silliness to me.  I loved it!  He was human and, with a beer or 3 in him, he showed it.  I think of these times with warmth in my heart.  I miss my family, which is now spread all over the country, most at the holidays.  We were once so close, but life has pushed us to all ends of the earth - ok the US, but it feels like all ends of the earth, ok? 

I think my favorite Thanksgiving memory of all was when I was 19.  I was dating this hunk of a man, who happened to be 23, and also happened to have some not so legal dealings in the area, but he was gorgeous and we had fun.  We were sitting around the house the night before Thanksgiving ('twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the house...no that's not right) and posturing as we all have done at 19.

"I'll bet I can drink you under the table."  I said.  "I am German you know.  We have great tolerances."  This after 4-5 Mike's hard lemonades - of course, making me feel a bit bolder than usual.  (Yes, I can be BOLDER, it is possible, shut up and read.)

"No way!" black god of a man says back.  "I have been drinking so much longer than you have.  Your ass is mine!"

To which we proceed to take shots of Cuervo 1800, one right after the other.  If you have ever had alcohol poisoning from tequila, you know that scent will send you over the edge years later – OMG I hate gold tequila with a passion now.  Needless to say, 18 shots of 1800 later, I was down for the count.  I proceeded to vomit all over this gorgeous hunk's home (sexy huh?) and, once put in the shower, moaned for my gramma like a 5 year old sick with pneumonia.

The next morning I know I have to get up.  I have to brave the smells and warmth of my gramma's home.  Oh the smells – gag.   I go home shower, put on my best “I am not still drunk from last night” face and do my best to avoid my gramma at all costs. 

You should know something about my grandmother – she basically raised me.  While I lived with my mom until 14, my grandmother was always around.  I moved in with my grandparents at 14 – my grandmother KNOWS me. 

But I can’t avoid her completely.  The water is in the kitchen.  I need water like nobody’s business.  So I sneak in every so often and refill my jug-like glass – in hopes that she isn’t paying attention.  About ½ way through the day, she asks me to help her wrap some presents for Christmas in grandpa’s office.  SHIT!!  “Ok, sure, gramma.” 

We get in there and the first thing out of her mouth is “You don’t drink water.  Are you hung over or still drunk?”

I am now picturing the cursing fits of my grandfather (a 6’3” giant of a scary man, by the way) being directed at me for coming to the holiday drunk and underage.  “Ummmm, I am actually not quite sure.”

“Keep drinking water and you had better eat every bite your grandfather puts in front of you or he will know, but I am not telling him, so shut your mouth, too.” She says.

“Thank you, gramma.” I manage to squeak out.

This was the year that my grandfather decided to make a "Tropical Turkey" recipe he had found in a magazine.  It was awful.  It was luckily so awful that he couldn’t even eat it.  The cursing ensued, but it was at the stupid turkey and the stupid article – and not at me.  Yay!

While the meal wasn’t eaten, and the day was a blur, I still remember my gramma saving my ass – making this one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories of all time.

Can't hold her tequila, but loves her some vodka - Mimosa, M.D.

I Can Pluck That!

I am the child of mixed heritage.  I am a third generation medical professional, and my mother could look me in the eye and ask “Did you have a BM (bowel movement) today?” if ever I mentioned cramps, in a clinical tone that still sends chills down my spine just to think of it. I was also raised in the South.  We didn’t have periods, or even the monthly curse.  No, “Aunt Martha came down on the bus”.  You could be publically embarrassed by this query about odd relatives, (Oh, honey, did Aunt Martha come down on the bus today?), but so it went.

So please bear with me if I refuse to say the word “menopause”.  I just don’t like it.  I really prefer “The Change”, which seems so much more soothing. “Menopause” has menacing air to it, as though it was waiting to attack, or was somehow malevolent… which of course, it is.  “The Change”, on the other hand, seems more like an earnest New Age group who wear crystals, meditate, do yoga, and ring chimes; or perhaps an aging hippie activist love-in situation, replete with Sandalwood incense and guitars around a campfire.  I can live with The Change.  I may have to do battle with Menopause.

This topic arises because the girls were discussing laser hair removal the other day.  I’ve had it done twice, and may have to do it again.

You see, I was blessed at birth with a unibrow, the kind that goes meandering from ear to ear.  Boon, the lovely lady who currently waxes my eyebrows laughingly says I should set up a donation station for all the Asian women who have none.  If I could figure out how, I would, too. I really would. If it hadn’t been for Brooke Shields, who came into womanhood at approximately the same time as me, I probably would have resorted to the same tactic as the head cheerleader at one of my High Schools, who just shaved off her eyebrows completely and drew them on fresh every morning.  You could tell how late she’d been out the night before by how off-kilter her eyebrows were…The seventies were an interesting time… Anyway, Brooke inspired me to just pluck the middle of my brows, thus indicating the presence of two eyes.  Over time, this evolved into waxing, shaping, and all that girly stuff.  It turns out, eyebrows are fairly manageable. 

As I aged and went through the hormones of pregnancy, however, it became clear that the unibrow was somehow connected to a mustache that would make Burt Reynolds proud.  If you’ve been there, you know.  One of the gals who worked at the front desk in the O.R. casually remarked one day that she found facial hair on older women revolting.  “Why don’t they just deal with it?,” she wondered out loud.  I wanted to strangle her, of course, because how could a twenty-something know anything about going to bed with a peach fuzz face and waking up looking like the Goat Woman of Mykonos?  I didn’t strangle her, of course.  I snuck up to the locker room to see if I had suddenly sprouted one of those amazing chin hairs that could pass as pogo sticks, or the sharp ones on the upper lip you could use as ink quills… If you didn’t know it, those mini Swiss Army knives that fit on your keychain have an awesome tweezers.  I highly recommend obtaining one if you’re over thirty.

This isn’t something that goes away, either. We were on vacation on the Big Island of Hawaii and stopped at a lovely volcano-heated natural seawater pool in a public park.  An elderly couple was there.  He was mending his fishing net, and she was floating about, chatting up the non locals.  Thing was, the easiest way you could tell them apart was by their swimsuits, as she was sporting the most amazing Fu Manchu I’ve ever seen in grey, let alone on a woman.  My boys were more than non-plussed.  They wanted to know what in the world was going on here?  I just said she had given up.  It seemed hardly the time for a dissertation on the relative merits of Evening Primrose and HRT.

But what should I do about my mustache?  This was more problematic, as I like to be fairly low maintenance.  I tried bleaching, which seemed the least labor intensive.  Not effective for us darker haired ladies, really.  Sugaring: tasty, but no. Waxing:  That seemed to be a full time job!    And I am in no way patient enough for the lovely ladies who thread….As it happened, I went to work for a plastic surgeon for a while, part time, and one of the perks was access to the laser.  So I had carbon laser treatments on my upper lip for about a year, and this made a significant impact, at least until The Change began.

See, one of the really fun things about The Change is that it’s a process.  A bell curve, if you will.  And no one can really tell you anything about it.  Here’s a typical conversation with my doctor, who is a middle-aged woman, and actually is invested in the subject:

Me: “I’ve been thinking about biting the heads off of live chickens”                                                    
Dr:  “Are you still having your monthly?”

Me: “yes. Aunt Martha still comes down on the bus.”
Dr:  “AH.  Sounds like Perimenopause.”

Me: “Huh?
Dr: “Oh, that’s the indescribably vague time before and after menopause when you get to have all the symptoms, and suffer all the irritations, but we can’t actually CALL it menopause because your period hasn’t changed.”

Me: “So what has medical science done to advance our understanding of this bullshit?”                            
Dr:  “Pretty much nothing to help understand the causes.  It turns out there’s not much money in what makes women crazy. We can give you some pretty nifty SSRI’s (Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) to help with the mood swings however. Everyone else in the country is on them, no one will even notice.”

Me:  “So the pharmaceutical companies spent a gazillion dollars on Viagra so we could listen to Bob Dole talk about his hard-on, but no one will spend a dime to keep me from axe-murdering my family in their sleep”.  
Dr:  “Not unless there’s a book contract in it, no.  Oh, but we could put you back on the Pill.  That sometimes helps.  Sucks to be a woman, doesn’t it?  So, which prescription can I get you?  The one to prevent the pregnancy you don’t need since your husband is fixed, or the one for depressed people, even though you aren’t depressed yet?  You realize of course that neither of them will help with the night sweats.”

You can see why I get hostile.  Anyway, after The Change began, I found that I was suddenly back in Tom Selleck  land, from a hirsute point of view.  Getting waxed on a bi-weekly basis with daily tweezing was making me postal. So when a Living Social coupon for 75% off Laser Hair removal, you can bet that I jumped right on it.  I called to make the appointment immediately, and found that every other woman in a thirty mile radius had bought the same coupon.  There was a three month wait. I booked my appointment and began not waxing, and not plucking, per instruction.  Shaving my lip seemed so barbaric.  I tried the electric razor, but it didn’t cut close enough. So I broke down and got out a fresh blade for the old manual razor, praying I wouldn’t have to put toilet paper on my lip the way my son did.

Finally my scheduled date came around, and I was surprisingly nervous.  I mean, I already knew all the tricks, like tucking my tongue under my lip to raise the follicles to their doom.  This time, there was no carbon, but the click and zing and burn and smell of torched hide were all the same, and it was over in no time!  It looked great for about a week, and then I had to shave again.  Months went by, with me going in every 6 weeks, before I finally began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The dusky shadows were disappearing and I had distinct hairs.  Now there were patches, like mushrooms, sprouting only here and there…. Now just a few… I have one more appointment, and then a safety net 8 week follow-up, and I should be down to the place where I can comfortably tweeze whatever sprouts.  I don’t ask for much, just for life to be manageable enough to say “I can pluck that!”

Dry Gin Martini, MD, hair of the dog.

My Little Airbender

If you have young boys, you have probably had the wonderfully awesome privilege of being able to (subjected to, forced to) see one of the many “boy saves the world” movies: The Last Airbender. The kid in it is awesome, he does great things, and above all else...he’s bald (with a huge arrow tattooed on his head). This post isn’t about the movie at all however; it’s the bald thing we are focusing on here.


Have you ever had one of those days where everything is just “off”?  This was one of those days that started so horribly that I knew in my gut that I REALLY should have just crawled back under the covers and slept for another 3 hours.


I woke up too late, had a bad dream, which means I started the day in bad mood (why the hell did my hubby forget my birthday???).  Where did that ache in my hip come from?  Fuck, I slept wrong.  Spilled coffee on myself, now I have to change my shirt, and...even later to work. Blah.


People at work are in a pissy mood, calling to tell me how pissy they are. Evidently they feel I must have been born yesterday and have no clue what I am talking about. Really? On such and such page, line such and such of the guidelines, does it not say I am right and you are wrong?? Now my pissy mood even is even pissier. ARGH!


Get the call from hubby when kids get home from school that they were horrific little devils in class - grounded! I drive home from work behind some idiot that seems to think it is Sunday fucking afternoon (beware of my future posts about idiotic WA drivers...sue me! I learned to drive in L.A. where you get in your car to actually GO somewhere) and now I am home later than expected. Grrr.


Oh wait! I am hosting book club at my house tonight. Shit! I have to make something to feed these ladies. Throw together an appetizer plate, that is subpar by my standards but will just have to do (hummus, crackers, cheese, etc. – proper noshing items when most will bring sweets), ok – now I can change out of my work clothes. Ahhh.


“Mom, didn’t you say you were going to cut my hair today?”
Shit. “Yes, ok, take off your clothes to your undies, buddy, and wait in my bathroom.” Because god-forbid there be a spec of hair in the kids’ bathroom since guests will be arriving shortly. Clippers? Clippers....where are the clippers? Ok, there they are. Broom and dustpan? Got it, I can do this.


“Ok, honey, let’s cut your hair.”
“Not too short, Mom.”
“Well, we want it short, honey, since you hate getting your hair cut so we only do this, like, once every 3-4 months.”
“Ok, but not too short, Mom.”
“Ok.” bzzzzzz. “FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
“What, Mom, what?”


Tears ensued.


I truly meant to put the clipper guard on a #2...but in my haste forgot the guard altogether. Yes, now my kid is bald, and I mean bald. I can’t fix this. I started on the top at the front (who fucking does that anyway?); there is no backing out now. Amidst the tears from my dear, sweet, loving, wonderful little boy (yes he was a devil at school today - so what, he’s my son, he’s awesome!) and my “it’s really not that bad” comments while I am thinking – I AM THE WORST MOTHER EVER – I continue to shave this poor kid until he’s completely bald. Except that now that he’s bald, I can’t cover up any “I didn’t go to beauty school this isn’t my real job” mistakes. Every tiny little extra hair shows. I can’t do this.


I give him my favorite Ducks beanie (Yes, hockey.  You gotta a problem with that?) because he can’t wear a regular baseball cap, since it doesn’t cover ALL of his head. “I can’t go to school like this, Mom, everyone will make fun of me.” This is a disaster.


Now I am bawling. I have ruined my little boy. Pepsi is crying harder “Mom, its ok. I like it. It will be ok, mom, please don’t cry. You didn’t mean to. I forgive you. Please don’t cry.” Seriously? Whose kid is this anyway? I just ruined your head and you are worried that I am upset? GAWD, I love my son.


By this time (sensing my impending complete and utter mental breakdown - like the good man he is), JW steps in and whisks both kids away so I am able to compose myself (read: drink 2 glasses of wine) before book club arrives. “I will take him to get it fixed” he says, and off they go.


I do my best to compose myself before the ladies arrive, and by the time they do, I am able to relay the horrific story to them without again bursting into a hysterical fit, albeit the tears did well up. “When they get in, ask him to show you his head and tell him how cute he looks, please???” I say, in hopes that their encouragement will ease my baby’s broken heart.


He comes in later on and everyone says in unison “Come here! Let me see!” to which he takes off his hat and A exclaims: “You look like the Last Airbender! It looks so cool!”


That’s it! The haircut has just become a little more awesome in his eyes. He puffs up his chest and stands a little taller, “Really?”


“Oh yeah, totally!” A says (remind me to buy her a coffee, or something, the next time we’re out).


Pepsi beams, his day has officially been made. All is right in his world. I am off the hook – well for now.

Wishes she had started the day drinking and had a better excuse for this royal fuck up: Mimosa M.D.

An Awkward Apology

When I got home today, I busted through the front door like I usually do, and discovered too late that someone had latched the chain lock.

I don't know why the previous owners put a chain lock on our front door, but I'll tell you that it is the dumbest location for a chain lock, ever. It's mounted to the molding around the door, which means it doesn't actually keep people out when it is latched, it merely tears the the door frame off the wall when the door is pushed open. Needless to say, there was an unwritten rule in our house that you never latch the chain lock.

Now you're going to ask why we didn't just remove the useless thing when we moved in. WELL THANKS FOR THAT, BRAINIAC, BUT THEN I WOULDN'T HAVE THIS STORY TO TELL YOU.

So, at 5pm I bounded into the house as I usually do, and the door frame came right off the wall. I screamed into the air "Who latched the chain lock?!?!" All three kids rushed into military formation to be counted and accused.

Actually, they just poked their noses over the top of the staircase and said "huh?"

Eventually I got them to come down the staircase and observe the front door frame disaster. Arnold Palmer stepped forward and sheepishly admitted that he did it. He was genuinely forlorn and I was surprised. Normally Arnold is not the child who pisses me off. In fact, I very rarely get angry with him at all. But in a show of fairness to my other brats, I yelled once more about my broken door frame and I sent Arnold to his room. The other children scattered. I went into my office and listened to Arnold cry in his bed directly above me. He was truly disturbed, shaken up, and remorseful.

A half hour later, he knocked quietly at my office door. I let him in and he handed me a gift bag.
"I'm really sorry I broke your door, Mom," he said softly, "I made this gift for you as my apology."
"oh, Arnold" I gushed. My little boy had brought me a present to apologize! How awesome is that? "You're forgiven!"
I wanted to hug him and squeeze him but he doesn't do that anymore. Instead he ran back upstairs to blast some robots in Halo 3.

I opened the bag and found a chess piece, a ball of yarn, and the head of a snake.

I did not know what to make of that, so I just stood there staring at it. Now I'm truly disturbed, shaken up, and remorseful. I'm never yelling at that boy again. Granted, Arnold has rarely had to apologize because he hardly does anything wrong, but someone had better teach that boy how to do it. If this is his idea of an apology gift, his future girlfriends are in for a hell of an experience.

Confused,
Crown Royal, M.D.

A Sense Of Humor

Nothing attracts me to someone, man or woman, more than a good sense of humor. It's a requirement, in fact, for me to even want to spend any time with them. My friends and I have spent many an evening helpless with laughter, too breathless to even be coherent. Without humor, and friends and family who share my sense of it, I would long ago have been committed to an asylum.

My mom will often join me in uproarious giggles. We once were driving down a country road when we passed a field of cows. Segregated from them was a bull...a virulent bull, and probably quite popular with the ladycows, if his man parts – sorry, bull parts- were any indication. My mom took one glance, and deadpanned “Dinner for six.” She was not referring to the size of the steaks he would provide.

I learned well from her: irreverence, humor, and a fondness for the word “fuck”. Not being a hypocrite, when I was about 12 she told me, “I swear- you know this. I can’t in all fairness ask you not to. However, learn when and where to swear. If I catch you swearing in front of your grandparents, you will be in deep shit, got it?” I never swore in front of my grandparents, and many people who meet me are a bit surprised the first time I burst out with a “goddammotherfuckin’bastard!” They learn quite quickly that is mild compared to what I am capable of, and swearing is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my level of crassness.

I am very lucky-- I have managed to find a man who shares my sense of humor! My boyfriend, IPA, keeps up with me and often zooms ahead, leaving us both breathless with laughter. I love having someone with whom I don’t have to watch what I say, or keep it in my head while giggling softly to myself, or feel inappropriate for even having thought it.

Example? Conversation from several days ago, on the way to the grocery store:

Me: We don’t have a lot in the grocery budget right now.
IPA: Okay. We’ll get stuff to supplement what we do have.
Me: Yeah, we’ll have to dig deep into the cupboards for all the forgotten shit in the back.
IPA: Gotcha, we’re goin’ deep!
Me: Right. And what we do buy will have to be cheap! We’re goin’ deep, and goin’ cheap!
IPA: Like a bad hooker.
Me: Exactly. A dead one, even.
IPA: A dead one?!
Me: Well, you’d be able to go pretty deep into a dead hooker. What does she care?
IPA: Right! AND she’d be cheap, ‘cause she wouldn’t even notice that you didn’t pay her at the end!
Me: Hmm…Or would she? Be cheap I mean. Obviously she wouldn’t notice non-payment. But wouldn’t you have to pay for someone to find you a dead body? And to specify profession might be harder.
IPA: Or easier. In the right area of town, and the right town of course-
Me: Of course…
IPA: -you could just walk around the alleyways until you found one!
Me: THEN you could go deep-
IPA: and go cheap!

Come to think of it, he’s pretty lucky too. Not many women would discuss the benefits of a lack of a hooker’s heartbeat with their men. (Except my friends- as I have said, they are just as crass as I am. That’s one reason I love them. Right now, they’re thinking up other benefits to dead hookers…)

~ Lemon Drop, M.D.

Hot Yoga

I was raised in the South, but I was politely asked to leave when it was discovered that I am physiologically incapable of glowing, and therefore cannot be a lady.  Sadly, I sweat, and therefore fall into the category of horse.  No self-respecting family could possibly allow their son to marry me.  Fortunately for me, this discovery coincided with me being introduced to the Pacific Northwest, where there is no such thing as a 100 degree summer with 100% humidity.  Oddly enough, I found this a good thing, and decided to make a permanent home here anyway.

But I do sweat.  When I was a traveling nurse, I went for an assignment in Savannah in the springtime.  I had my trusty Subaru wagon, which being a good PNW car, had no AC.  Why would you need anything but an open window?  I had just finished an assignment in Miami and done just fine, but GA is another story. My apartment was a 10 minute drive from the hospital where I worked swing shift.  I could take a shower, get dressed, drive to the hospital, and need an entire change of clothes by the time I got there. I spent my entire tax refund that year retrofitting the wagon with AC.

I have a dear friend, T, who does not sweat.  She was plucked from her native Brazil because her husband happens to be a brilliant computer guy and the PNW is a magnet for folks like that.  T misses the big yellow thing in the sky. She misses the heat.  She would like to sweat, I think, but fails to be inspired to do so here.  She is also quite the hardbody, and is always going spinning, or hiking, or taking tantric jujitsu.  So it should be no surprise that she loves hot yoga.  She raved and raved about it, and for some insane reason I decided to go along with her.

I am hypermobile.  It’s a plus-minus thing.  Being limber is great, but the ability to fall off your own ankles is overrated.  After a strange rock climbing incident where I somehow managed to disarticulate my own hip getting my shoe stuck in a crevice, my beloved hip doctor recommended against yoga.  “You’d be too good at it”, he said, in his grave Texan drawl.  But I wanted to try yoga; craved the stretching and toning.  I like individual sports:  things you can do at home, without much equipment. Everyone said Hot Yoga was easier on your joints.  So, I guess, in a way, it makes sense that I went.

I took a ginormous water bottle with me to the studio.  I don’t know much, but I know that if you are going to either get liquored up, or sweat, you need to hydrate.  Unfortunately, the yoga mistress saw this differently.  NO! No drinking unless I tell you!  So, there we are in a dry sauna (after swimming my max time in the sauna is 7 minutes),   contorting our bodies into curious knots, and shapes usually reserved for architecture. “ I’ll take Eiffel Tower for $500, Alec!”  The problem was, I was immediately so sweaty that I couldn’t stay on my mat.  Even with the towel. The poses weren’t nearly the problem that sliding off and colliding with the yogateer to my right was.  “Oops! So sorry!” “Whoops! My bad”.  “No, it’s okay, I’ll just move to the corner over here.”
 

Following the slip ‘n slide, of course, came the dehydration, and the gradual slide into unconsciousness.  We had been allowed one sip break.  I had sweated out about 2 liters.  You do the math.  When we started the class, the yoga mistress said the goal for newbies like myself was to manage to stay in the hot box, oh, sorry, studio, for the whole class.  It would be great, she said, if we could actually do a little yoga, but just not leaving was good.  I have to say, this seemed like the wrong bar to set.  Imagine if this were an academic class:  “We’d really like you to learn some Chinese, but we really just hope you won’t run screaming from the room”.

I probably should have left before it started.  But I didn’t.  I'm stubborn that way.  Instead, I found myself looking for a cool spot.  Aha!  There was a window!  I propped my sweaty body against the cool glass.  I had forgotten that glass was neutral, and I could warm it faster than it could cool me.  I snuck over to the next pane, only to find that I had soaked the lovely gauzy curtain, and it was now sticking to the glass in a me-shaped pattern, sweat wicking up the curtain.  I decided I had to stay put.  By now I was panting like a rabid dog.  The yoga mistress was gently chiding me:  “you really should try to breathe through your nose”.  If I could have spoken I would have gently responded to the effect that choosing from which orifice to breathe was only possible when all the functions of respiration are actually being fulfilled.

Approximately three weeks later, the hour was up, and T left her picture perfect pose to take a small sip of water, wipe three drops of sweat from her shoulders, and peel my quivering protoplasm off the window.  I made it to the bench outside the hot room, where I downed my entire water bottle, against all advice (you really should take small sips!) and finally made it out to my car.  For the rest of that day, and most of the next, my head throbbed like a bullfrog’s throat , and my face was beet red.  Notwithstanding the gallons of water I consumed, I firmly believed I was parched, and supplemented with Gatorade and beer.  I swore never to return to any form of hot yoga.  And I remain grateful that I wasn’t asked to replace the curtains.

Dry Gin Martini, MD,emphasis on the dry.

I love my friends!!!

Cliché or not, my friends are truly the friends that wouldn’t be bailing me out of jail, because they’d be sitting beside me in the cell.  “Well THAT was fun! Now let’s figure out who didn’t have a sitter tonight so they can bail our asses out of this mess."

They embark upon adventures with me whole-heartedly and make the trip so much more fun along the way.

When I had the inspiration to do this collaborative blog, my friends gathered within the week.  In one meeting: we created a name, purchased websites, made an online group for bouncing ideas off each other, made a FB page, a twitter account, a blog site, named ourselves and our respective families in about 3 hours (wine and yummy dessert induced laughter ensued of course). 

I am so excited to see this idea take form.  We are all amazing in our own ways.  Our diversity is not only cultural but educational, religious, and even age (19 years between the youngest and oldest of us).  Our diversity is what will make this idea a success.  Our diversity is what will keep us spicy, fresh and new.

I love that we have such a broad group and yet somehow, when you put a bottle of wine (oh who am I kidding?  5 or 6) between us, any possible barrier is lifted away.  We laugh at the same jokes and at each other.  We hold each other when there is sadness, get on our fighting shoes when we need to back one of our bitches up (don’t make me stab your ass with my 5 inch stilettos!), and laugh hysterically when our friends are acting a-fool.  We share our lives, our love, our struggles, and our weaknesses with each other. 

I hope that you enjoy reading this blog as much as we have enjoyed creating it.  We hope to see this blog transform not only into one of the most hilarious things you will EVER read, but a great place to come when you feel like you are the only one dealing with all the stupid shit kids and hubbies throw at you on a day to day basis. 

We will be candid and sometimes too honest, but that’s because we want people to know that sometimes it’s ok to drink a little too much; sometimes it’s ok to hide in a dark room to escape your screaming kids; sometimes having thoughts of suffocating your husband in the middle of the night are normal – sometimes!   You are not alone, and guess what?  Neither are we.  We are not the only ones that occasionally feel sad, trapped, homicidal, suicidal, or annoyed with everyone that says “hi”, we just have the guts to talk about it! 

Keep the faith!  We won’t just share the negative; we will share the positive too.  The adorable things our kids say and do, the accomplishments we each have in our lives, our new businesses, our new educational adventures, our new loves.  There will be silly-stupid stories that make you pee your pants imagining us stuck in such an idiotic position.  If you can’t laugh at yourself – you’re not really laughing.

Have fun, read, enjoy, share, and tell us how you feel.  Just don’t take us to heart too much.  We love our families; we live our lives to make sure our families have the best anyone could want.  Don’t judge us (or do, but then get the fuck out and stop reading, really why are you here anyway?), read us with an open mind and we will write with open hearts.

Remember - Bubbles laced with sunshine is the best way to start the day…

Signed,

Drunk before noon:  Mimosa, M.D.

BYOB - Be Your Own Bouncer

Be Your Own Bouncer means that we're not going to card you, but you should card yourself. We all know that there are little kids who are born wise old souls and grown adults who will just never get it. We all know that wine ages in different ways.  We have a nearly two decade span of ages among the contributors to Mother Drunkest. Some of us are more Beaujolais Nouveau, others, more of a 1990 Cab. We are all very drinkable, but we're very diverse. We bring a lot of diversity in other ways as well: backgrounds, nationality, education,  family size and structure, life experiences... Good Scotch mellows with age; so do people, and so will some of our comments, after you've read them and given them time to settle, probably. Think about it.


We made this an 18+ blog because we will talk about grown up subjects: We swear. We talk about intimate body parts. We laugh at things others might find inappropriate. And we do laugh. We quite enjoy each other and have been known to ROTFL when someone is crazy witty . Really this is for our entertainment, and we find what's here quite funny. We had a big laugh just getting this set up. We also celebrate hyperbole. It's a great literary tradition, and one we will use freely. Not only will we change names to protect the innocent, we will exaggerate to make a point, or to make the story more interesting. This is a blog, it isn't journalism. So you needn't report us to CPS, or AA, or the local Bishop, thanks. Grow a sense of humor, or don't read us!  We will certainly stop doing this when it stops being fun.


Not all of our posts will be happy or funny. While we are lucky in so many ways, like all humans we have our moments of sadness. Our tears and words are not meant as a pity-party or an invitation to berate us for not appreciating what we do have. They are an outpouring of emotion so we may feel comforted and move on. But just as passionately as we laugh and joke, we love. Our families and our friends are our lives. We love them with every ounce of our bodies and souls. Taking what we say in context will be your best bet when reading this blog - our complaints and rants are nothing more than venting. Don't ever doubt our love and loyalty to those with whom we choose to share our lives. Because if you do, we will go all mama bear on your ass! (test joke, to see if you're paying attention)


Please do try to remember that we live in a free country with free speech. This is a free blog. You probably found this through some free means. It's free to read, share, and respectfully comment on our posts. If you get offended, celebrate your freedom to stop reading this. Just don't push your freedom onto us. You're free, not entitled.

That being said, Bottoms Up!