Tag Archives: Wine is a Staple

Lord Almighty, I Feel My Temperature Rising

Do you know that I got FORTY comments on my Special Needs post? That’s like twenty more than I usually receive. Who knew that I would be such a hit being all serious and stuff…

So I thought that it was only right to follow up such a triumph (which it is for those of us with only about 20 regular readers), with something just as thought provoking. Something that really speaks to the reader. Something close to everyone’s heart: tattoos and piercings.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m a little bit of a prude. Not a self righteous prude of course – but more of a “hoping no one will notice when I cringe every time they reference their unusual sexual preferences” kind of prude. And because I’m so hopelessly prissy, I tend to be a magnet for innuendo and embarrassing conversations with semi strangers.

Maybe it’s a primal kind of thing. Like predators sensing fear, these uninhibited types sense my prudishness and go right for the jugular. Not through malice of course – but like magnets, they are inevitably attracted to my utterly opposite nature.

Probably the best example of this was an experience I had at a wedding almost five years ago. The wedding was that of my husband’s friend from work. A very funny and intelligent guy who took great pride in his blue collar roots. He rode motorcycles and abhorred ties. His bride was a lovely girl who called herself “frou frou” and her own background “country.” She was a doll and we liked them both immensely.

And along with this colorful combination of lovebirds, came a just as colorful group of friends and family to fill the seats at the party. The party itself was planned to exclude all of the formality so common to many weddings. This was the bride’s second marriage and she claimed that as long as she got to wear a pretty white dress, her only concern was that everyone relax and just be themselves. And be themselves, they did. At least in my corner of the room.

There were uncounted tattoos peeking out of shirt collars and sleeves, jackets and ties were quickly tossed onto chairs, and Uncle Joe’s long black hair fell out of its braid and into flowing waves down his shoulders as the night progressed. As the music played and drinks were poured, the various gatherings of friends began to scatter and mingle.

Work friends with preppy haircuts talked microbrews with pony tailed biker types. And most of the women crowded onto the dance floor to join the bride as she boogied to the ubiquitous reception music play list. I’m sorry – but no matter how much of a music snob a girl claims to be (which I don’t), they all flock together when the DJ plays I Will Survive. Especially when there’s an open bar.

The event truly peaked when the 90s boy band song faded into something a little more techno though. Or at least it sounded techno at first. As the dancing women slowed their steps and glanced at each other with confusion, we all realized that the new music seemed to be the theme from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Now the DJ did look a little weird, and the suppressed laughter so obvious in his expression made this even more likely. But suddenly the tempo changed and Elvis’ Burnin’ Love blasted through the room. And then two Elvis impersonators burst through the doors, gold capes flashing as they charged onto the dance floor.

They gyrated their way through a full set of Elvis’ best loved Vegas performance numbers and ended the show to thunderous applause. There may have even been an encore. I’m not entirely sure since I think I may have passed out from laughing so hard. They weren’t the best Elvis impersonators – one was a little too tall and skinny, one was a little too short and plump – but they made up for this with enthusiasm. Oh yeah – and the best part? They were the mother and father of the the bride.

I apologize for derailing a bit and losing track of my original topic, tattoos and piercings. But I find it impossible not to talk about that night without referencing the Elvis impersonators. It was quite possibly my favorite wedding moment. Ever. As much as I’m very traditional in my own life, I thoroughly enjoy the pageantry of someone else’s wedding Elvis impersonators..

But back to the point of this scene that I’ve painted… There were a lot of characters at this event and it was fated for me to find myself in unlikely conversations with several of them.

Chris already knew many of the guests from a barbecue that he attended in the recent past, and made sure to introduce me to all of them. Chris is what many people like to refer to as, “The Mayor.” He just has to meet and greet, and is genuinely interested in everyone. So of course he’s a big hit wherever he goes. He is not a prude.

One woman we talked to for a long time had a giant scar on her chest in the shape of a snowflake. I had never seen anything like this before, and she explained that it was a kind of body art much like a tattoo. Without the ink, it appeared to be white. So really, the snowflake theme was a good choice – I mean as far as scarification goes.

Then I found myself in another long conversation with a couple. Initially, they appeared fairly conservative, him in his suit and her in her old school Laura Ashley floral. But then they started talking about their many tattoos and piercings. And I’m not kidding when I say “many.” Just like the typical tattooless person usually does, I inquired about the pain that is involved and exclaimed over how much one would have to endure for “a sleeve.” Apparently, they were willing to suffer for their body art.

It wasn’t lost on me that they were just as amused by me as I was by them. Putting myself in their shoes, I imagine that it must have been very much like talking to a sweet little old lady: “And now how many tattoos do you have dear? Gracious! You’re practically covered in flowers. It’s like a little garden on your back – how lovely.”

So we enjoyed each other’s differences as we enjoyed our fifth drink, and then the subject turned to piercings. As her husband left us to retrieve round number six, the flower covered lady leaned in conspiratorially. “Once I got bored with ink, I started experimenting with piercing,” she said. I shuddered internally as, of course, I remarked upon the pain involved in that. She claimed that it was completely worth it. Especially the one she got “down there.” She laughed, “I mean, I love my husband, but now I really love my husband…”

As I felt my entire head light up in flames, the much loved husband returned with the much needed drinks. Once he was caught up on our current topic of discussion, he admitted that he did not have much interest in piercings for himself, but was very happy with his wife’s experiments. I scrounged for something that I could contribute to this, but only came up with, “well that’s very interesting. And what is that kind of piercing called again?” [I vaguely knew it had something to do with royalty.] In unison, they responded “clitoral.”

“OH!” I sputtered, “it’s called what it is. For some reason I thought it was called something else.”

“You’re thinking of the male version – the Prince Albert,” he said.

And then I fainted dead away from mortification and had to be revived with smelling salts.

Just kidding. It was at that point that Chris walked up and asked what we were all talking about.

“Oh – we’re just corrupting your wife,” she said. And then we all laughed and then I went to get another drink.

So what was my point again? Oh yeah – I’m a prude and people like to talk to me about clitoral piercings and I might have to become an alcoholic to survive this. But I do enjoy the odd Elvis impersonator.

Home Alone: Day Four

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Day Four…and so far, no one has been voted off the island. Actually – the kids have been really good. I mean for them. So if you think that acting like something out of a Stephen King novel only 50% of the time is “really good,” then we are practically sharing a brain.

This morning George woke up at 4:30 with what I think was a nightmare, so I brought him to bed with me. It’s a guilty pleasure, having one of my tiny toddlers to cuddle in bed. Two of them is another story of course, but Eleanor didn’t follow him (for once). The big downside is that when the toddler in bed with you wakes up, there is no pretending that you can’t hear them. The direct eye contact makes that rather tricky to pull off. George opened his eyes at 6:45 and let me doze for about 15 more minutes though – so I can’t complain.

I just hope that he doesn’t start making this a habit. He is already driving me crazy with his insistence upon me holding him all the time. In fact, George’s attachment to me has now reached a level that begs the question, “is it normal for a two year old to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom?” I would guess, “no.” But hey – it’s his future on the psychiatric couch, not mine.

Eleanor and Oliver woke up shortly after we did, and before I knew it two hours had transpired. How is it possible that time can pass so quickly when you are literally doing nothing? This was great since I had plans to bring them back to the At Play Cafe at 10 a.m. and hoped to make it back home in time to watch the 11:30 swearing in ceremony.

In the meantime, I could watch the events on the large flat screen TV while my kids played. In fact, I would have been happy enough to just stay there through the presidential address. But I had no illusions about everyone lasting that long. Eleanor was already acting like she needed a nap.

The kids found a soulmate in a two year old boy named Max who seems destined to break several spines on the football field. He was little – but he was unstoppable. While they wrestled with Max, I caught up with my neighborhood friend, Tricia (also known as Reston Mom). A good time was had by all.

Soon enough Eleanor made it clear that she was done with the At Play Cafe, and I realized that it was already 11:30! So typical that I would spend a great moment in history engrossed in c-section comparison stories… But when I looked at the TV, I saw that we still had some time. Five minutes, two tantrums, one coatless child and a rousing game of musical stroller seats later, we arrived at our car. I had Eleanor under one arm, screaming something about wanting to walk and George was busily trying to unbuckle his seat belt. Only Oliver was content to be still – and happily contributed his 55+ lbs to my one handed double stroller pushing. I’m SO ready to retake that grade school presidential physical fitness test…

The minute we arrived home, I threw something in front of them that resembled lunch and then flew down to the basement in time to see the swearing in. Seriously – it was timed perfectly. I even got to hear the very beginning of Obama’s speech without interruption. Unfortunately George and Eleanor came down to look for me and I spent the rest of the speech with my ear against the television as they fired unintelligible questions at me. I think I caught about 60% of the speech. I’ll have to read it online later tonight to fill in the gaps.

I gave up at that point and switched the channel back to Noggin. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit smug about seeing ANY of the inauguration. Sad really…

Like I said, Eleanor was really tired and went down for her nap without protest. George? Not so much. But at least he didn’t try to escape. Oliver and I took advantage of the quiet (aside from George’s blood curdling screams, that is) to watch Mary Poppins for the 50th time this week. I also thought this would be a great time to whip up some cupcakes.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I have very little interest in cooking. At some point I did, but since my free time has now decreased by about 99.9%, I’ve decided that I’d rather spend it outside of my hideous, tiny galley kitchen. Baking is another story though. I’m perfectly content with box cake mixes, and what’s a few minutes of mixing compared to the fun of eating two dozen cupcakes as a snack? Oliver concurred.

Now, I don’t generally keep much junk food in the house, and my kids don’t actually eat a lot of dessert beyond store bought cookies now and then. But I do tend to fall back on doling out the treats when left to my own devices. In fact, I have a long history of overfeeding small children when I’m at a loss for anything else to do. I tend to think, “hmm – what do I feel like doing right now?” The answer usually involves ice cream.

Once when I was in my early twenties, I took care of my five year old cousin, Emmett for a week while his parents were in Europe. Emmett was one of those kids who was a little on the chubby side. This all changed when he hit puberty and grew 24 inches. But when he was five, he was pretty stout. I’m sure that I got some directions about limiting his fat and caloric intake, but after a day or two of playing with action figures, I lost my mind. I won’t get into the particulars of our many visits to pizza and ice cream parlors – but it would be safe to say that by the time his parents returned, Emmett had gained 5 lbs.

I’m not sure if my kids will gain any weight this week. But I’m fairly certain I will.

Aside from eating too much, I’ve also seriously let myself go appearance-wise. Today is the first time since Chris left that I’ve even washed my hair. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Since the winter air is so incredibly dry, one would never know that I should have been a complete grease ball by now.

While I’ve enjoyed a week of fabulous hair days, my poor daughter has not fared quite as well. I’ve written before about her fine blond hair and how it has taken two years to even look like she has actual hair on her head. And in spite of it being so obviously there now, static electricity has taken it’s toll on her wisps. Her hair is now perpetually plastered to the sides of her face. The look is similar to Taylor Momson’s awful new hairstyle (that would be Jenny from Gossip Girl’s Joan Jett ‘do).

The boys’ hair isn’t as affected by the dry weather – but they are both long overdue for a trim. Right now their hair is so long that with a little styling mousse they could give Uncle Jesse from Full House a run for his money. Now that I think of it…THAT could be a fun activity (for me). My children should thank their lucky stars that I go back to work tomorrow.

Oh – so many other things to report today… From a disastrous outing to pick up pizzas for dinner to the discovery that Oliver is running a raging fever (great timing since he’s having testing done tomorrow…) But I’m not writing a diary here – and honestly, the past three days of “chronicling” have worn me out. I’m not great with blow by blow accounts. I’m far too long winded for that.

So this will be the final installment “Home Alone.” Even though it’s looking likely that I WON’T be going to work tomorrow (since daycare has that ridiculous “no fevers” rule), I’m considering today the finale of my long weekend with the kids. Chris gets back Saturday night, and while I’ll be SO glad to see him, I’ve kind of enjoyed this trial by fire. I’ve actually learned some things about my parenting (and coping) skills: It’s always best to remain calm, a little patience goes a long way, and when in doubt, indulge in an early happy hour (either wine or cupcakes – pick your poison).

A Tragic Heroine’s Confession

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Chris left early this morning for a nine-day business trip. And I have the hubris to not be worried about this. That’s my Friday confession this week. I am incredibly arrogant about my ability to take care of a three year old and two year old twins all by myself for over a week.

Remember, I work full time and my children go to daycare five days a week. So I don’t have a set schedule for our days, like a stay at home mom* would. And most weekend days, Chris is there to help out. Being at home all day with them may not sound like anything out of the ordinary for a mother – but it’s not the norm for us.

The reason that I’m not all that concerned about it is because I do spend a lot of time alone with them. I get up with them every morning, and on the weekends, I may be alone with them for three hours before my husband gets up. I take them to daycare every weekday and bring them home without any help. Sometimes I have them in bed before Chris gets home from work. It’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that I could just handle everything by myself for nine days.

But.

This will be a long weekend. A four day weekend – and it will NOT be the same as dropping them off at daycare and picking them up by myself. I will be here at home alone with them for four full days. And they are young enough that I can’t take them out by myself unless the twins are trapped in the stroller. As two year olds, they can’t be trusted to stay with me and not run in two different directions. And I can’t count on them to be content to sit in the stroller. In fact, I know they will just shimmy out of their straps and escape (a new trick of theirs). And it’s freezing outside. Far colder than it usually is in DC this time of year. So I can’t let them play out back where they would be safely fenced in. We will spend four full days trying to stay entertained inside with very few activities outside the house.

And I’m not anxious about this. Because I have an incredible talent for dissociation, as well as a strong invincible streak that I never quite lost with age.

I have hubris of classical Greek tragedy proportions (as well as the classical flair for melodrama – at least late at night after a glass of wine or two). And I should be pitied for this because like any other fatal flaw, it will be my undoing.

But I am a survivor. And this will not be the worst challenge I have ever faced. Possibly the most tedious or the most likely to make me want to set my hair on fire and run through my suburban neighborhood begging for someone to put me out of my misery. But not the worst.

At the very least I will arrive at work on Wednesday with fully functioning eyeballs. I’ll just have to remember to hide all of the toga brooches in the house.

*To moms who are at home full time raising their children: Please take no offense to the SAHM label. I am aware that you are not at home all day with the kids. That in fact you spend most of your day racing around running errands and ferrying kids to and from activities. I feel exhausted just thinking about your average day. I’m only using the SAHM term for lack of a better one. Thank you for your understanding.

Chain of Fools

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This week’s Friday confession will be a story. But first, I need to provide a little background information (which in itself is somewhat of a confession). I have a bit of an aversion to big chain restaurants. Don’t get me wrong – I love P.F. Chang’s and Maggiano’s as much as the next person. But when I think of a really special night out, I prefer the idea of a restaurant that you can’t find in all major metropolitan areas. Or at least one that you can’t find at your local shopping mall.

This snooty little quirk of mine comes directly from my father who refused to eat at chain restaurants while I was growing up. If we went out for a casual meal, we’d go to a Chinese food place or maybe Mexican. But we never went anywhere like T.G.I. Friday’s. My brother and I didn’t think much about it – but now looking back, it’s very clear. We never went to chains.

Of course I now eat at family friendly chain restaurants all the time with my kids. But I can’t avoid that obnoxious little voice deep down inside mocking me about it. My husband revels in our patronage of these restaurants simply because he knows all about my secret snobbery. But enough about that – onto my story.

A year or two before the kids came along, we took what was to be our last real vacation together. I had accrued a good number American Airlines miles and hotel points through work travel, and we decided to use some of that for a long weekend in London. Since the dollar was pretty bad – this was never meant to be a luxury trip. We talked about it and agreed that we’d be real tourists and keep everything casual with sightseeing as the priority. Thanks to my freebies we had business class seats on the flight and a room at a great hotel in Trafalgar Square – so that would cover any of our needs for “fancy.” All of our dining would be on the cheap (or cheap-er) and we’d try to find dinner spots with character and atmosphere if not world class chefs.

I could write about so many things we did on that trip, but this isn’t a travelogue. It’s a confession. The confession part doesn’t come in until the Sunday after we arrived though. We arrived on a Friday, and with the exception of a little jet lag, we filled our time with sightseeing and walking. No shopping – but window shopping was allowed. Everything went according to plan until it was time to find a dinner spot. We failed to consider the fact that it was Valentines Day, and that it would be next to impossible to find a table somewhere.

We spent at least an hour wandering around the theater district and beyond, leaving our names at various places and wondering if we should just give up and head over to Piccadilly Circus where one of the tourist traps would surely be cranking out the tables. But that just wasn’t what we had in mind. We didn’t need expensive, but we did want a little atmosphere. So we persevered and finally lucked out when a tiny table became available at a little French place called Cafe Rouge.

It was in fact, exactly what we were looking for. It was casual, but had great food (we both had the beef bourguignon on that freezing cold night) and we were even able to find a good AND inexpensive bottle of wine. Mission accomplished! It was by far the most fun night out we had that weekend. The restaurant was quaint and cozy, and while the wait staff was pleasant enough, they left us alone and let us linger over our coffee as long as we liked. We planned to tell anyone we knew going to London about our find.

I think we went out for Indian food the next night – which was another score. Possibly the best Indian food I ever had. But during the day we tried to just grab quick meals and weren’t too particular. In keeping with our lunch time counter service dining, I wanted to check out the food court at Harrods. I had only been to Harrods once before right after college and didn’t remember it being much more than a big department store, but the guide books raved about the selection of cuisines at the food court. So Sunday, we decided to wander over. One thing we didn’t do was to check Harrods hours. But seriously – what American would ever guess that a major department store would be closed on a Sunday? Typical.

So we were disappointed to find that the food court which had been gaining mythical status as our hunger increased, was not to be on option. And of course there didn’t seem to be all that much else around. In desperation, we circled Harrods in hopes of finding at least one restaurant in close proximity. And we found it! And it was open! And it actually looked rather good. A little French bistro….called Cafe Rouge. Which was funny, because that is the same name of that great little French restaurant we went to the other ni… Oh. It’s chain.

SO we basically had a very special Valentines Day dinner in London at La Madeleine (if La Madeleine had a full bar).

After a few seconds of sheepish side glances at each other, we laughed over what fools we were. Then we raced inside to enjoy another wonderful meal with all of the character and atmosphere we could ask for. And then we vowed to never tell anyone about that wonderful little restaurant, Cafe Rouge – ever. Until now.

In My Opinion, You Can Never Have Enough:

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1. Icing on your cupcake (but only if it’s the homemade kind – the canned stuff is sub-par).

2. Butter on your baked potato (unless you have a dairy allergy and have to use fake stuff like Molly McButter – it’s just not the same).

3. Help with a newborn in the house (unless this involves family members that make you feel like you are 7 years old and playing with dolls).

4. Pairs of black heels (because regardless of what our male contemporaries think – they are all TOTALLY different).*
*This of course only applies to women – and drag queens.

5. Time to do nothing with your children (unless they are whining and crying – then they should go immediately to daycare where that magical woman turns them into pod people for the day).

6. Comments on a post (come on – this is a blog!).

7. Memories of great times with your friends that have nothing to do with the opposite sex (unless you are gay – and then you have to imagine that you have a whole group of friends where no one has ever hooked up. What? So I like The L Word).

8. Glasses of wine to come up with a lame list of things that you can never have enough of (and the inclination to think ending sentences with prepositions is just fine and no one will notice).

9. Respect and appreciation from your spouse/partner (finally – one that applies to all!).

10. Friends that remember you as you were in the past – and love you all the more for it.

That’s My Giant

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Last week I was invited to a lunch hosted by Giant Food at one of my favorite DC restaurants, Chef Geoff. Aside from being a fan of the food at Chef Geoff, I particularly like this restaurant because the owner (that would be Chef Geoff, of course) happens to be a good friend of one of my husband’s best friends from college. So I kind of know him by proxy – which makes me feel very important.

Giant is one of the main grocery stores where I shop (that’s right Washington Post Express – I don’t spend all of my millions at Whole Foods). So the lunch seemed to apply to me. AND it was free. While not everyone likes to admit it – we all like free stuff. Even rich and famous bloggers like me.

When I arrived at the lunch, I was surprised to see that it was a fairly intimate group – probably about 20 people in all. This also pleased me because I like anything exclusive (as long as I’m invited). So far, so good. I was feeling important and elitist and I was getting a free lunch. Ah – just another day in the life of a suburban mom…

But seriously – what was I doing there? Why WAS I invited? I really had no idea. It seemed that the guest list was primarily made up of women who write for DC Metro Moms. And I don’t write for DC Metro Moms. I’ve only had a blog for about two months. But I am a mom, and I grew up in DC and now live in the Metro area….so maybe I should write for DC Metro Moms. I seem to be qualified… But for the purpose of this particular line of thought (why I was invited), there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for it. I could only guess that they saw the title of my blog and thought I was a foodie. Well, as much as I like to eat, I have to admit to being a fairly reluctant cook. But if serving my children different variations of cheese on bread for dinner and then making my own dinner out of some cheese and crackers and a half a bottle of wine every night makes me part of Giant’s target audience….then it all makes sense.

As usual, many words have passed and not many points have been gotten to… So back to the lunch. The primary message that Giant seemed to want to relay to us is that they value the mothers that shop in their stores. Seriously – it just kept getting better. I could now add “valued” to the list of pats on the back that I seemed to be getting out of this experience. Then they filled us in on the current programs they are developing as well as various family-related changes that will be taking place in their stores.

The first item that caught my attention was the improved family-friendly check out lines. They not only eliminate candy and tabloids – but also provide activity pages with stickers for the kids, healthy snacks and various items that a parent may need on the go (like hand sanitizer). My first thought was that this aisle didn’t really appeal to me. I mean where would I get my reward for doing the shopping (candy) and how would I suffer through waiting in line without some kind of entertainment (Us Weekly)? Frankly, activity pages and Fig Newtons just aren’t going to cut it for me. Then I remembered that I would only be using this aisle if I had my children with me (something I actively avoid). And that this information was being presented to me since I’m a mom. Oh yeah – that’s right – I am! Then I thought the idea was genius.

The next point that seemed to apply to me personally was that Giant will be putting reminder signs in their parking lots so people won’t make it all the way through the checkout line before realizing that they left their reusable grocery bags in the car. Anyone that has been reading The Big Piece of Cake recently may remember my confession about this a few weeks ago. And if you caught my post on Friday, you will know that a local publication decided to slander me publicly for it. Okay – that’s a bit extreme, but I didn’t sense any eye rolling over the OTHER blogs they quoted that day…

Another point of discussion that got everyone all fired up was a new scanning system that will allow you to place an order at the deli counter and then come by to pick it up later. Women were literally vibrating with excitement over this. I was thinking about how I don’t much care for lunch meat, but then I considered that I could want to buy something at the deli counter at some point…so then I got into the spirit and joined in the ooohs and aaahs.

The presentation covered much more than this, but those new developments were the ones that seem to stick out for me. During part of the the presentation, Chef Geoff himself gave us a demonstration on how to prepare risotto. He put on a good show, and entertained us with culinary jokes and stories about his kids. The whole time I was thinking about how my husband (who actually does like to cook) would have LOVED to be there, and how he would have been the biggest suck up in the room, asking lots of questions about technique (love you honey!). This risotto was served with a scallop the size of my head as an appetizer. It was phenomenal, and I guarantee that if I tried this “easy” recipe at home it wouldn’t be nearly as good – regardless of Chef Geoff’s instructional skills.

While we were enjoying our entree, Andrea Astrachan, VP of Consumer Affairs gave us all kinds of tips for staying healthy, saving money and other stuff that would be of interest to moms. Andrea sat next to me and she was just cute as a button. Look at her picture – don’t you think so? AND she grew up on a farm. Did you know that? What – you say you had no idea who she was to begin with? Well duh! Neither did I, but you have to start somewhere. So start with this – Andrea grew up on a farm! And she has two sons. And she has a lot of style (you can’t really tell from her head shot – but she dresses well). I think that’s enough about Andrea for today. But that’s okay – it takes a while to really get to know someone. One last Andrea-related detail though – she went to the trouble of providing everyone with several handouts on the content from her presentation. And I will have every intention of reading these and until they slip though the bottom of my purse and into the black hole that consumes pretty much anything handout, brochure or “reminder” related.

As a bonus parting gift, we were given a preview of the NEW Giant logo. That’s right – The “big G” is going away. I can’t show a picture of the logo or even describe it. If I do they’ll have to kill me. It’s top secret information until its unveiling on August 22. We were informed that we were the first people in the DC area to see the new logo – which of course made me feel very special and elitist again, ending the event on a resounding high note.

On my way out the door, I bumped into another attendee that I thought looked familiar. Turns out we went to high school together (hi Stephanie!). So we had a quick, high pitched chat before I had to run back to the office. Well – I’ll speak for myself regarding the high pitched part. I tend to walk away from this kind of reunion wondering when I turned into Minnie Mouse. Seems to be a girl thing since I’ve been with Chris on numerous occassions when he’s run into an old friend, and somehow there is no significant rise in octaves involved…

All in all – it was a great day. As a suburban mom, I don’t get out as much as I used to. And since I left my somewhat higher profile meeting planning job (for one with more “family friendly” hours), I don’t even get invited to that many professional events. Now when I peruse my latest issue of In Style magazine, I don’t have to envy the celebrities at fashion shows and charity events, picking up their bags of Jo Malone and Tiffany & Co. swag. I’ll just look at my reusable Giant shopping bag holding my new logo calculator, adjustable apron, multi-use clip and box of Simply Enjoy brand cookies, and smile as I relive the fond memory.

Thanks again Giant Food and Chef Geoff for putting together such a lovely event!

I’m Having a Party and Everyone’s Invited

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Actually – that’s not really true, but “I’m having a Party and Only Ten People are Invited” didn’t have as much of a ring to it. Barking Mad has started a virtual dinner party trend. You can view the details here, but the general idea is to list 10 blogs you read and why the writing makes you think they’d be fun and/or interesting dinner companions.

This was really supposed to be more of a community building exercise and not the usual exclusionary BS that makes people so angry, jealous, insecure or any other number of unproductive reactions. Unfortunately – it’s kind of impossible to avoid this. If someone has the inclination to feel left out, a disclaimer or mission statement won’t make a difference. So I find myself conflicted about how to proceed (I know – so just don’t do it – but I really like the idea!)

I saw Anymommy struggle with this last week as she invited something like 50 people and managed to get them all drunk and topless in the process. She decided to be a rebel and break the rules with unlimited invitations. Since I don’t like to be a copycat (and I’m just too PG-13 for that Girls Gone Wild action), I am unable to increase the head count.

Instead – I’m going to increase the limitations. I am only going to invite people that I don’t think will be on anyone else’s guest list. This doesn’t mean that I think they aren’t well loved of course. I’m thinking more about blogs that may not be read by the people who are participating in the dinner party planning OR blogs that are still somewhat undiscovered (I can particularly appreciate this second one since I’m fairly new myself).

So here is my list:

Anastasia from The Gift. This will come as no surprise since I have mentioned her on other occasions and she is a good friend of mine in the “real world.” She likes to talk about everything and anything (which is lucky for her since she challenged herself to write every day for a year), and loves a good debate. She is also incredibly funny and will regale us with great anecdotes about growing up among the cast of outspoken characters that she calls her family.

Anna from An Inch of Gray. Anna may be starting to think that I’m her stalker. I comment on almost every post and I act like we’ve just known each other forever. This is probably because she has managed to provide somewhat of a window into her life. While she’s quite witty – she doesn’t hide behind humor. Her posts are funny, poignant and – again – funny. I often think that if Anna and I lived near each other, we would be really good friends. That is, as long as she didn’t request a restraining order…

Kacy from Every Day I Write the Book. If you have been reading my blog for the past couple of months, you will have seen this one coming. How could I ever have a dinner party without the funniest woman in the blogosphere. I have already provided an excerpt from her post of hate mail to her hamster. But if that isn’t enough for you – check out this and this. Although – I might not want to invite her to my party since it would be one of those things where she’d be “discovered” and then everyone would be inviting her to their parties and then I wouldn’t see as much of her. Which would be really sad since blog life has gotten so hectic lately and we never just talk anymore.

Jozette from Regardez Moi. I think that if I rescued a genie from his bottle and could make some wishes, I would wish that Jozette was my little sister. This of course, is based on unlimited wishes since I would have to be a bit more practical with just three. Three would require a lot of thought, and I’d probably end up agonizing over making the third one for world peace or a vacation home in Andalucia. But I just love Jozette. She is funny (guest post on Petunia Face) and she would never let me leave home wearing bad shoes. Plus it looks like she’s outnumbered by boys – so she kind of needs me.

Winona from Daddy Likey. Like Jozette, Winona is younger than me. And I think it’s refreshing to have child-free people at a party. They tend to keep the conversation from stalling at potty training and precious anecdotes. Winona has some definite thoughts on fashion, but she can laugh at herself too. And her travel stories alone would keep us on the edge of our seats.

Suzie from Up the Hill Backwards. I decided that I would be a Suzie fan forever when she commented on a post about my son being big for his age, by saying, “My son is really tall for his age and physical. He towers over the other boys at school. People tend to think he is a bit slow because he’s only three but he looks like a six year old with a pacifier and wearing mommy’s shoes.” She also comes up with gems like this. I can’t imagine that things could get boring with Suzie around.

Amy from Doobleh-Vay. Okay – this is strictly based on the fact that I haven’t seen her on a list yet. The truth is Amy is well loved (and read) by many. And for good reason. She is kind of a role model for the less conventional mother. She puts creativity first and greets each day with her kids as another opportunity to learn and grow. I love that she has just as many dreams for herself as she does for her boys. In the end this will make their bond all the stronger. Plus – she might arrive in a pirate hat – which in my book is an immediate conversation catalyst.

Heather from Dooce. HAH! See, I can invite her because I don’t think anyone else will. She’s like the really pretty girl in school that doesn’t get asked to prom because everyone assumes that someone else already asked her. But see, I’m the geek with borderline Aspergers who has no sense of fear. I want her to come – so what the hell, I’ll ask. And because it’s my theoretical dinner party, she is absolutely delighted by the invitation. AND she brings really good wine. She and Kacy can make Mormon-related jokes that no one else understands, but we’ll all laugh because they are just that funny. And because we drank too much of the wine Heather brought – except for Kacy, because she’s Mormon.

That’s it for the invites. And no – there is no mistake in falling short of the required head count of 10. I think that my dinner party would be particularly interesting if we had a couple of crashers. So what do you think? Want to come? Leave me a comment and let me know what you can bring to the party. Anyone can crash (since this is theoretical, I’ll just pretend that only two of you come) – even if you are read by millions and invited to all of the other dinner parties. I think you’ll like mine the best.

Please Dance Responsibly

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Well Chris is out of town again – so I’m back to BUI. Not as bad as last time – but I was a little shocked when I saw the dent I made in that wine bottle. This time, I’m putting it away before I can finish it. And I made sure to eat something substantial before sitting down to write (no off color, out of character innuendos – and I know that a few of you are disappointed).

But that one too many glasses of wine made me think about another “interesting” effect that too many drinks will instigate. One that I didn’t mention last time is the well known phenomenon that I think we can all relate to. Too many drinks make us all just a little too confident on the dance floor.

Just picture yourself at that wedding, college reunion or any celebratory event that usually includes an open bar. You start out the night catching up with old friends, hesitantly approaching people you don’t know well or haven’t seen in a long time, and possibly even doing a little restrained dancing along with the rest of the group. But fast forward about two to three hours after you’ve been too busy talking to eat the dinner that was seemingly whisked out from under your nose minutes after it arrived. After you’ve moved past the cocktail you ordered for yourself, to the less desirable one that someone else ordered for you, to the wine glass that seemed to be refilled every time a server visited your table, to the rounds of shots that you would never in a million years have accepted if you hadn’t already consumed the equivalent of your typical month’s alcohol intake. Now you are not only happy to be there but well aware of how happy everyone else is that you are there. You are quite possibly one of the most sought after conversationalists present and you are now ready to show your admirers that you are far more than just a pretty face. You are an exceptionally talented dancer.

That’s right. We’ve all been there – and some of us have been unfortunate enough to be documented in pictures and video. As fun as it is at the time – as great as we think we look at the time – we all know that once the glitter is gone and the fluorescent lights are on, we just weren’t as fabulous as we felt.

How often have we cringed when we woke up “the morning after”? Very few of us have the strength of character to either stand by our electric boogaloo moves or to withstand the character assassination from our nearest and dearest via digital photo eblasts and YouTube footage. But here’s to those who march to the beat of their own inner DJ. They somehow never look dorky. And if their moves don’t convey mad skillz, their enthusiasm encourages those around them to join in the fun.

As for those “mornings after” – well, I’ve had many. I will be the first to admit to having the Footloose urges that a few drinks tend to inspire. And while I do cringe a little, I also try to remember the fun and the lack of inhibition. Living in the moment offers a thrill that we rarely allow ourselves in daily life. And it helps to be able to laugh at yourself (even for people like me who take themselves very seriously).

I remember once making plans to meet up for drinks with my friends Nancy and Maureen on a Friday night shortly after I returned from my honeymoon in 2000 (when we were 28). We agreed to meet at J. Paul’s in Georgetown. It was a central location with good atmosphere and a restaurant if any of us needed to grab dinner. It was always packed, but not too crowded. We had a great time catching up, and after a few drinks (and no dinner), decided to move on to another bar for another drink. Next stop was Mr. Smith’s – again, not too crowded and conducive to conversation. This is where we probably could have called it a night, but we were having SO much fun that we just had to move on to a third bar. And what is across the street from Mr. Smith’s, but everyone’s favorite (at least at that time) post-college bar, The Griffin Room at The Guards. We walked in there like we were 23 again – just more sophistocated, with better clothes. After ordering some very cheap gin & tonics, we took a moment to enjoy the ubiquitous “everybar” music and check out the scene.

Having graduated from Fordham in New York, I have great nostalgia for Frank Sinatra classics which at that time had not quite infiltrated mainstream DC nightlife (or at least not the just-out-of-college crowd). I can’t resist the urge to dance to this mainstay of my college bar experience; and The Summer Wind could be considered the mother ship for me and all of my fellow alumni. The minute I heard those opening notes I began to search the room for a dance partner. And as soon as I spotted him I knew he was the one. Too much hair gel, obvious Italian heritage and a black leather jacket – he was exactly what I needed. He was just the guido I was looking for. In all of my liquored up bravado, I marched right over and said, “You’re from New York. You like Frank Sinatra. Come dance with me.” And he did. He asked me how I knew that he was from New York, and I tactfully responded that he was very “urban” while most DC natives were more conservative. This seemed to please him, and I blissfully spun and dipped knowing that my friends were right there with me doing the same.

After that, everything went downhill. No idea what happened to my Italian friend, but we subsequently spiraled down into a haze of current pop music and groups of Eurotrash players. But surprisingly, I made it home at a respectable hour – and with some aspirin and late night food, avoided the expected hangover. Having graduated from considering any wild night a great time to suffering pangs of mortification for the slightest memory of exuberance – I was fairly pleased with my ability to dance at The Griffin Room without making an ass out of myself (even if I didn’t remember very much of it). Then about a week later, when Nancy and I were driving to see Cirque de Soleil, we talked about what a fun night that had been. I remarked upon how we had managed to be so silly without doing anything embarrassing. That was the exact moment that the song Who Let the Dogs Out started playing on the radio. And then it all came flooding back. The circle dance, the moves, the strutting. Oh – the humiliation… Well what can you do? We just laughed.

But some people throw themselves into dancing regardless of whether they have been drinking or not, and they have my utmost respect. My father is one of these people. Anyone watching him dance will say, “he is fantastic!” He certainly looks like he can dance. He has moves, he has fancy footwork, and he twirls his partner in very intricate rotations around the dance floor. But the truth is – my father is a loose cannon. He doesn’t follow any set dance steps, so his partner has no idea what to expect. He loves to do complicated things involving pretzeling of arms and whipping motions that send his partner ricocheting in all directions. This was a source of great concern for my mother when it came time to pick a song for our father-daughter dance at my wedding. I was a bit windblown by the end – but we managed to make it through without any injuries.

Once at my cousin Kristin’s rehearsal dinner, he almost killed her grandmother. Mrs. Sharon is Kristin’s mother’s mother (my father is her father’s brother), so we didn’t know her well. But anyone could see that she was an extremely elegant and dignified woman. There was a pianist and a dance floor at the event; and when dinner concluded, my father asked Mrs. Sharon to dance. I was sitting next to the dance floor with Chris and my mother and we watched with great trepidation as my father tossed the sweet lady around in something that resembled a lively jitterbug. Toward the end of the song, he pulled out one of his signature moves of spinning her out and then back in, but somehow lost hold of her hand in mid fling. Then everything went into slow motion as we saw her turn about three times in a trajectory aimed directly at the dining tables. Three seconds later she was under a table. All we could see were feet sticking out from under the beige linen.

Later, my father said that all he could think was, “oh god – please don’t be dead.” But moments later, the poor woman popped up to give everyone an “I’m okay,” wave. They then returned to the dance floor in a more subdued attempt to save face. Once the wheezing laughter had stopped and we were wiping the last few tears from our cheeks, the song ended. And as my father and Mrs. Sharon passed by, we heard him say, “let’s take a breather.”

So whether you reserve your best moves for the open bar events or proudly display them whenever the opportunity presents itself, think before you frug. If there is a videographer present, walk away from the light. Beware of friends bearing digital cameras. Your dancing never looks half as good as it feels so why ruin it with documentation. Truly, it’s all fun and games until someone loses their integrity doing the Electric Slide.

Wine Makes People Interesting

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I’m feeling just a little embarrassed about last night’s post. Did I actually say “once you go black…?” I’m cringing. That is a bit out of character for me. But here is my great excuse: I was drunk. No, seriously – this is the result of being left to my own devices (Chris is out of town) and making dinner out of a bottle of wine and a handful of cashews. Apparently, it made me think I was Samantha from Sex & the City.

Not that I meant to drink too much. I drank the wine over the course of several hours. It’s not like I was using a funnel (here is where I picture myself as Frank the Tank from Old School saying, “it feels so good when it hits the lips.”). The truth is I’m not a big drinker. I didn’t drink at all in high school or for the first two years of college. I don’t care for beer and will only drink a cocktail occasionally. But I do really like wine… So this was more like picking at a chocolate cake that is sitting out on the counter all day. There was a point when I realized that I didn’t really want anymore, but I failed to follow up on that thought. So there I was after putting the kids to bed – ready to finish up the post I wrote during my lunch break – just a little too tipsy for my own good. I think I will call this BUI (blogging while under the influence).

I’m sure anyone who indulges in a drink once in a while will know what I’m talking about (and I know some who don’t and I hope that none of this offends them). When you’re standing around at a party and you realize that you’re bored by the people talking to you, you may finish that first drink rather quickly and start the second far earlier in the evening than you would under different circumstances. Then that guy droning on about the flagstone he’s putting in his backyard starts to seem kind of funny. Those anecdotes about the workers tracking mud all over the carpet are a hoot! What does he do anyway? It must be something fascinating…. Investment banking? Cool! See what I mean? For me, wine makes people more interesting. AND it makes me funny…and hot (but that’s only when I’ve have A LOT of drinks with interesting people who think I’m really funny).

One too many drinks can impair judgment on many levels. Like buying weird stuff. Once when I was working my old association’s annual conference, I bought a black cowboy hat. We were in Dallas and everyone was at the Monday Night Event. “Everyone,” being my co-workers, a group of overworked, exhausted people, a bit punchy from this rare moment of free time. And we didn’t match – most of us wouldn’t have socialized outside of work, and didn’t look to have that much in common. But after working long hours on little sleep, we resembled a high school class on an overnight field trip. It’s been a while, but I remember the venue that night was a kind of ranch with abundant stereotypical Texas amusements. A mechanical bull, a quick draw shooting game, wagon wheels and bales of hay – all of the makings for a damn good party. After a private Dwight Yoakam concert, some follow up dancing to Asleep at the Wheel, several mechanical bull rides and of course, a few too many drinks, it was time to hit the gift shop.

Here enters another thing that can impair good judgment: cute young guys. My first reaction to young guys is typically very maternal with a lot of head patting and cheek pinching behavior. But those drinks were making me far too attractive to play mommy. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no Mrs. Robinson, but when you are 30 years old and married, a 25 year old guy seems a lot younger than just five years. So wasn’t I just full of myself, flirting away. He and a few of his friends had joined our group and REALLY didn’t match – but who cared? Everyone was buying shirts, belt buckles and hats. I tried on the black hat and asked my new friend what he thought. He said, “it makes you look hot.” So of course it was a given that I had to buy it. Then one of my work friends bought a tight tee shirt that said “cowgirl” across the front in rhinestones. Because really, you could get much more use out of that than a cowboy hat. She’s so practical. Her purchase was not at all influenced by cute young guys.

My wine-induced lapses in judgment are more local these days. The other night I asked a neighbor if her husband was her manny. And I actually said “manny.” I know her, but had never met her husband before. Chris claimed that he had and that it wasn’t the man that we see going in and out of her house with her kids. You would think that I’d be skeptical – and I was – but Chris was so adamant that it was a different guy. So after my second drink when I was feeling extra chatty I said, “who is that man that’s always with your kids?” She was like, “you mean my husband?” And then there were a few more exchanges that concluded with me saying that I thought he was her manny. Luckily, she found this incredibly amusing and hasn’t held it against me. I of course was mortified – but you can’t say I wasn’t interesting.