peevish mama

My college girls and I used to call ourselves the Babe-O-Matics, and lest you think we took ourselves seriously, please know that it was all in jest. Mostly. Back in the day, I had inherited a tape player called the Invert-O-Matic (my dad has always been a gadget guy and this was pure seventies cutting edge stuff) which, no joke, would eject the tape, flip it over, suck it back in and play the other side. Someone covered the “Invert” with “Babe” and that’s all she wrote. I don’t remember exactly when we became the Babe-O-Matics – it feels like we just always were. And as it turns out, I think we always will be. We may no longer be running around Southbend, Indiana dressed like grungy man-girls in big Levis, flannel shirts, Birkenstocks and boots, but Babe-os we remain.

I’ve been sitting on this post for a few days – it doesn’t seem to be writing itself, as usually happens when the emotions are bigger than the words. Earlier this summer, I had intended to write about the bookend stop in Chicago on our way back from Michigan and I never did. The words sort of eluded me to describe how much fun we had overnight at Sunny’s* house in Wilamette with her hubby, Tax Man Italiano, and their four kids. Our other roommate, Shady** came in from the city for the night and we slipped right back into our old mischief, feasting, drinking, and gabbing to excess – only now we were surrounded by a gaggle of kids and a couple of indulgent husbands who seem to understand implicitly that if there was ever a night to step up and get the kids to bed and let us talk, it was then. Late night, sitting on Sunny’s porch, drinking those last beers we would regret in the morning, it struck me that after college, I was far too cavalier about the Babe-os spreading out around the country. Nothing seemed permanent back then. Nothing seemed of consequence.  We all had things we needed to do, and I figured they would always be as close to me as they were on that sad day we all drove away from our little blue house on St. Peter’s Street for the last time – weeping, desolate, inconsolable in the knowledge that we would never have that kind of fun again. 

Looking at my girls over the flickering candles on that porch, my heart caught in my throat. We could be doing all of this together. Instead, we live parallel lives in different cities, only catching up for a few golden hours every year. Shady goes to a lot of the same concerts we go to when they hit Chicago – she was at Beck and at De La Soul. What a partner in crime she would be if we lived in the same place! And Sunny’s kids and my kids paired off and scampered away like they see each other every day. Sunny and I could be sitting at the pool together, at the beach together, cobbling dinners together out of cheese and crackers and wine. I married someone who knew me way back when – back when I was young and fun and didn’t have a care in the world. I know how much humor and patience and leeway and pleasure you draw out of that pot of memories, that book of characters and references. It’s huge. Embarrassingly, I think I might have blubbered something about missing out on my Ya Ya sisterhood, but Sunny and Shady understood. When six girls spend a whole Halloween night tied together disguised as a drain hair shark, on mushrooms, well, it adds a whole other dimension to your relationship. 

We could be doing all of this together.

But we’re not. And as bittersweet as seeing each other may be, it’s also completely restorative, satisfying and necessary. To laugh like that, to be understood and accepted like that, fills us up and lets us glide on through until the next time. We all have other wonderful friends where we live, sisters, the ladies you count on. But what we Babe-os had remains utterly apart – maybe because we’ve always lived apart – it’s locked away in time, but breathtakingly accessible. All we have to do to tap into that, is put ourselves into the same room. So we do.

On Saturday three of us flew to Saint Louis to surprise Dolly*** for her 40th birthday party. She had no idea we were coming. Her lovely sisters and hubby, Soul Daddy, masterfully kept it under wraps. Tartare had flown from Seattle to meet up with Shady and Sunny in Chicago and they flew in together. When I looked up from my phone to see the three of them striding toward me in the St. Louis airport, looking all foxy and smiley, my heart did a little jump. All together! For a party! For Dolly! It was just too good. 

The surprise was perfect. We didn’t jump out of a cake. We simply walked down the street and as we approached we could hear Dolly’s daughter, Mimi, yelling Moooom, come outside! So of course, there was shrieking. Of course there were hugs and laughter. Dolly was grinning ear to ear, as was the adorable Soul Daddy. Operation Babe-O-Matic was a success.

The Babe-os were in da haaayouse and Dolly’s relaxing afternoon had just morphed into something else entirely. We chatted, drank in their three adorable kids, oohed and aahed around the house, soaking up the wall colors, the pictures, the stuff of our dear friend’s day-to-day life. We felt lucky to be sitting in her kitchen, even for a couple hours, to have our hands on the counter top where her kids color, where they spill cereal, where Dolly rolls out pies, where Soul Daddy chops and puts out cheese and olives. We Babe-os take nothing for granted, least of all time in each other’s homes. It’s just too rare. And even back in college, back when all we really cared about was the next great party, we were all about nesting, making our dorm rooms and then the house on St. Peter’s Street sweet little homes to relish, share, and make memories in. Some things never change.

A lot of things never change.

After a little adventure to Dolly’s favorite nail salon for manis and pedis, a quick beer, and that festive, oh so fun, getting ready time when we chatted and cackled and checked out eachothers’ lotions and potions, outfits and jewelry, we were off like the wind to Dolly’s bash. We knew it was going to be great because it was at the house Dolly grew up in, now owned by her sister, the lovely Maisie and her family. We had already celebrated Dolly and Soul Daddy’s wedding at that house, not to mention various stops to and fro Mardi Gras throughout the years. This family knows how to fling open their doors, hug you close and throw down for a really good time. There were pretty lights strung up in the yard, cocktail tables with candles, delicious food and bevvies, jello shots in every flavor, and tons of party people who all love Dolly.

We knew it was going to be fun. What we didn’t know, is that we were going to spend the next nine hours in a magical musical pleasure fest! Soul Daddy’s old band set up in the garage due to some threatening sprinkles, which, luckily, never ended up getting much footing and began a night of amazing music. Lordy, did we dance! Soul Daddy sang and we all swooned. Dolly sang and we swooned some more. Our girl! As the night tore on in a mad blur fueled by beer and restorative stops to the food table, all of Dolly’s sibs took a turn, and then her uncle and then her cousins and before we knew it, the night had devolved into a beautiful crazy hootenanny. It was great. And if you went inside, you had their exquisitely woven playlist to contend with. I have fuzzy memories of lurching around, dancing to So Lonely, screaming the words while gnawing on a chicken wing. It was a buh uh uh uh laaasst!!!

Just like the old days, the Babe-os would fan out at a party, flitting around, talking to everyone, only to find each other again in a riotous explosion of cheers and hugs and laughter, feeling like you were home again after a crazy odyssey. This would happen, and did happen on Saturday, multiple times a night, all night long. We may have lived together, but we were always happiest to see each other. 

A lot of things never change.

Tartare, Sunny, Shady and Dolly, you are my heart. Happy birthday Dolly. I love you rockin’ Babe-o-matics.

*Because of love of, disposition, outlook, and Coppertone always at the ready.

**Because why mess with a good nickname?

***Because she has a love for Dolly Parton, not because she looks like Dolly Parton.

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was lovely. I’m not one to make a big hooha out of my own birthday. But I must admit, it’s kind of nice when others make a hooha for me. 

There were flowers on the kitchen counter, which had to have been purchased sometime between ten at night on Saturday and seven in the morning on Sunday because Dash has been on call. A+ for effort, my love. Beautiful swollen peach roses and sunflowers. Sunflowers are so straightforward and happy – they’re my favorite.

There was a precious half hour alone with coffee and the New York Times.

There were sleepy birthday hugs. They woke up remembering.

There was a trip to the Kingfield Farmers Market and my window sill is bejeweled in tomatoes, glowing orbs of yellow, red, orange.

There was a  yoga class, which always does me a world of good.

There was a fortuitous bump into Salt and Pepper Polymath at the supermarket. He wished me happy birthday. I’m not sure how he knew.

There was a late afternoon trip to Bush Lake where some of my book club ladies awaited with their hubbies, resplendent in sun hats and laughter, vodka tonics and cheese. They sang to me and I felt as if I would burst from happiness before melting into the sand from embarrassment. Dash and I lingered in the warmth of the waning sun, long after they had all left, our toes in the sand, our kids feeding the remnants of sand speckled cheese to the seagulls.

There were phone calls and messages throughout the day from all the people I love.

There were grilled rib eyes, tomatoes sliced and drizzled, a little salad of farmers market radishes and carrot, thinly sliced, in a chive mustard vinaigrette. My perfect meal.

There was angel food cake with whipped cream and berries, rowdy singing and plenty of help blowing out the candles.

There was a dance party which ended in a crash. The portable disco ball is kaput, which is just as well because ever since we moved into this house I have been politely requesting a disco ball. A real disco ball. Doctor Dash thought he could mollify me with the disco boobs* he got me for Christmas, and it worked for a while, but I’m afraid that’s all she wrote on that one. 

There were tears and words of truth in the bathroom before bed. Supergirl was crying over the disco boobs, Devil Baby kept repeating that it scared her when they crashed and I hushed and shushed, promising another disco ball, a better disco ball, a real disco ball. Saint James took his toothbrush out of his mouth, looked me straight in the eye in the mirror and scolded: well this isn’t going to help us save up money for Costa Rica.

Touché, St. James, touché. But it IS my birthday.

*Coined by Supergirl.

I think I had to get that big lump out of my throat so I could come back around and approach this last week from an angle a titch less mushy. We packed a lot into the seven days before Doctor Dash had to go back to Minneapolis and our basic modus operandi was: whatever it is, call us. We’re in. And it turns out, with out the constraints of things like, oh, work and babysitters, you can cook up a whole hell of a lot of fun. 

On our drive to Michigan we stopped in downtown Chicago for a night and got to hang out with one of my favorite people in the world, my brutha from anotha mutha, my college partner-in-crime: The Fox, his hilarious wife, Sweet Cheeks, and their three adorable kids. We thoroughly fondled the shiny bean in Millenium Park, walked around the city for a while, and had a delicious, albeit chaotic, meal of Spanish tapas at Emilio’s. Our collective six children were rambunctious and lively, but essentially as well behaved as could be expected. I have seen better behaved children, but they’re usually sitting in the shadow of excruciatingly boring looking parents. The first thing Devil Baby and their youngest did when we sat down, was to scurry under the table. We tried half heartedly to get them to come out, but abandoned the notion in favor of a couple pitchers of sangria and some good catch-up chatter. My favorite moment came later in the dinner, when the kids had started to fan out and scuttle around the restaurant: The Fox gingerly lifted the corner of the table cloth and tried to shoo the little ones back under the table. That’s exactly the kind of off-the-cuff, lesser of two evils, short cut, bandaid, whatever works in this moment parenting that we embrace, and precisely what I would expect from my friend who procrastinated his Heart of Darkness paper for so long that he actually entered the heart of darkness, turning the whole thing into a long, drawn out, tortuous extravaganza that still ended in a painful all-nighter. It brought me endless pleasure to watch him wrangle the two year old boy who was determined to give his mother a heart attack by pitching along the sidewalks of Chicago as fast as his short little legs would carry him. It was only a few chaotic, funny hours, but thoroughly soul satisfying. Everything that was quirky and funny about The Fox and Sweet Cheeks before they had kids, inflects their parenting and their family in all the lovely ways you’d hope. And now, we will make a plan to see each other again somewhere with long table cloths and no murderous taxis.

On the morning of the rehearsal dinner, a big shipment of roses arrived at the house, followed by the clicking heels and jingling bracelets of my mother’s best betties who came from Buenos Aires, Laguna Beach, D.C. and right down the road to help her make the flower arrangements. I  jumped right in, happy to indulge in that loose, winding, gossipy chatter that magically flows from women in a circle, doing something busy with their hands. It’s not something I get to do often, ever really, but boy there is something about it that feels really restorative, really right. Women making tortillas, pounding cassavas, weaving baskets, painting porcelain, quilting, knitting. It’s a tradition to be reckoned with for good reason, and in short order, we had busted out a bunch of beautiful centerpieces. Then we piled into a couple cars and sped off for a quick, relaxing lunch at the club. What a girlie, indulgent, and downright delightful way to spend a morning. I miss hanging out with all these old girls.

Equally as delightful, but hitting other notes altogether, was throwing down with my brothers and their friends. El Maestro de Bife is six years younger than me and Golden is twelve years younger. I’ve met most of their buddies throughout the years, but they were just the little boys slumping guiltily out of our house in backwards baseball caps, the ones who nearly melted of embarrassment at the sight of my pregnant belly in Florida. They were cute, but they were sort of irrelevant. When I was partying, my brothers were kids. When my brothers were partying, I was, um, procreating. In an unfortunate hiccup of chronological irony, I had missed a whole chunk of their life revelry and I hadn’t even realized it. I needed to make up for lost time. In different permutations and combinations of my siblings and their fine feathered friends, we had feasts at my parents house, met them out for drinks, hung out on the boat, drank white wine on the sly at a dad band concert in the park, and reveled at a rowdy house party chez Peppermint Love, all before the actual wedding festivities had even begun.

It turns out everyone has grown up into some serious hotness. They’ve all graduated from college, some grad school, some have girlfriends, some have wives, all appear to have jobs, and moreover, they’ve all grown into their skin. Without exception, they are fun, funny, easy and most importantly, ridiculously good dancers. Here’s a little talked about fact: it does an old lady good to dance with a bevy of young bucks. This is no secret to the dirty old man population, but ladies, I’m here to tell you, it works the other way too. I’m not sure what peculiar confluence of forces turned out such fine dancing lads, but I have yet to meet anyone my age who can throw down like these boys. This is not a criticism. It is a challenge. Prove me wrong friends. (Although I do have to give Doctor Dash props for having made the choice, early on in our relationship, to go from being a non-dancer to a bonafide dancin’ fool for my sake. He’s always game and I love him for that.) 

Moreover, Saint James didn’t leave the dance floor all night long – he was all eyes and ears and smooth little boy moves. He went so far beyond cute little kid dancing at a wedding, showed such promise, such young Jedi powers of concentration that one by one my brothers and their friends shimmied on over, showed him some moves and sent him on his way. It was tutelage at its best, a one-night apprenticeship in the fine art of cutting a rug, and now, so many days later, Saint James is still referring to the wedding as the dance party. Looooove that.

[Note: I would like nothing better than to insert a picture from the dancing portion of the evening, but it turns out that as soon as Larry Lee and his smokin' hot band started playing, I completely lost my wits, abandoning my camera in favor of the dance floor fray. I am hoping someone captured the magic and will share their pictures with me, and if they do, I will share them with you.]

I’m at a bit of a loss. I’m finding it hard to write about the Golden Delicious Apple wedding. It’s just too big. Too complex. Too lovely. It’s like my words are shiny marbles and a big jar of them has been upended, sending them pinging all over the floor and I’m trying to gather them up with thick woolen mittens, sending them scattering ever farther, slippery, shiny and elusive. Or maybe I’m a cowboy and my words are my herd of cattle who are acting mighty peculiar. No matter how hard I try, the cows just ignore me and mill around, some of them flop on to their backs, laughing hysterically, a little group of them is dancing over the hill yonder (where did they get those maracas?), impossible to wrangle. Or maybe my words are shards of a champagne glass, exploded into a million pieces after a dramatic fling into the fireplace. Pick whichever absurd metaphor you like, but I’m at a loss. For words. For once.

This wedding is the first in our family after mine and Dash’s exactly twelve years ago, putting us in the unique and lovely position of bearing witness from what feels both up close and far removed. I remember my wedding like it was yesterday, and yet so much has happened since August 2, 1997: four moves, two law firms, graduations from med school, residency and fellowship, four homes and three children. Not to mention all the minutiae of life that piles together seamlessly and invisibly to make a day a day, an hour and hour. How many diapers, cups of coffee, baptisms, first communions, bandaids, popsicles, plane trips, glasses of wine, first days of school, baby teeth in, baby teeth out, date nights, books, broken bones, middle of the night fevers, bowls of cereal, bike rides, frogs caught, screaming matches, kisses, hugs, counters wiped down, mosquito bites, apples, paychecks, birthday cakes, new shoes, dinner parties, walks to the bus stop, dances in the kitchen, piles of snowy boots and sandy towels are behind us? How many are ahead? And what else lies down the road?

How many ways are there to measure life?

I fully expected to have a lot of fun at this wedding. But watching Golden marry his beautiful bride, Delicious Apple, had the unexpected effect of bending a page in our book, of bringing into focus where Doctor Dash and I are as a couple and where we are as a family. I feel like we are pretty early in our journey together, yet look at all that has happened already. Everything Golden and Delicious Apple have been doing since they fell for each other in high school, every last detail of their beautiful and rowdy wedding, all of it, is so that they will have what we have. It all starts here. Everything is in front of them.

And although I clearly remember the feeling of just starting out, of excitedly setting off for our honeymoon, of settling in to our first home on St. Botolph Street in Boston’s South End, I can now look in the other direction, at my parents, and feel a vague heart wringing whisper of understanding for what they must be feeling. Chuchi and Lelo are a lot further on in their journey than we are and what a rich, complicated, brave and blessed journey it is. They are in a great place. They got to watch their Golden boy marry the woman he has always loved. They got to watch their other son, El Maestro de Bife, give a masterful toast, working over the room with more humor and tenderness than I would have thought possible in a single speech. They got to watch all their children and grandchildren throw down on the dance floor and love each other up. All their work, all their worrying, all their love has propelled them to a point where they can finally watch, and smile, and breathe a huge sigh of relief.

And now I see that every single thing Dash and I do, is so that someday we will have what our parents have: children who have grown up thinking love is a given, eventually realizing love is a treasure to be held close and cared for; children who hopefully find a love big enough to spark a whole other story, a brand new journey uniquely their own.

My little brother, Golden, is getting married in a couple weeks and I simply cannot wait. Golden’s girl, Delicious Apple, is a sweetheart and has felt like part of our family for years and years. The two of them are always laughing, which we old hands know to be the key to a successful marriage. (My secret mission is to lure the newly wed Golden Delicious Apples to Minneapolis to live. I know they’d love it here. And I know I’d love them being here).

To say that I adore weddings couldn’t be more of an understatement and I’m practically jumping out of my skin at the prospect of watching my baby brother take the plunge. I was twelve when he was born and from the moment I set eyes on him, all my affections for our Golden Retriever, Ginger, were transfered ten times over to the little boy with raven black hair and big brown eyes. He was my baby too! All his life he has been a funny, rule-breaking little imp who could charm the tail off a fox and now he’s all grown up, almost done with med school, responsible (yet ever the bonvivant) and getting married! Joy! Joy! Freaking joy!!!!!

I plan to look muy sexy Italian widow in my black Dolce and Gabbana corset dress. I am oldish. I have earned the right to work it, and work it I will. Unapologetically. (Although I’m sure my mother will make me cover my shoulders in church).

I also plan to drink many gin and tonics and dance up a storm with Doctor Dash and my little peeps. Golden turned over every burnt out brick and stone in the Detroit metro area to find the most insane funk/soul band and I trust he succeeded based on his gleeful comment that the keyboardist has no legs, surely the bi-product of some good hard livin’ and a touch of diabetes. Take that, Pine Lake Country Club! The Peevish Mama clan, from littlest to biggest, is ready to bust out in a web of loosely choreographed dancing genius, honed through many a winter dance party in our empty living room. We’ll be like the VonTraps, only super FLY.

I have a sitter on-call to come and get Devil Baby, but if everyone is happy and workin’ it, we plan to roll like the Argentines we are and let the kids enjoy the fun until the very last reveler has shimmied off the liquor-slick dance floor (that’ll probably be me). I would like nothing more than for Dash and I to woozily shepherd our sleepy brood into the back of my parents’ waiting car at the end of the night, ears ringing, feet throbbing, voices hoarse from laughing and talking, filled to the tippy tip top with Golden Delicious love.

Our friend, Duddy, got the ball rolling on this Jersey Shore extravaganza after his visit to our house last October. Our kids pretty much line up and his short stay in our chaotic house somehow led him to believe that our families could spend a few days together in relative harmony. He and Dash planned it all out and before I knew it, we were en route to Saucy-licious’ parents’ beautiful beach house in Avalon, New Jersey. I had a teensy bit of trepidation descending on poor Saucy-licious, seeing as we really didn’t actually know each other very well. She and I had met but thrice: at our wedding, their wedding and our friend Philo’s wedding. I’d say she was very brave indeed to agree to this. She’s obviously a girl whose willing to take a gamble based on her hubby’s whim and you gotta love that.

Hanging out with Duddy, Saucy-licious, her sister (Little J), Little J’s boyfriend Shrimp-Boy and their friends Sweet Scissors, Little A, and a bevy of Mikes, was nothing short of revelatory. Suddenly, in the midst of this big Italian family, I felt like I fit in. Hey people! It’s not me, it’s Minnesota! No wonder! This explains everything! Elbow to elbow with this colorful and sweet group of gourmets, bon vivants and foxy chicks, I’m suddenly not the one with the loudest laugh or the most Italian looking or the one with the tightest jeans or the biggest cocktail ring! (I was actually regretting not having packed some of my big rings, but who knew I would be needing them at the beach?!) I felt like I’d come home! Maybe it’s because a big Argentine family is nothing but a short ship’s voyage away from a big Italian family. Maybe it’s because Detroit really has a more East coast vibe than Minneapolis, especially when you creep into the tony suburbs from where I hearken. Or maybe Duddy is just a genius and knew it was going to work. 

And little did I know that I was going to be getting my dancin’ fix on this trip. My new found best peeps took me to my new found fave bar in the world: The Princeton. What a trip! It’s basically a huge house with five distinct bars chocked to the rafters with revelry and mayhem. And the people watching is PHENOMENAL! It’s like a giant, labrynthian roller rink – you cruise in a huge circle, dancing and shimmying as you go, stopping to bust a few cool moves in a whatever spot you happen to catch your favorite song. One of the rooms always has a live band and Saucy-licious expertly manoevered us to the front, center stage, right up at the bar and hoooooooooo mama, did we have a good time! Great cover band, mucho dancing, ringing ears, base in the ribcage, the works. Ridiculously fun. 

The kids got along swimmingly and came and went as a little pack – a cute and chatty amoeba. They hunted for tadpoles, threw their tiny bodies up against the crushing surf, ventured out at night with head lamps and flashlights in search of crabs, giggled in their bunks late into the night and generally had the run of this little piece of kid-heaven.  Supergirl, Mini-Saucy, and Hello Kitty braved the cold waters of the Atlantic and body surfed their faces off – tough chickies. Duddy and Saucy-licious’ son, Huggy Bear, had an endearing habit of throwing his arms around Saint James and pulling him around by the shoulders. Saint James might have shrugged him off a couple times, but he was pleased as punch to be pampered by his new protector, guide and all around awesome friend. The two of them even went on an adventure to an arcade! Ten blocks, on bikes, cash in their pockets and freedom, sweet sweet freedom trailing behind them like streamers in the wind. 

As for us, we feasted, drank and laughed like kings. I would happily hang out in the kitchen with these folks all damn day and night, gabbing and drinking and watching them cook. (Saucy-licious had a gigantic pot of the most beautiful red sauce bubbling away on the stove when we walked in and my mission in life is to recreate it when I get home – meatballs, pork ribs and all). The Duddys are masters of the concoctions (solid, liquid and in-between) and they are forever puttering around the kitchen mixing together some sort of tasty libation or tender vittle. Almost nothing goes untouched by them. Whether it’s Seltzer water amped up with a little sour cherry syrup, or homemade chocolate made with coconut oil, or virgin Piña Coladas, or Cioppino, or pancakes, or meatball sandwiches, or Latin pork pernil, or Saucy-licious’ red sauce. There is always a way to make something more tasty by throwing a little love at it and this is what they do best. I picked up many a trick, tip and recipe in the tornado of deliciousness that seems to hover around the kitchen at all times. I even have some seeds for these beautiful peppers called Ancient Sweets that Saucy-licious slowly sauteed in olive oil until they turned into sweet summer goodness in a pan. (Apropos of the whole seed thing, I remember my mother smuggling parsley seeds from Argentina because the parsley available in Michigan in the seventies was not up to snuff).

If food equals love, then I feel like I just got dipped and breaded and lightly sauteed in a whole heckuvalotta love. In fact, I’m bringing a little five pound paunch home with me as a souvenir to prove how much they love me.

Thank you, dear friends, for your warm and easy hospitality. And thank you for more belly laughs and tasty bites than we could ever begin to count. What a blast!

On Memorial Day, our timing was ridiculously off. Doctor Dash was working, so I puttered around the house with the kids all morning, promising them a trip to the pool after lunch.

If you remember Monday, you’ll remember that it got really cloudy and windy from about 1:39 to 2:14. That’s exactly the time frame that we fools were at the pool. The kids gamely jumped in the water and swam for a little while before emerging with a bad case of the blue lips. So we packed it in and stopped by Hollywood Video to see if some great movie would jump out at us and keep us laughing cozily in a pig pile for the rest of the dark and gusty afternoon. Saint James and Supergirl couldn’t agree on a movie and they were being so pigheaded, that it rubbed off on me and we left empty handed and disgusted. Actually, Devil Baby got Snow Princess Dora, because I didn’t have it in me to fight her too. The case looked like it had been chewed up by a dog which was not only gross, it boded ill for the DVD inside. Sure enough, it didn’t work and because I am lazy, I just threw it in the drive-thru return box the next day, foregoing my four bucks and perpetuating the cycle of Snow Princess Dora let down tantrums. My apologies to whomever is stupid enough to rent it next.

By the time we left the video store, the sun had come out so I forced my crabby children to take a walk with me. We crossed the creek, hoping to catch some of our old neighbors outside. As much as we love our new house, we sorely miss our old neighbors. We are pretty much the only people on our stretch who even think about hanging out in front of the house. At our old house, I could step outside for a few minutes to clear my head or take in the view and eventually someone would meander over for a chat, walk by with their dog, or simply wave from their adirondack chair. I am actually quite shy about making formal plans, so this easy, casual, spontaneous socializing with neighbors was just what I needed. As a new transplant to this city, as a mother of babies who couldn’t do much more than follow slowly as they toddled or tricycled up and down the sidewalk, I came to really enjoy and depend on the snatches of adult conversation that I could gather up by just stepping into my front yard. Our friends Cheryl and James used to sit on their front stoop with wine – we called them the spiders because it was impossible to walk by their house and not get stuck in their web. So many times, the kids ran around for so long in a wild pack and we would get so distracted with chatting, that we’d finally just throw up our hands and order pizza for dinner, reemerging from our respective houses with arms full of beers, strawberries and carrot sticks to throw into the smorgasbord. 

As we walked up the street, Saint James rang the doorbells of his buddies and Supergirl scootered ahead, having spotted Salt and Pepper Polymath reading in his wobbly wooden chair. A man after my own heart, he’s an outside guy. Before I knew him very well, I saw him sitting outside reading on a cold (by most people’s standards), but beautiful day. I can’t remember if it was fall or spring, but I do remember being secretly gratified that a thick skinned al fresco reader had moved in next door. 

With a tiny wince of embarrassment, I watched Irish Laddie and Princess Pea pull up and their sweet girls tumble out of the car. Of course. They were heading to Red Vogue and SPP’s for one of their lovely holiday dinners. Because it was too late to turn around, and because I have embraced my pathetic side, all semblance of pride abandoned as part of my former, pre-crutches life, and because I was sans husband for the day and hadn’t spoken to an adult in over 18 hours, and because Red Vogue and SPP insisted and because I know they were being genuine, and because my kids love playing with Irish Laddie and Princess Pea’s girls, I agreed that we could stay. And stay we did, for a delicious feast of fancy brats, sesame peanut pasta salad, green salad and the most delicious caramelized grill fennel with an asian dipping sauce, topped off with shortcake with strawberries and freshly whipped cream. Deefreakinlicious. The kids requested their own table and as they had done on Easter, sat and chatted over their dinners for a shockingly long time – like civilized, socialized little people – sigh, maybe there is hope. It was truly lovely. Thank you! 

So our unfortunate timing turned out to be very fortunate indeed. Now that we’ve moved away from our neighbors, we don’t have all that time swirling around us, putting us in each other’s paths, gently smoothing the way for idle chatter on cement steps and sloped green grass. Now, it’s all about timing. Less shy, more deliberate, and killer timing.

Beautiful detritus.  Beautiful night.  Thank you to my friends for humoring my attempt to get all our kids to eat with us at my big long Who table.  By the time the adults were done filling cups of Sprite and sparkling grape juice and getting The Nine settled at their end of the table, finally sinking into their seats with a sigh and a toast, The Nine were done eating and off like the wind.  Frankly, we were glad to see them go, but someday . . . someday they will stay and eat, they will linger and converse . . . we will hear bursts of laughter from their end of the table and they won’t let us in on the joke . . . and then someday they will . . . and someday even farther away, they will drink wine with us, help us cook, teach us new recipes, bring their babies . . . and the Who table will grow and grow and grow.

The Nine were taken home or put to bed around ten o’clock . . . and then things really got cooking.  Doctor Dash’s Holiday Bliss was working its magic . . . as was his genius DJing.  We drank and laughed and drank and danced and laughed . . . repeat.  The night flew by in a happy trippy blur.  A few times, amid the chaos, the conversation veered back to the kids . . . We love our kids.  But we also love our fun.  What to do?  How to blend?  How to hit that sweet spot . . . create the fattest overlap possible on the old Venn Diagram?  What can we do now to ensure that when the tables are turned, our kids will want us around, consider us friends, actually enjoy hanging out with us?  We think we’re fun, but will they?  My theory is: include them from the beginning, so the magic of a good dinner, a good party . . . works itself into their bones – becomes part of who they are – and if they associate their parents with good times and celebration along with the drudge of life, then so much the better.  

And then all thoughts of the children flittered away like pieces of confetti on the wind . . . We had the grown-up business of a rockin’ throw down to attend to.  Nanook, Gear Daddy, Crackerjack, Renaissance Man, Sweet Jessamine, Ivory Tickler, and I can’t forget Scratch who bravely and sweetly came solo because his wife, Hot Breeches, was still out of town at her family’s – thank you all for showing up with your arms full of lovely food and beautiful beverages, for thinking of the things that I didn’t think of, for bringing your dancing shoes and fully and completely and unfetteredly getting your groove on with us.  You warmed our house and our hearts and it was a true pleasure to ring in the new year with you all . . . albeit 1 minute 26 seconds too late.  

Oooof.  Our bad.  

Our friends Circus Lady and Rip Van Techno threw a fabulous holiday party last night – one that has left me typing through a pleasantly woozy afterglow and alarmingly smudged mascara.  These two always manage to walk the fine line between swanky and warm . . . rowdy and refined . . . and Circus Lady deserves a major shout-out for whipping together a gorgeous table of delectable victuals with nary a hint of the blood, sweat and tears that inevitably must have gone into it all.  They are the consummate hosts and I admit I am shamelessly using positive reinforcement to ensure many future fests at their house.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  I love a party.  Thank you, friends, for a great one! 

In any event, I made a big chief discovery last night.  I wore a little fur stole (actually, it’s rather large and poufy – very Evita Perón) and, interestingly, it had the same effect as a robust and protuberant ninth month pregnant belly . . . people just want to talk to you and they just can help touching you.  Perfect strangers and old friends.  Both genders.  Never have I been petted so much at a party . . . and when I wasn’t being petted by others, I found myself petting myself . . . it was really quite lovely.  Where did this come from, people would coo. Aahh they would intone with satisfaction when I told them it was vintage, stroking my arm the whole time, unable to resist.  It’s no secret I’m a fan of fur, and this pretty baby warmed my shoulders and my cockles last night.

This year for Thanksgiving, the eastern jetstream kindly brought us our dear friends Kate and Paul and their adorable, slightly elusive, salami-loving daughter, Lainey.  Kate is one of my college roommates, a tequila-loving, hilariously cynical, bon vivant who just happens to be one of my favorite people to cook and feast with.  She married a fellow Wisconsinite named Paul, whose genial, sweet nature, unassuming brilliance and funny stories have endeared him to us in degrees far surpassing the amount of time we’ve actually spent with him.  Doctor Dash and I have made it our life’s mission to convince these guys to move to Minneapolis where they would not only have the pleasure of seeing us daily, but more opportunities for ice skating and hockey than they would know what to do with . . . not to mention superior dairy and pork products than those found in chichi-foodie-organic-everything Seattle.  

We kicked off our visit with empanadas, salad and lots of delicious red wine.  For an Argentine like myself, empanadas are a Pavlovian bell signaling good times.  No one ever eats empanadas when they’re sad . . . or maybe no one can be sad when eating empanadas.  Regardless, on Tuesday afternoon, I took great anticipatory pleasure in whipping them up with the ground beef from this year’s grass fed bovine.  The empanadas did their job of shaking their booties and singing: Welcome friends!  We’re so glad you’re here!  Paaaahtay!

Wednesday was a sunny, comfortable blur of meal plotting, shopping, some prep work and hanging out with the kids.  Inevitably, the conversation would circle around to our other housemates and we tuned into Heather’s hubby’s kick-ass community radio show, Hip City out of Saint Louis, for some bodacious r&b, soul, funk, and hip-hop to entertain and edify us while we hung out in the kitchen.  Devil Baby took quite a shine to Paul, drawing on all her feminine wiles to usurp Lainey, and he spent his day gracefully negotiating the vying, coy attention-seeking of two two year old girls.  God bless him.  Supergirl was big sisterish with Lainey, taking her under her wing to spy, play, and hide from her mother – eventually marking her with the ultimate badge of acceptance by coloring her nipples with a green marker.  Oy.  Saint James took every opportunity to lure Paul outside to kick a soccer ball around or show him cool soccer moves on YouTube.  The day slid by in happy chaos and when Dash returned from work, we piled into the minivan and went to Yum for a tasty, kid-friendly, easy-peasy dinner.  It was our first time there and a bit of a gamble for us to try a new place with our friends – especially given our mission to convert them to the idea of a MPLS relocation – but we were all pleased with our dinners and I, for one, will be back for the tuna melt.

On Thursday, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of sizzling, chopping, music and chatter.  We were expecting our friends Martin and Betty, their two sons, Martin’s mom and their nanny at around four.  We had an unexpected but lovely pop-in from our friends Big and his foxy wife on their way to another Thanksgiving celebration, so we cracked a bottle of wine at three o’clock with them and were deliciously sandwiched when they came back by for desert.  

Our dinner was a knock-out, a true group effort, and honestly, not something I think I could have pulled off without my girl, Kate, by my side.  Or it certainly wouldn’t have been as fun and relaxing.  Here’s the blow by blow:

We started with an array of cheeses:  Humbolt Fog, a delicious weedy tasting goat with two textures and a line of ash in the middle, an aged Mahon, a creamy, nutty tasting hard cow’s milk cheese from Spain specked with intriguing flavor explosion crystals, Fromage D’ Affinois, a pungent, oozy and decadent double cream, and St. Agur Blue - always love a blue and this one is especially creamy.  We also had my not-yet-famous-but-worthy-of-being-famous smokey, spicy, carmelized almonds for snacking.  I’m trying to come up with a better name, and so far the frontrunner is Deez Nutz- crooned à la Snoop Dog.

The curtain opened on dinner with a light and savory white bean soup made by Martin, who year after year, has proven himself to be the kind of cook who always manages to make it look effortless.  The rest of the luscious ditties were as follows: a beautiful 20 lb organic bird named Tom in honor of the nut pecker we’ve all grown to love and admire.  Creamy horseradish mashed potatoes.  Cornbread and chorizo stuffing made by Doctor Dash and unanimously agreed to be a worthwhile and delectable departure from traditional stuffing.  Bourbon yams brought by Martin and Betty – as happy as yams could possibly be, bathed as they are in a silky sauce of bourbon, butter and brown sugar – to die for.  Brussel sprouts topped in pancetta – also delicious with the salty pork playing nicely with the slightly bitter sprouts.  And last but not least, cranberry chutney – again, a departure from the standard, but the shallot and ginger manage to work the berries into a frenzy, their tart little voices singing with joy in your mouth.  For desert, we had apple pie, pumpkin mousse pie made by Kate and Supergirl, and regular pumpkin pie brought by Big and his foxy wife.  The latter became a victim to my late night snacking on multiple nights thereafter . . . the perils of being delicious and in my path when I’m up past two o’clock in the morning for four nights in a row.

We set up our Who table in our as-of-yet empty living room and this is the first time we fully used our wedding china – gravy boat and all.  I felt quite grown up, to tell you the truth.  The kids made place cards and napkin rings, giving the whole table a quirky, casual vibe.  And let’s face it – throw enough votives at anything and it looks pretty.  The food, wine, and company were as lovely as I could have hoped for and went a long way toward warming our house into home.  I like to believe that with each visit, each echo of laughter, each spilt glass of wine, each candle lit that melts down on its own, each story told and meal shared, our house shivers a little with pleasure, holding all of that warmth into itself, remembering and preparing for the next time.   

And Friday – well, on Friday Dash and I pulled out the big guns.  After an afternoon poking around the Lake Harriet Peace Garden and Bird Sanctuary, topped off with a trolley ride with Santa, we happily left the brood with a couple young sitters and busted a move for downtown.  A little nighttime driving tour by Dash ended up at the Guthrie, where we grabbed some beers and ogled the sleek beauty that is the theater and the stellar views throughout.  Aren’t we lucky to have such a pantheon to theatre in our city?  I love the Guthrie – we go there during the day with the kids after eating our way through the Mill City Market – we stretch our imaginations and intellects when we get the chance to take in a wonderful play – and now, we’ve discovered a great place for cocktails before a night out.  Just cool.

At nine o’clock we slid into a booth at 112 Eatery, my absolute faaaaaavorite restaurant . . . Cheshire cat grins and ready for a feast.  And 112, of course, did not disappoint.  Plate after plate of mouthwatering, unfussy, inspired vittles kept us contentedly eating and drinking and chattering for nearly three hours.  Dash and I lost our steak tartare virginity . . . andloved it.  Everything from the lamb scottadito in basil goat yogurt sauce, to the maple gorgonzola squash, to the spicy broccolini, to the prosciutto bread, to the crab salad, to the pan fried parmesan reggiano covered gnocchi, to the scallops on oyster mushrooms . . . was swoon-worthy.  We topped it all off with the banana cream tart, which Dash and I always get, and the chocolate pot de creme.  The four of us rolled out of there, licking our chops and rubbing our bellies. 

After dropping off the sitters and making sure the kids were snug bugs, we reconvened in the basement for a little Rock Band, and the Bradleys proved to be quite the dynamic duo on drums.  Paul brought an uncharacteristic rock n’ roll swagger to every instrument he tried and with these two virtuosos in our corner, we were able to unlock a bunch of new songs and fully rock the house.  Really, we were really really good.  And no band fights!

And now, after days and days of relishing our friends and feasting on salty foods and drinking delicious wines and beers and laughing and reminiscing and concocting all manner of new inventions and jobs for ourselves, I need to depuff  and detox . . . before the next round of parties . . . 

The happy, pasty people in this picture don’t know how tired they are.  They won’t know for a few hours yet.  As of the time of the taking of this picture the bone-deep fatigue is still hovering in the periphery, floating on the jittery thermal winds of coffee and adrenaline, punctuated by fuzzy memories of unfettered dancing, hilarious snatches of conversation, trippy barefoot runs through darkened woods, the kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt and music. Music. So much music.  No, it will be much later when the debilitating exhaustion will settle around their shoulders like a heavy, leaden cat and they will begin to unravel and take inventory of the extent of their mysterious injuries: head aches, bruises, sore necks, lost voices, blisters, maimed toes, puncture wounds.  What the fuck happened last night? they will ask themselves.

*  *  *

This is what happens when you put six couples in a super posh Wisconsin lodge/manse with a gorgeous and well stocked kitchen to cook in; two to three refrigerators stuffed to the gills with beer, wine, spirits and the fixings for elaborate and toothsome meals, appetizers and late night snacks; a huge support beam covered in beautifully ornate American Indian ceremonial headdresses just begging to be brought back to life; cozy fireplaces and smooth wooden bars strategically placed throughout; canoes hanging from the ceilings creating warm canopies, the feel of a Northwoods tiki bar; sparkling chandeliers made of spindly, ghost-like antlers; coffee tables strewn with fashion magazines and books; vintage photos of American Indians – weathered, noble and austere; and beautiful and exotic taxidermied animals everywhere you look, their calm eyes belying the sensations they must have felt when last they ran.

Around every corner there is somewhere to retreat, something new to see, someone to share a laugh with, someone handing you a beverage . . . and here is the clincher: six couples in this over-the-top, unbelievable, verging on psychedelic outdoorsman paradise lodge without the collective sixteen children roughly spanning the ages of 8 months to 12 years that they lovingly and wholeheartedly parent the other 363 days of the year.  Sin chicos! Sans enfants! Nein kinder!

It was pure, unfettered debauchery . . . but the kind of debauchery that makes you feel good, not bad.  Doctor Dash and I marveled at how genuinely happy everyone was to be there.  Everybody brought it!  I haven’t experienced that kind of instant group chemistry since college, where many many crazy and funny nights slur together to form a comfortable backdrop to any new adventures.  Maybe the chemistry came from the fact that we’re all in the same boat right now, walking the fine line between enjoying and surviving young children.  Maybe it was the extraordinary surroundings.  Maybe it was luck.

During the day everyone did what they needed to do, whether it be a run, a walk, a brisk jump in the lake, a sauna, a dip in the hot tub, a nap. Some people retired to a comfy couch to read, some watched sports, some watched a movie. Some drank green tea, some drank emergen-C, some drank Coke, some started mixing drinks at lunch - to each his own, come as you are, live and let live - we were all just happy to be there.  Mellow and happy.  Good good mojo all around. 

At night there was a joyous amoeba-like quality to the festivities.  If people were prepping dinner in the kitchen, everyone generally hung around, getting the candles lit, queueing up the next perfect song, wiping down countertops, setting the table, collectively and unconsciously working out the tempos and crescendos of the night.  Dinners were boisterous and luxurious candlelit affairs, with amazing wines and delicious, sustaining food, leaving us sated and fortified for the rest of evening.  

And did I mention there was music?  And did I mention there was dancing?  And did I mention there was tequila?  Señor Patrón rides again!  Maybe it was the snow-white mountain goat perched in the eaves, but climbing up to dance on coffee tables, couches, bars and barstools was peculiarly and simply irresistible.  

Oh babies, did we shake it!  We shook it and shook it until all the shake in our shakers was shook out!  

*  *  *

And within hours of the time this picture was taken, the music was quiet, the dust had settled and they were gone.  Only the mounted animals remained, gazing forlornly over the empty space.  The couples left as quickly as they had come, speeding back home, hearts suspended, bone-tired but pulled like moths to flame – to small arms and delighted shrieks . . . to home.

Brothers and sisters, I do love a party.  I love LOVE LOVE a party.  I love a big party, I love a small party. But I especially love a big party.  If there’s music, even better.  If there’s dancing, then you’ll need to be ready to catch me when I swoon from happiness. I love getting ready before a party. I love busting a move at a party and I love the afterglow of a party – even if it involves generalized wooziness and fatigue, which is clearly the obvious byproduct of a goodparty.  

Hope Rocks was a good party.  First of all, a private concert by Soul Asylum – fun, loud, indulgent, nostalgic, sweaty rocking out – the base thrumbing through your ribcage – all the best there is to be gleaned from live music.  And every one was there.  People from school, people from book club, people from playgroup, people from the park, people from work, people from other parties.  It felt like the best kind of college party in that you get to sashay around with a drink in your hand and bump into someone you know every few feet.  And just like a college party, there are certain people you simply give a friendly wave and keep on keeping on – and then certain people you chat with for a few minutes before you keep on keeping on – and then there are those you just love to see, people who are bright spots and make you laugh and make you want to stay awhile.  Bright spots.

And there’s always the sweet spot of a party, both spacially and temporally, when your favorite peeps are in a particular spot having a particularly good time and though you may stray for a little jaunt around, you go back to that spot because that is home base for the party – the place you want to be.  I stumbled upon my sweet spot when I shimmied to the left front of the stage and to my shrieking delight found Crackerjack and Nanook and their hubbies, Renaissance Man and Gear Daddy in a dancing tangle with a bunch of other fun people.  At one point in the frenzy, when the first hints of thirst were firing around in my brainstem and hadn’t even reached my cerebrum, Renaissance Man casually handed me an icy cold Red Stripe.  I hadn’t seen him leave, I hadn’t seen him come back, I hadn’t even seen him standing next to me with a beer.  His timing was exquisite and he really made it seem like he just pulled it out of his sleeve.  Mind reader and magician.  Thanks RM – that was the swing beer of the night.

And then there’s the wingman, the partner in crime.  A wingman is usually who you came with, and who you leave with, and who is up for going on adventures to find drinks, food, pot, whatever.  Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Neighborhood Scat Expert was mine and a fine wingman she was.  The best kind of wingman is a wingman who has no problem venturing off on her own, has her own sweet spots to check out and people to see.  A wingman you have to worry about is not a wingman at all.  Gigi is low maintenance and high energy (and a shitload of fun) – I’d take her anywhere.  She even brought me cookies at the end of the night.  Another mindreader and magician. Doctor Dash is usually my wingman and he’s also a good wingman in that he’s fine on his own and he lets me do my thing at a party, but he’s always good for a laugh. His only fault is that he’s much less of a diehard than I am and is usually suggesting we leave when I’m still fully entrenched.  He thinks I don’t know this, but I realize he’s giving me the equivalent of the five minute warning you give your kids at the park when he first suggests we leave, knowing full well it’s going to take me a solid half hour to finish my business, assuming one of my many favorite songs doesn’t come on and then all bets are off and he has to begin the extrication process all over again.  

So wingmen and sweet spots and bright spots: the anatomy of a party. Some things never change.  And then some things do.  I was chatting with a dad from school – total bright spot for me and I won’t say who it is because I don’t want to stir up any trouble.  Suffice it to say, he’s adorable and funny in that smart understated way I just love (i.e. Dash) and I love his wife and they’re just a cutie-pie family.  So we’re having a laugh and all of a sudden a matronly and rather unattractive woman literally grabs Mr. X by the arm and pulls him away . . . about three feet away . . .  three feet away from me.  And I see her simply say “Hi.”  Well, well, well, was the church lady looking out for Mr. X’s wife?  Did she think we shouldn’t be talking and laughing and carrying on?  Granted, I was dressed a little more sexily than usual, but so was everyone – apparently she didn’t get the memo.  The point is, I found it very interesting if not a little unsettling.  She probably meant well, although it was none of her business and how dare she presume anything about me?  I guess now, unlike in college, we need to navigate our bright spots with a certain awareness, some sense of appearances, no matter how pure our intentions.  Don’t laugh too hard with someone else’s husband because everyone knows laughing leads to shady business.  The church ladies are watching, ready to protect your husbands from sluts like me.  Sad but true.

Another difference from college:  Apparently it is not possible to have three children and then expect to drink many beers and jump up and down dancing without peeing (a little).  My parting words to Gigi as I left the sweet spot were “I gotta go pee . . . because I just did.”  And then I get to the bathroom and another mom from school is muttering, so I guess you can’t have four children and expect to bounce around . . . Also, sad but true.

Or as I like to say, Happy Cojones Day.  Our founding fathers had some big balls.  Seriously.  Although I took AP history with Sister Whalen, a nearly deaf, bewhiskered nun with a tremulous voice, I failed to appreciate at the tender age of seventeen, exactly what it meant to declare independence from Britain.  How scary could the British have been, with their bad food, bad teeth and dry wit?  Surely, they looked like pansies in their bright red uniforms, marching in stiff lines and columns.  Not very creative.  Not very scrappy.  I hated American history and spent my time making high humming noises causing Sister Whalen to fuss around with her hearing aid in a futile effort to correct the frequency.  

Then last summer a friend invited me to the Guthrie to see a show and I said YES OF COURSE! and then she sent me the link to the play and when I read that it was a musical about the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I groaned and resigned myself to a long night of torturous male a cappella zaniness (albeit in the company of fabulous women).  If I had had to concoct a play I was less interested in seeing, I would have been hard pressed.  I hate musicals (except for Annie and Grease).  As it turns out, it was phenomenal.  1776 was brilliant.  It was edifying, funny, romantic, smart.  I LOVED it and had an epiphany – American history is actually kind of cool!  Kind of really cool!  It’s not about memorizing all the presidents in order.  It is about ideas and ideals, about creating something new – a new baby country!  Heady indeed.

And it has taken the beautifully done HBO miniseries, John Adams, to really bring to life for me what was at stake – what those guys sacrificed and put on the line for what they believed was the right course for the colonies.  Doctor Dash and I haven’t finished watching, but are enthralled with Paul Giamatti’s portrayal of a taciturn, idealistic and often socially and politically clumsy John Adams.  Now there’s a hero.  And Laura Linney – a gorgeously transparent actress, the woman behind the man, such a smart, intuitive, steadfast and calming partner for those trying times.  Putting Hollywood aside for a moment (which is hard for me), the series shows the struggles both internal (with one’s conscience and with the delegates of other colonies) and external (our poorly equipped farm boys against the British forces).  It shows the backbreaking toil involved in the war effort on everyone’s part – man, woman and child, and the solemn deliberation and heated debate that preceded even deciding to take the precipitous step of declaring independence.  These people put their lives on the line.  They were committing treason, punishable by death.  It really is incredible when you stop to think about it.

Doctor Dash and I asked ourselves: would we have had the courage?

And the document, the Declaration of Independence, is so thoughtful and momentous, penned mostly by Thomas Jefferson.  Oh what beautiful words . . . Oh, Tommie . . .  Who knew he was such a tall, handsome, debonaire wordsmith?  Sister Whalen certainly never told us.  Maybe we would have paid more attention had we known.   The Declaration of Independence is perfectly imperfect, poetically flawed by compromise and deliberate omissions in order to reach a greater good, a new state of being.  The issue of slavery had to be shelved in order to get the document ratified.  It took nearly ninety more years and a bloody civil war for the repercussions of that concession to play itself out (arguably, still a rolling stone).  Many of them, Jefferson included, fully apprehended the danger and hypocrisy inherent in allowing the issue to remain untouched, but such was the struggle . . . mere men, trying to create something better than, inured to, and in the service of mere men.

They were brave our founding fathers – tenacious, intelligent, fine writers and orators, conscious of the weight of responsibility on their shoulders, wary of the power in their hands.  We should be very very proud of how this country started, and today might be a good day to think about how we can recapture that spirit in a way that goes just a little beyond wearing a red visor, red sundress and red sandals.  (OK, I’ll admit it, I was fuming at the two melon ass of a woman stuffed into a red sundress today at the Edina parade for no better reason than it was hot as hell, crowded as hell, and she was just too matchy matchy . . .  my grievance may have been petty, yes, but it was far from unfounded.)  

So Happy Cojones Day – may we all have the balls and fortitude to fight for what we believe in.

P.S. PEEVISH MAMA LOVES OBAMA.

Revolution.  Fashion.  Scientific discovery.  Tequila.  Sometimes there occurs a confluence of forces that, individually, would amount to nothing, but collectively, bring about a shift in energy, thinking, history . . .  This is how, as a species, we end up beheading Marie Antionette, discovering the cause and cure for cholera, and determining that ponchos are acceptable outerwear even if you aren’t wrangling cattle on the Argentine Pampas.  

The stars seemed to have aligned themselves, and due to a series of unrelated events, tequila and I have gotten reacquainted.  Our little rapprochement started when I went to Chicago in April to meet up with my college housemates for a long overdue reunion.  We had bonded our freshman year at Notre Dame because we all shared an aversion to hugging our dorm mates at Sunday night mass where everyone showed up in their flannel jammies and fuzzy slippers.  It really was incredibly lame.  As soon as we could, we moved off campus to a decrepit but lovely blue house on St. Peter’s Street that was so dusty and mold ridden that I had to go home for a weekend at the beginning of the school year so two of our guy friends could rip the carpet out of my bedroom and I could get fresh prescriptions for asthma medication.  In retrospect, it could have been the pot and cigarette smoke making my lungs itch, but whatever – that carpet was nasty anyway.  

The five of us hadn’t all been together in the same room for far too long because of busy lives, babies, etc.  But as it goes with old friends, the ease and chatter and laughter from our days on St. Peter’s Street translated with complete immediacy to the hotel suite in Lincoln Park where we set up camp for the weekend.  We talked about everything and nothing, noshed on yummies both in the room and out on the town, shopped, drank, smoked, laughed our asses off  and had an all around rockin’, rollicking, hilarious time.  It was sooooo good for my soul.

On our second night we ended up at Heather’s friend’s bar called Feed the Beast (genius name for a bar).  We decided to do a shot of tequila and her friend, the adorable proprietor set us up with perfect, icy shaken shots of Patrón.  No salt necessary.  It was a crazy night and the thing I remember with most clarity is Heather (who is a wonderful, responsible, pie-baking, jambalaya-making mother of three and not at all some crazy mo-fo) telling a couple of guys she knew from home that we girls had discovered the perfect going out combination in college: a tequila shot and a bong hit.  Heathie is very pretty and demure and she was describing our little ritual in her typical storytelling, singsong voice – she could have been reminiscing about her sister’s wedding or sharing a recipe for potato salad.  She was totally cracking me up with her cute lipstick and her whole far fetched explanation . . . tequila and bong hits, it’s the perfect combo, cuz you’re super mellow but SUUUUPER FESTIVE! 

So these guys were eating this up, though surely a bit befuddled and wondering do our wives act like this when they see their college friends?  Moreover, I simply cannot believe I had forgotten that!  Tequila and bong hits are indeed the perfect springboard for a fun night out with friends!!!

So then fast forward a couple weeks to our church fundraiser, which, in keeping with the fine Catholic tradition of drinking to excess in order to loosen the pursestrings, was a really amusing fest.  My friend Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Neighborhood Scat Expert was singing as part of the entertainment and had brought along a little liquid courage: her longtime friend Señor Patrón – not that she needed it, because she’s an amazing singer and rocks Bonnie Raitt like nobody’s business.  At one point she lassoed me into the ladies room to do a shot with her, and once again, I had this moment of hilarity watching her pull out this little tupperware of perfectly cut limes, surely the same tupperware that had held her last batch of chocolate chip cookies, or vegetable soup or whatever.  Even when doing shots in the ladies room at a church function, she’s still such a MOM!  Gigi swears that good tequila does not make you hungover, and since this lady is wise about many things, who am I to doubt?  I decided to give it a whirl . . . 

Then my little brother comes to town and we decide to make crazy delicious burgers with the ground beef we had gotten from our third of a quarter of a grass-fed cow.  We went nuts with the gorgonzola and bacon and fried onions and made a little asian coleslaw for the side.  Delectable.  My brother juiced about a thousand limes (no margarita mix here!) and he made us some scrumptiously fresh and mouth puckering margaritas while we cooked . . . Again Señor Patrón was in the house for the festivities . . .

And then my friend Nanook of the North and her hubby had us over for a little Cinqo de Mayo bbq where we did a shot of Patrón, chopped and chatted and before we knew it ended up with a toothsome feast of carne asada, guacamole with chipotle and roasted corn, and jicama salad with jalapeño lime vinaigrette.  Nanook had had the foresight to prepare a little simple syrup and we made pineapple jalapeño margaritas.  Fantastico!  Sweet and tart with a hot kick in the caboose.  And then we played Rock Band until way past everyone’s bed time while our kids ran around with big cans of Sprite.  Tots Gone Wild: It was like spring break in Daytona Beach for my guys, though they stopped short of crushing the Sprite cans on their foreheads.

And finally, last Saturday night we were invited to a margarita party of all things, where our gracious hosts served pomegranate and traditional margaritas like they were going out of style, along with a gorgeous spread of fantastic Mexican deliciousness.  The margaritas were flowing like the Rio Grande and the poor piñata ended up being doused in gasoline and immolated.  As a master at imagining calamity, I stood with my hands covering my eyes just waiting for the garage to catch fire.  Luckily the piñata manufacturers have figured out a way to minimize the combustibility of their product and the poor donkey eventually sputtered out – a smoking, sizzling, blackened husk.  We were dancing up a storm on the back porch and someone, I won’t name names, was using the patio umbrella like a stripper pole.  O.K., it was Crackerjack.  We ended up collapsing into a rousing rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody and getting busted by some cops who claim to have heard us from inside their squad car down the street.  And for all our wild carousing, I felt pretty darn good the next day.  Just a tad sleepy.

That said, I think I’ll be taking a little break.  Nanook got me a bottle of Patrón Silver from Costco (remember, I can’t go to that place), but Señor will be waiting in the wings for a bit. He’ll be squinting out at the horizon, twirling his mustache and strumming his guitar, striking a match on his boot to light a cigarette . . . and when he hears the distant strains of  mariachi music beckoning him, he will stand, straighten his bolero, crush his cigarette in the dusty road, hop on his trusty steed, El Lobo, and join us for the revelry.

Now if we could only track down Cheech.