Mommy Loves Red Wine

Birthers: A Sonnet

2011-04-27T06:38:00.000-07:00

They race to find a tarnished pedigree,
and joyfully proclaim he is a fraud.
The rally cries from tea to shining tea:
uncover proof that he was born abroad.

In Kenya’s dirty streets there lies the truth,
a baby born a Muslim spy, a leech!
A single piece of paper is the proof,
without it they will overthrow, impeach.

The facts they claim will Trump and reign supreme,
elucidate our country’s greatest sham,
Hussein, a name, a nightmare, a bad dream!
Americans, naïve, fell for the scam.

Another day, another wasted breath.
Their noise is slowly choking me to death.

Lost and Found

2010-05-24T06:19:00.001-07:00

It's no secret that I have trouble getting Sarah to school on time. If the 34 tardies on her second trimester report card don't convince you, well, you'll just have to take my word for it. I've also never pretended that a big part of the problem isn't me.

Take this morning, for example. My cell phone alarm clock vibrated at 6:38 a.m., and I promptly hit the cell phone snooze button. When I finally dragged myself out of bed and poured my coffee, I immediately did what I do every morning: I grabbed my laptop and began my morning ritual. Yahoo email. Facebook. Savannah Morning News. Savannah Morning News obituaries. Cnn.com. Perez. TMZ. People.

But this morning I had something else on my mind--the series finale of Lost. No doubt a lot of people woke up this morning and feverishly surfed the internet for other viewers' interpretations of what actually happened on the finale. Only I don't watch Lost. I caught the first episode when it debuted six years ago, and I hadn't seen another one until last night, when I watched the last 30 minutes. I have read about the show over the years, however, and like anything that I'm curious about but have no desire to actually watch, I went to trusty google to search for spoilers (I've done this for countless movies too, like Paranormal Activity).

So as the time ticked away this morning, I was sitting on the bed reading theories on my laptop about characters and circumstances that I know nothing about. And that's the story of my mornings. I do stupid shit. There's really no other way to put it.

When Sarah and I finally got in the car and I turned on the engine, 7:40 was staring me in the face. Under the very best circumstances (no traffic, no red lights), I can get to school in about 20 minutes. Under normal circumstances, it takes around 26 minutes from start to finish. The traffic wasn't terrible today, but I got behind a driver on the Causeway going 40 in a 50-mile-per-hour zone (slowing down to 35 on the bridges!). I couldn't pass her because it was foggy out, so when I got up to the just-turned-red light at Whitefield and Ferguson, I decided it was high time to take a new shortcut.

I have three trusty shortcuts on my way to school, all highly illegal. The first shortcut is a mere half a mile from my house when I just miss the first light leaving The Landings. Waiting for that light when I'm already starting out late is a torturous experience, so I usually turn right into the Village shopping center, then make an immediate illegal u-turn (against a sign that says 'no u-turn'), before returning to the Causeway.

My other two shortcuts are reserved for the times I just miss the left-hand turn arrows at Whitefield/Montgomery Cross Roads and Montgomery Cross Roads/White Bluff. When that happens, I continue on straight through the green lights and then make left turns into the neighboring shopping centers, cutting through empty parking spaces until I can eventually turn back on to the streets that lead the way to school. I discovered these shortcuts thanks to other drivers who I saw do the same thing. Many of those drivers have Country Day stickers on the back of their cars and are no doubt headed to the same destination.

In hindsight, the new shortcut this morning is the only one that is not illegal. It involved a perfectly legal right turn onto Ferguson and a perfectly legal left turn on to a nameless diagonal road that connects Ferguson and Whitefield. And it was pretty to boot. In the misty, dewy fog, I drove through a line of oak trees on either side before finding a small break in the line of cars traveling down Whitefield.

Hopefully my days of taking shortcuts will be short lived. Once August 17 rolls around, I have pledged to become a responsible mom who gets her kids to school on time. Meantime, I still have four more days to do stupid shit, race to school and lament my tardiness before summer break.

Train Wreck

2010-05-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Coming from a mile away
Oblivious of yesterday.
The problems of the world
In one celestial swirl.
Hijacking all your joy
Vapid, loud and coy.
Running over minions
Void of real opinions.
Minds obliterated
Worshipped and hated.
Throngs of blinding lights
sparks instantly ignite.
Overcrowding space
Dismantling human race.
Feckless, idle, inept
Degenerate train wreck.

The Death of Decency

2010-04-23T20:02:00.001-07:00

I was no fan of George Bush. I won't bore anyone with all the reasons, but let's just say that I googled the immigration requirements of the Netherlands on more than one occasion during his back-to-back terms in office. But not once, not for one moment during his presidency, did I contemplate his demise. I never once, even in the privacy of my own home, even in my subconscious, wished that he would die. In fact, after his presidency, when his daughter Jenna got married, I felt sincere happiness for George and Laura. He may have been a terrible president, but I believe he was a good father who deserved to celebrate the marriage of his daughter.

Yet somehow, in the years that have passed, it has become perfectly acceptable to make jokes about the death of President Obama. A recent Facebook group, titled "DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN," currently has 1,091,361 fans. Blatant misspellings and annoying all caps aside, when did it become okay to joke about the death of a president? That used to be taboo, so taboo that you may even receive a knock on your door from the Secret Service if you cross the line and verbally threaten the president.

When Obama won the election, I thought it was a turning point in our country. I thought that maybe, just maybe, the hateful rhetoric that some people bantered about during the election would fade into oblivion. I thought that people might channel their hatred into action and work to find a more viable candidate in 2012. But apparently the easiest way for these people to be proactive is to simply wish for Obama to die.

When I stumble upon a sign at a Tea Party that says, "Obama, 50 percent black, 50 percent white, 100 percent liar," I can no longer believe that all of this hatred and rage is not based on race. When one of my (now former) Facebook friends writes that the only reason Obama won the election was because "7 million blacks who can't even read" voted, I can no longer believe that race is not an issue.

I don't believe that this kind of hatred and disgust is strictly based on Obama's policies. Sure, ask one of these people why they hate Obama so much, and they will give you a laundry list of reasons. They will say that Obama has set our country back by decades. I wonder what has changed so much in their lives in the past 16 months to make them say that. Are all of these people among the wealthiest one percent of Americans who may actually see an increase in their taxes? Doubtful. Will all of these people voluntarily forgo their Social Security and Medicare services when they become available to them because they detest social services so much? Doubtful. Will they abhor healthcare reform so much if a catastrophic illness strikes them or their family members and sends them into bankruptcy? Doubtful.

The most frustrating thing of all is that there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say, to change what these people think. They will continue to flap their wings and make a lot of noise until Obama is out of office. And apparently they don't care if it's by defeat or by death. They won't even smile just a little bit one day when Sasha or Malia walk down the aisle next to their proud parents. And that is everything that is wrong with our country.

Recipe for Disaster

2010-02-18T17:27:00.000-08:00

I had a major revelation about cooking the other day. It's not the obvious: that I'm just not a good cook (though I suppose there are a few dishes I've made that would make Jonah beg to differ). It's that I approach finding new recipes the same way I approach buying clothes. Somewhere out there exists the perfect recipe--the recipe that will elevate me to the status of 3 star Michelin chef--and I will never be satisfied until l I find it.

With clothes, it is the search for that one dress, that one pair of jeans, that one top that will somehow make me look 10 pounds thinner and several inches taller. I may have 30 black tank tops hanging in my closet (and yes, sadly, one day my mom actually counted them), but there is one out there that I don't have that will transform me from Amy Pine bedraggled mom of two to Amy Pine supermodel.

My search for the perfect recipe and the perfect clothes would be fruitless if it weren't for a couple of false positives. I have one recipe for rack of lamb that is so good and so foolproof that Jonah asks me to make it for his twice yearly poker tournaments. At one of his tournaments several years ago, Jonah's friend, French restaurateur John Jawback (who has unfortunately since passed away), raved endlessly about the rack of lamb. For me, this was the biggest compliment anyone could've bestowed upon my cooking. Not only did John serve up some amazing food during his five-course meals at Jean Louise, but he was notorious for criticizing other people's cooking.

And then there's that little black dress that I bought on a trip to Charleston about 10 years ago. My body has changed so much since having two kids--not even necessarily in a bad way--and none of my pre-baby clothes fit the right way. But this one black dress still looks amazing (and believe me, I usually never use the words "me" and "amazing" in the same breath). I can put on this dress and feel completely confident that I look good. If I had an entire wardrobe of clothes like this LBD, I would save countless hours of outfit changes and frustrated primping.

The sad truth is, however, that these two searches are hopelessly intertwined. Perhaps if I focused less on how I look in clothes and I was more willing to try full-on unhealthy fare, I'd have a bigger repertoire of five-star recipes (because let's face it, the minute I see that a recipe calls for a stick of butter, I click the back button). Or if I stopped caring so much about food and flavor, I'd actually lose those last 10 pounds and have an easier time finding clothes that look good. But since neither one of those options sounds very appealing to me, I will continue to spin my wheels searching for perfection.

sex, lies, and videotape

2010-02-06T15:46:00.000-08:00

It's confession time. I've seen a couple of celebrity sex tapes in my day. Two of them--the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee and Paris Hilton/Some Random Jewish Millionaire DVDs--were rented by someone I'm now married to who shall remain nameless and were watched by me out of sheer curiosity. I absolutely don't understand why Pam broke up with Tommy, but that's a topic for another blog. Then I caught a snippet or two of the Kim Kardashian/Ray J video online. It must've somehow popped up on my screen, because I would never have deliberately looked for it. But there is one sex tape that I won't be watching: the rumored-to-exist John Edwards/Rielle Hunter tape.

It's not that I don't think John Edwards is a decent looking guy. It's just that he's not a decent guy. At one time, I believed that he was a good looking, charismatic, everyman politician who would've made a great vice president. I so ardently supported his bid for VP that I even snuck out of work a few months prior to the 2004 presidential election to watch him speak in Johnson Square. I was even still mildly interested in him when he announced he was running for president in 2008.

And then there was Rielle Hunter. If I'm willing to overlook Bill Clinton's indiscretions with Monica Lewinsky, you'd think I could turn a cheek in this case too. But something about the John Edwards affair smacks of douche-baggery. Is it that his wife was battling cancer at the time? Is it that he had two young children at home? Is it that he tried to have his assistant claim paternity of his and Rielle's daughter? Is it that he thought he could get away with something like this and have it go unnoticed while campaigning to be president of the United States of America? Maybe it's all of the above.

So no, I don't really want to watch John Edwards have sex. And I don't want to watch Rielle Hunter have sex. I don't want to watch any visibly pregnant woman have sex for that matter. Especially with John Edwards. And I don't even care if John Edwards rivals Tommy Lee for the biggest ... ego.

Three-Ring Circus

2010-01-07T07:34:00.000-08:00

In the past couple of years I've learned a lot of commonly used Internet and texting abbreviations. Though LOL had been on my radar for quite some time, I finally shed my 30-something facade to discover such gems as WTF, ROFL and my personal favorite, OMFG. One that took me a while to figure out was PITA, which I came to discover was an acronym for Pain In The Ass. That one popped into my head today when I read an article in the Savannah Morning News about how the group PETA staged a failed circus protest at Hodge Elementary School.

Yesterday, PETA sent an activist in an furry elephant costume outside of the elementary school to hand out "ele-friend" stickers and give hugs to the unwitting students. I have no doubt that the elephants in the circus would be better off in their natural habitats, however, advocating for these 10,000-plus pound creatures by scaring mostly indigent elementary school students doesn't really seem like a good place to start.

The circus protest might not have infuriated me quite so much if it weren't for a PETA incident that took place six years ago. Back in 2003, they sent activists dressed in furry chicken costumes to Gadsden Elementary to scare the students out of eating chicken. They encouraged the children to "kick the bucket" and held up a sign reading "chickens are friends, not food."

Why on earth would PETA target an elementary school with a large number of indigent kids? Were they hoping that these kids would go home and ask their mothers or fathers to stop serving chicken, which happens to be one of the healthiest and least expensive lean meats in the grocery store? Were they hoping to start a tofu revolution among America's lower class? It's bad enough to take advantage of the carefree elements that come with being a child--being naturally drawn to mascots in furry costumes and having the inability to associate the food on your plate with the animals you see at the petting zoo. But to do that to a population of students that probably doesn't have the means to live a meat-free lifestyle is unconscionable.

If a PETA mascot approached my children in an attempt to scare them away from the circus or make them afraid of eating chicken, they would have a number of Internet abbreviations at their disposal: OMG, this cr8zy lady came FTF w/ me. What a PITA. WAFB. She 8tacked me in my chkn costume and gave me a blk I. I am FUBAR.

White Whine

2009-07-22T19:03:00.000-07:00

What was I thinking? Once every couple of months (okay, once a month), I go to Habersham Beverage Warehouse to restock my wine rack. Since you get a 10 percent discount if you buy 12 bottles at a time, it is, of course, the financially responsible thing to purchase an entire case per visit.

So there I was, a few weeks ago, perusing the aisles of Habersham Beverage with Caleb in tow. Buying 12 bottles of wine with a 3 year old who you let pick out a few bottles based on the label, well that's pretty heinous in and of itself. But what I did during that particular trip was even more egregious. I bought white wine. And a lot of it.

Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was the recipe for bellinis that I had just read in a magazine, maybe I was just hormonal. I really can't explain what possessed me to buy five, yes five, bottles of white wine.

Later that night, I thought I might bust open a bottle of the white. But then I stared lovingly at a bottle of Malbec and thought, "well, maybe next time." One by one, I drank the seven bottles of red.

Finally, last night, I was forced to open one of the whites. It was a type I had never heard of before (vihno verde) and it wasn't half bad, but it wasn't my usual nightly red. Now I face a daunting reality: pick up a few bottles of red and at least mix it up a little, or spend the next few weeks as a bona fide white wine drinker. I think I'm leaning toward the former. And if that is the case, then I most certainly can't be financially irresponsible and pass up a 10 percent discount. Looks like I'm just going to have to break down and buy a case of red.

Don't Stop Til You've Had Enough

2009-06-29T16:13:00.000-07:00

I am 35 and therefore at the absolute prime age to have grown up listening to Michael Jackson. Only I didn't. Thriller came out when I was 8, but I honestly don't remember watching the iconic video until I was well into my 20s. What gives?

I was definitely a pop music fan as a child. I loved legit pop music like Cindy Lauper, Madonna and Duran Duran, as well as burn-your-records-and-never-admit-you-owned-it pop music like Menudo and New Kids on the Block. Certainly the King of Pop should've fallen into my music rotation somewhere. But my memories of liking Michael Jackson songs are kind of blank. Heck, I probably listened to Weird Al Yankovic's take off of Bad--Fat--more than the original.

It's not that my friends weren't Michael Jackson fans. I have a distinct memory of one of my childhood friends, John, winning highly coveted MJ tickets during a radio contest. John invited our mutual friend Brian to go with him to the out-of-town concert. Any normal preteen would've been raging with jealousy. I think my parents even offered to see if they could find any available tickets hoping to stave off what they thought was going to be my inevitable meltdown. But I wasn't interested. It was probably the first time in my life I did something to spare my parents a few dollars and a lot of aggravation.

So now in the wake of his death, I've been forced to come to terms with my lukewarm feelings about Michael Jackson. Yes, I appreciate his contribution to pop music and his artistry...I guess. Even his media-saturated, cover-story-of-every-magazine-I -read, if-TMZ-doesn't-stop-covering-it-I-may-permanently-delete-it-from-my-bookmarks death isn't enough to make me entirely change my mind. In the words of Michael Jackson himself, "I can't help it if I wanted to."

Pass the Purell

2009-04-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

I’m trying hard not to give into all the hype over the Swine Flu, or whatever scientific name they just gave it to appease the pork and grain industries. Really, I’m not that concerned that it will become an epidemic. In fact, I haven’t even made a mental list of all of the medical professionals I know and the CDC contacts I have like I did back in 2001 and 2002 when we were all worried about a bioterrorism attack.

But maybe I am just fooling myself. Let’s face it, if either of my kids woke up tomorrow with a high fever, I would be googling “Swine Flu symptoms” before I even got up to brush my teeth. I would argue with Jonah that a visit to the pediatrician’s office is called for, even though normally I would wait a day or two with a fever. I would be making a flow chart of the recent travels of all of my kids' classmates and their families.

It’s hard to tell these days what is a real threat and what is media hype. I suspect that the Swine Flu is a little bit of both. CNN and Fox News are having a field day filling their 24-hour news cycles with images of people in masks and interviews with any and everyone with an M.D. after their name. But these are the same media outlets that convinced us that terrorists in crop dusters were going to fly across the country, spraying unwitting Americans with all kinds of deadly chemicals.

So I will keep a cautious eye on this Swine Flu thing. And wash my hands a little bit more. And keep my hand sanitizer within reach at all times. And completely freak out if I am sneezed on. And do my best to convince myself that I am not acting paranoid at all.

Keeping Up With Kim

2009-04-24T11:52:00.000-07:00

I like Kim Karsashian. I know that’s an arbitrary and somewhat embarrassing admission on my part. She’s not exactly the most likable pseudo-celebrity out there. On the pseudo-celebrity spectrum, she probably even ranks a few places below Paris Hilton.

But Kim and I have a few things in common. And it’s not millions of dollars and an NFL boyfriend, though I certainly wish I could claim the former.

First of all, she is short. Really short. Yes, Khloe is freakishly tall, but there’s another reason that she looks like a dwarf next to her youngest sister. Kim is just 5’2. Like me. She is also curvy. Like me. And has dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin. Like me. You get the idea.

After years of seeing Hollywood’s ideal beauty as a 5’11, willowy, fair-skinned, blue-eyed blonde, it’s nice to have someone who shares some of the same physical characteristics as me.

I like to see pictures of her on celebrity websites and in magazines. I call her out on things that are unflattering (“I never would’ve worn that cut of dress”), and I praise her for her good fashion choices (“ruching definitely works on us”).

Although I’m not sure if her figure has cut down on eating disorders nationwide, I think she is a step in the right direction for young girls who look to celebrities for ideal body types. I know, I know. Kids shouldn’t idolize celebrities to begin with, but they do, so it’s good to have some variety.

The dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin thing is my own hang up. I have come to appreciate my ‘ethnic’ look over the years, but it hasn’t been an easy road. Spending my formative years at a school where the WASPy look was the norm didn’t exactly boost my self-confidence.

Over the years, I’ve been asked countless times what my ethnicity is. Among the popular guesses have been Italian, Greek and Armenian. My stock answer is, “well, my family has been here for generations, but I guess my ancestry is Russian, German and Austrian.” Usually I get a blank look when I say that. Maybe it doesn’t sound exotic enough.

There are plenty of dark-haired celebrities out there, but none of them quite has the look of Kim. My husband likes to remind me how pretty he thinks Jennifer Connelly is (usually after I complain that he only likes Cameron Diaz types). I can’t help but roll my eyes when he says that. I mean, come on, I look no more like Jennifer Connelly than he looks like George Clooney. Our only similarity is dark brown hair.

I’d like to think that Kim’s influence has had a big impact on my usually low self-esteem. Unfortunately some things never change. Just today as I was walking out of Starbucks feeling pretty good about how I looked, I whisked by a impossibly tall and thin blonde. I felt miniscule. No guy would even give me a second glance if the two of us were side by side.

So maybe the Kim Kardashian revolution hasn’t exactly turned my world upside down. But it has renewed my hope that one day we’ll see a 5’2 model walk the runway during New York fashion week. One day size 4 will be the new size 0. One day a sequel to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes will come out called Gentlemen Prefer Brunettes. And, most importantly, one day I will receive millions of dollars for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Breakfast of Champions

2009-04-22T05:51:00.001-07:00

Caleb ate three mini blueberry muffins this morning, and I was thrilled. The act of rejoicing over the consumption of a prepackaged, carb-laden, sugar-filled breakfast may seem odd, but for Caleb, eating anything 'new' is an accomplishment.

Sarah counts among her favorite foods Kalamata olives, feta and grape tomatoes. Caleb's favorite food: Sunchips. Sarah loves broccoli, baby carrots, cauliflower, green beans, you name it. She will try just about any vegetable I offer her, and most of the time, she likes it. (I even had her try pickled beets the other day at a lunch buffet, and she ate them all). Caleb, on the other hand, probably consumes the equivalent of one serving of vegetables per week, divided among the two baby carrots and one spinach-potato patty he consumes over the course of seven days.

Sarah loves milk and would drink an unlimited quantity if given the chance. Caleb has never had more than one sip of cow's milk in his life. And yes, I've tried everything--chocolate milk, strawberry milk, goat's milk, soy milk, chocolate soy milk, etc. Since his dairy consumption is questionable at best (yogurt once every other week, cheese once a week, if I' m lucky), i give him orange juice fortified with calcium and vitamin D every day.

If it weren't for a few processed varieties of meat, I would honestly think Caleb is a vegetarian. He will not eat most forms of chicken, red meat or pork. Though he prefers Morningstar vegetarian sausages, he will eat turkey or pork sausages when they are put in front of him. He will also occasionally eat a hotdog and a bite of chicken nugget, though it is not a sure bet. Sarah loves all kinds of meats, especially lamb, and she ate all of the tilapia put in front of her the other night.

It's a good thing Sarah was my child, because if my inaugural experience feeding a child had been Caleb, I would've worn the keys out on my keyboard googling 'children's nutritional needs' and probably would've been a candidate for anti-anxiety medication. But I learned to relax after fretting whether Sarah was eating enough as a baby, and that has paved the way for the nonchalant attitude I now have with Caleb.

Sure, I worry that Caleb's cholesterol is higher than mine and Jonah's combined. Yes, I am mildly disturbed by the notion that he is on a path to becoming a carb-addicted fiend, much like myself. But I am hoping that time will change his eating habits. And I think that any time he tries and likes a new food, even if it is something as questionable as mini blueberry muffins, we are taking a step in the right direction.

Punch Drunk Love

2009-03-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

When I have a few too many drinks at a party, I'm a social butterfly, bitingly funny and, much to my chagrin, really mean and nasty to Jonah. I'm not exactly sure when it started. I remember inviting some of his coworkers to our house for a party years ago and having them all in stitches as I lobbed insults in Jonah's direction. Since then, it's only gotten worse.

This past weekend was especially bad. We went to a wedding in Alabama, which I think was really a Jonah Lovers convention in disguise. Many of the wedding guests were quite a bit younger than us and had been campers back in the days when Jonah worked on the nature staff at a camp in North Georgia. These guys worshipped Jonah back then and clearly still did now.

Seeing a 30-year-old man showing puppy dog affection for my 37-year-old husband was definitely a first for me. Don't get me wrong. I think Jonah is a pretty amazing person--smart, funny, engaging, multitalented. And I am used to people telling me as much. But this was a totally new experience.

Now, you might think the natural consequence of this extreme adoration would be a burning desire to get to know the lucky lady who got the prize. No such luck. I think I could've removed my shirt and started dancing on a pole and gotten absolutely no reaction from these guys.

So I coped in the best way I know how. I had a glass of wine. Then another. And another. And, well, you get the idea. Soon being ignored by a gaggle of guys was the least of my concerns. I mingled with other people, who found it similarly funny that Jonah had so many admirers.

But I took it too far, harping on Jonah's admirers for longer than I should have. Then when I heard someone talking kind of loudly about one of Jonah's ex-girlfriends, my drunken insults reached all new proportions.

Still, I thought the weekend went quite well, until Jonah brought up my behavior on the long drive home. I couldn't deny the topics of my conversations. The only thing left to do was apologize.

So the next time you see me at a party, ask me about the weather, the economy or the latest celebrity breakup. Because you won't find me saying truly hysterical yet undeniably mean things about Jonah. Well, unless of course he really deserves it.

HAJB MOTILFs

2009-03-09T19:10:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, my friends and I had an acronym for the most desirable of desirable guys:HAJBs. I can't believe I'm even admitting this, but hey, it was 15 years ago and I haven't blogged in over a month. I'm desperate for new material. So now that you're at the edge of your seats, I will reveal this elusive acronym: HAJB stood for Hot Ass Jewish Boy.

HAJBs were definitely a novelty for me when I arrived at Penn. Growing up in Savannah, cute Jewish guys were few and far between. And the few that were around in my childhood and teenage years certainly weren't interested in me. At Penn, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I could find HAJBs just by walking down the hall of my coed dorm.

Since I've been back in Savannah for 13 years, I must say there are more HAJBs around, but I'm married (and usually so are they), so I try not to notice. Thanks to the big screen, however, it has been harder to avoid. There has been a Jewish actor revolution in the last several years. I guess I should thank Judd Apatow for bringing Seth Rogan, Paul Rudd and Jason Segel to my multiplex in movie after movie. Then there's my favorite HAJB of them all, Sasha Baron Cohen. Funny, brilliant and beautiful (if you're thinking I'm crazy right about now, then you obviously have not seen him doing press for his movies. I'm not a fan of the Borat mustache either).

Maybe it's time to come up with a new acronym that is more befitting of this new generation of cute Jewish movie stars. But FHJAILFs is quite a mouthful.

Bongs and Babies and Blow Ups, Oh My!

2009-02-07T11:27:00.001-08:00

I'm usually somewhat of a sensational news junkie, but there were three stories that broke in the past week that I have tried my best to tune out: Michael Phelps and the mary jane, crazy California octuplet lady and Christian Bale's Terminator 4 tirade.

Let's face it, only one of these stories is really even potentially newsworthy, and that's the story of Nadya Suleman, who added eight children to her six-child family last week. But the reason why it's making headlines is not the reason it is worthy of mention. Okay, sure, she bears a bizarre resemblance to Angelina Jolie, and she definitely seems like a lunatic, but in reality, the story's focus should remain on the ethical concerns of the doctors who implanted her with six embryos. Instead of appearing in the Journal of Medical Ethics, however, the story has become a staple on the Today Show and tmz.com. It's only a matter of time before before we get to watch her wacky antics on a Jon and Kate Plus Eight-style reality show.

And where to begin with Michael Phelps and the infamous bong photo? His only mistake was partaking in front of people who he could not trust. Is anyone really concerned about Phelps smoking a little weed? It's not going to enhance his performance as a swimmer, that's for sure. As for it affecting his role model status? If more kids grew up with Phelps' exercise regimen and work ethic as an example, I would argue that even with an occasional toke from a bong, we'd have a society with far fewer obese and unhealthy adults.

Then there is the recent audiotape release of Christian Bale letting loose on a director of photography during the filming of the fourth installment of the Terminator series a few months ago. Sure, he sounded like an egotistical prick. But he's a "serious" actor, and kind of cute to boot, so who can really blame him for his rant? In a few months, he'll be sitting on the couch with James Lipton talking about how he really had to take on the personality of his character in order to accurately portray him. Come on, this is an actor who lost 63 pounds off of his lean 185 pound, 6 foot frame to play the lead role in The Machinist a few years back. Cut the guy some slack!

So there you have it--the trifecta of meaningless news stories that dominated the airwaves and Internet over the last week. Unless Michael Phelps does a bong hit with the octuplets while Christian Bale slaughters them all American Psycho style, then I really don't care. Or maybe I do. People's reproductive, recreational and professional habits are far more interesting than the bleak state of the economy. Somehow the sensationalistic helps desensitize us to what really matters.

Now if we can somehow spin the 50,000 lost jobs last week into a reality show on Fox...

Time For Bed

2009-02-06T05:55:00.000-08:00

I need to just pick up the phone and make the call. The conversion kit for Caleb's crib is sitting in the Punch & Judy warehouse, and I need it in order to covert his crib into a full-size bed. I have the mattress. I have the bedding. I just don't have the nerve.

Caleb loves his crib. He only climbed out once, and that was probably a year ago. He also still sleeps with his crib bumper. I know, I know. You are supposed to remove the bumper as soon as the child starts pulling up, which would've been, oh, about two years ago. But every time I've tried to remove it, Caleb has pitched such a fit that I've put it back in without hesitation.

I've tried to sell Caleb on the idea of a big boy bed to no avail. One time when I asked him why he wanted to stay in his crib, he said, "because it's beautiful." I guess there is no reasoning with a 2 1/2 year old.

Maybe I wouldn't be so reluctant to move Caleb to his bed if we had had an easy time moving Sarah to hers. There is no arguing that we waited too long to make the switch. Sarah was 3 years and 4 months when we finally got around to the big move. And it did not go well. At all. She could not fall asleep in her bed without me reading to her until she drifted off, and even then, I was lucky if she slept for eight hours. It's now been about 14 months since we moved her into her bed, and I still read to her until she falls asleep. She also winds up in our bed at least once or twice a week.

Caleb is a pretty good sleeper, and I can't bare the thought of going through a month or two of terrible sleeping. Still, I know I need to make the call and just get it over with. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow. I'll sleep on it.

Whine, Whine, Whine!

2009-01-27T14:25:00.000-08:00

As the title of this blog makes very clear, I love red wine. I drink it every single night, with the exception of those few evenings when a cold or other illness has me feeling so out of sorts that I can't even stomach the thought (and that rarely happens).

Usually I wait until the kids are in bed before I start imbibing. Since I normally get Caleb to bed first and then Sarah, my ritual normally goes like this: walk quietly out of Sarah's room, head straight to the kitchen, pour wine. Well, okay, I kind of got in the habit of taking a few chugs straight from the bottle before I put the kids to bed, but that was only on the nights that I was particularly worn out. Right, so every night.

But for the last eight excruciating days, I have had to go without my nightly escape. No, no, no. I am not pregnant. Perish the thought! I was on a type of antibiotic that very clearly stated to refrain from consuming alcohol. For the entire week. Plus a full 24 hours after the course of antibiotics was over. Eight days. Eight nights.

So tonight is the golden night. Tonight will mark 24 hours since I took the last pill. But guess what? I have a cold. The type where I feel so out of sorts that I can't even stomach the thought. Looks like I will have to forgo the wine for at least another day. Maybe even two. It may be time to rename the blog Mommy Kinda Sorta Likes Mint Tea.

Seven Years, Four Months, 9 Days

2009-01-20T19:07:00.001-08:00

I left work early that Tuesday. They said it was okay for us to just go. Nobody really knew what to do. We were all in a stupor. It was September 11, 2001.

So I left. I took their words literally and walked out of my office before 11 a.m. I didn't know where to go or what to do. After a few frantic cell phone calls, I wound up meeting my mom at my house, and we just sat there in my living room, drinking bloody mary's in the middle of the day, watching the T.V. in horror.

It had already been the toughest of tough years. My dad had died just seven months before after a two-year battle with cancer. My mom had spent the past half a year in pain and denial. And my wedding was just two weeks away. It would have been a bittersweet moment in my life regardless, but now there was a new reality before me, one that my self-centered brain couldn't quite comprehend--our country was under attack, the collective lives of Americans were forever changed. It suddenly wasn't about me and my loss and my wedding and my future. It was about us.

Flash forward to seven years and four months later. There I was again. Sitting in the living room with my mom, glued to the T.V. in the middle of another Tuesday afternoon. But this time it was different. There were no bloody mary's this time, no fear, no confusion and no self-centeredness. It was all about America and how far we had fallen over the past decade. And how far we had come.

The days that followed September 11 are lingering somewhere in a bubble. There was unity in the days following the terrorist attacks. I'll never forget Congress standing there in unison, singing America the Beautiful on the steps of the Capitol. But that sentiment didn't last long, and soon we were back to politics as usual. For seven long, embarrassing, painful years.

And here we are. A new country. A new world for that matter. We have overcome a lot. We have taken a leap instead of a step. We have a new president: Barack Hussein Obama. It is a day to be equally remembered. January 20, 2009.

Good Morning?

2009-01-17T05:20:00.000-08:00

At some point in time I was a morning person. I may have struggled to stay awake past 11 p.m., but in the morning, I was good to go, ready to conquer the world. Enter two children, a cat and a snoring husband, and my happy morning days are nothing more than a fleeting memory.

It is a rare occasion that I get a full night's sleep without interruption. Usually if I am lucky enough to have both kids sleep through the night, the cat will claw at my bedroom door at 3 a.m. Or Jonah will have one of those nights where he has somehow morphed into a chainsaw.

On the weekends when we don't have to wake up at any given time, one child will inevitably wake up super early and the other will sleep late (if you can classify 7:30 a.m. as "late.") If both kids slept until, say 7 a.m. on a Saturday or Sunday (without having woken up in the middle of the night), it would be the most amazing, glorious thing to ever occur under my roof.

So back to me no longer being a morning person. Mornings are now the worst part of my day. I am tired, grumpy and unmotivated. Despite that, five out of seven days a week, I have to get me, a 2 year old and a 4 year old out the door by 7:30 a.m. It is an event that tests every fiber of my being, and I think it's fair to say that it is something at which I fail miserably.

I spend the first half of my morning chugging coffee and staring at my laptop. I then spend the remainder of my time running around like a maniac, barking orders at my uncooperative kids. It is only when I start the engine and head off to school that I enter the realm of pleasant human being (well, as long a I make the crucial first stoplight...otherwise, forget it).

Maybe one of these days I will return to my former cheerful morning self. I estimate that will be in 2024 when both kids are away at college. In the meantime, my family will have to get used to living with momzilla for the next 5,840 mornings.

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen

2009-01-09T05:59:00.000-08:00

I've never thought of myself as a great chef, but I love to cook and like to think that I'm pretty competent in the kitchen. Well, boy was my bubble burst last night. Jonah, who has somehow morphed into a food critic of New York Times caliber, was less than impressed with dinner last night--rotini with kale and turkey sausage. While I didn't think the dish would make it into my regular rotation, I thought it was pretty good, and I certainly ate enough to validate that.

"Not enough flavor," Jonah complained, asking me to list the offending ingredients.

It pained me to tell him the six measly components of the dish: rotini, turkey sausage, kale, olive oil, parmesan and chicken broth.

"See, nothing that adds flavor," he quipped.

Mind you, he has a thing against chicken broth. Just the other night, in fact, he railed me for pouring chicken broth over the turkey breast I was making (which I only did because he complained that there was no gravy the last time I made it). Of course, his suggestion to pour orange and cranberry juice over the turkey sounds positively delicious.

I tried to explain to him that most turkey recipes--and a lot of other recipes for that matter--call for chicken broth. I guess that's where I went wrong. Relying on recipes is apparently one of the seven deadly sins. Even though he cooks dinner maybe four times a year, he doesn't need to use recipes and measuring spoons. Did I mention I live with the messiah?

Feeling majorly deflated, I then grilled Jonah about some other dishes I frequently make. My baked ziti: "it's all right in small doses." My roasted butternut squash soup: "it's okay." Okay? Just okay? I thought that was one of my best dishes? What about the rack of lamb and curried couscous? "They are excellent," he told me. "But those are recipes your mom found." Wow, go ahead and hit me where it hurts.

So now I not only have to plan my menus around a growing 4 year old, a picky 2 year old and a perpetual dieter (that would be me), I also have to cook for Jonah Jacques Pinebous, the world's preeminent food critic. I'm expecting his check from the New York Times to arrive any day now.

Barack Solid

2008-12-25T18:02:00.001-08:00

Looks like someone's going to give Nicolas Sarkozy and Vladimir Putin a run for their money in the shirtless president (well, in Putin's case ex-president) department. I doubt that anyone at this point hasn't seen the photos of Barack Obama in his bathing suit on the beaches of Hawaii. I felt kind of guilty even glancing at the pictures, although I would argue that I had no choice since they were plastered on the front page of every website I have bookmarked (which maybe says more about my bookmarked websites than I care to reveal). But alas I saw them, and it is hard to deny that Obama has been blessed with more than just superior intelligence.

Looking at those photos is kind of like stumbling upon an old picture of your father, and realizing that at one point in his life, he was attractive to other women. Or discovering why your parents' bedroom door was locked every Sunday morning. There are just some people you don't want to sexualize, and your president-elect is one of them.

I'm pretty sure that the women of our country weren't exactly blushing when they saw photos of W. on vacation (okay, maybe they were blushing, but I'm quite certain it was out of sheer embarrassment). And Clinton? Maybe I was too young when he was president, but you didn't exactly look at him and think, "boy, I wish my husband would start doing more sit-ups." And I don't really think I need to go back any further than that. Bush Sr., Reagan, Carter, Ford, Nixon. No, no, no, no, no.

So I guess Americans will get more than they bargained for on January 20. A new president. A democrat. A black man. A president who looks good in a bathing suit. We really are headed to a more perfect union.

Bitten

2008-12-17T13:57:00.000-08:00

It started innocently enough. I wandered into the living room after both kids were asleep, as I do every night, to spend some time with Jonah. Most of the time he is in the midst of watching a movie that I didn't enjoy the first time I saw it (think Fight Club or The Matrix) or a movie that I have no intention of ever watching in my entire life (think 300 or Transformers).

The movie Jonah was watching on Monday night would seemingly fall into the latter category. I remember seeing the preview for Queen of the Damned in the theater years ago and thinking to myself that while it was a shame that Aaliyah died at such a young age when her career was just getting started, there was no way in hell my eyes would ever watch one moment of this piece of shit. Not only did the movie have Razzie written all over it, but a scary vampire movie? Not my thing.

But it's still important to me that Jonah and I, at the very least, sit in the same room together (even if we're not communicating) so I typically pull out my laptop during these unbearable movies and thank god for wifi.

So imagine my surprise when I suddenly found myself sucked in to the worst movie of 2002. I guess I will have to give credit where credit is due--Stuart Townsend did a pretty good job of playing Lestat. I think I've only seen him on the red carpet next to his girlfriend Charlize Theron, and to be honest, I've never thought about him much. He's an attractive guy, but not necessarily my type. But something about him transformed into a vampire was incredibly appealing. Even when the Queen herself came onto the screen inflicting her ridiculous brand of terror, even when Lestat and his band played the crappiest music I think I've ever heard, even when I realized that this was truly one of the worst movies of all times, I still found myself transfixed.

I blame Twilight. Like I said before, the whole vampire genre is not really my thing. Or so I thought. Jonah had read all four of the Twilight books, and I had no desire to follow in his footsteps. Then I saw Robert Pattinson, the actor who plays the lead role in Twilight, all over magazines and the Internet. Since this actor is quite possibly the hottest guy I've ever seen, my curiosity was indeed piqued. I reluctantly asked Jonah if he thought I would like Twilight, and much to my surprise, he said yes.

And now I finally "get" the whole vampire sex appeal thing. Let me be honest for a moment--that was really the only thing I found intriguing about Queen of the Damned. And I read Twilight at lightening speed and enjoyed it way more than I should have. Maybe I should've paid more attention in my Feminist Victorian Literature class in college (though I'm sure the professor was not exactly singing the praises of sexy male vampire figures...probably quite the contrary).

I guess I will now have to go back and see if there are any other vampire movies I have overlooked throughout the years. Either that or I'll have to look into the possibility of Transylvania as our next family vacation destination.

The Snowball Effect

2008-12-06T05:14:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit of a Facebook junkie. I check it religiously, update my status frequently, comment on other people's statuses and generally waste a lot of time snooping on my former and current friends. There is one thing, however, that I hate about Facebook: all of those stupid, extraneous applications.

Sure I've taken a quiz here and there, and I have no qualms with those, but you will never, ever find me inviting my "Friends" to take the quiz too. In fact, it always makes me nervous when that screen pops up where you can invite friends to take the quiz. I always make sure I don't inadvertently click anything on that will send a request to my "Friends" to take the quiz. (It happened one time...I accidentally invited 10 people to take a really ridiculous quiz, and I was deeply embarrassed and annoyed.)

Of course there are all kinds of Facebook applications other than quizzes. I've gotten requests for plants for the 'Lil Green Patch or fish for the 'Lil Blue Cove. I've received virtual challahs and cocktails and holiday cheer greetings. I always accept these virtual requests or gifts, but rarely, if ever, send them back. And I never send them to someone other than the person who sent it to me.

So a few days ago, someone threw a virtual snowball at me. I had the option of catching it or throwing one back at the person who sent it to me. I opted to catch it. It seemed harmless enough. I guess that was my mistake. I opened the snowball application, caught the snowball, then immediately clicked out of the application. I got a couple more snowballs and caught those as well.

Then late last night, I clicked on my notifications. I was looking to see if one of my "Friends" had taken her turn in our Facebook Scrabble game. I didn't see anything listed, so I clicked on the link to see all of my notifications. That is when I saw the most horrific thing I've ever seen on Facebook. Apparently by catching a couple of snowballs, I sent snowballs to everyone on my Friends list. Every last person. I was mortified. Appalled. I mean really, did I need to throw a snowball at my 3rd grade teacher? At my high school boyfriend? At they guy I lived next door to my freshman year of college?

I recognize that I am disproportionately upset. I just hate to "bother" people on Facebook. And not only did I "bother" them, I did it in such a silly, immature way. And it wasn't even intentional.

I guess this Facebook debacle leaves me with little choice but to no longer accept virtual requests. Either that or bury my head in a virtual sandbox for a few weeks and hope that most people didn't notice that I threw a snowball at them.

Guilty Pleasures

2008-12-02T17:53:00.000-08:00

I used to be mildly irritated that Jonah played poker every Tuesday night 'til all hours of the morning. He got to go out and have fun with his friends, while I sat home listening to the sound of white noise machines coming from the kids' rooms while they slept. That was, until, I discovered that the best T.V. comes on Tuesday nights--shows that Jonah would no more watch with me if he were tied to a chair and slowly tortured to death.

Right now, my guilty pleasure is The Biggest Loser. I admit that I feel pretty lukewarm about the first hour and a half of the show. The challenges, the blatant product placement, the contrived drama--I could take it or leave it. It's the weigh-in that I love, that I live for each week.

It's no wonder really. I weigh every day, often multiple times a day. There are so few ways to objectively measure yourself, and weighing is one of the only ways. Of course, my numbers are measly--a half a pound here and there (okay, so after Thanksgiving, it was more like a couple of pounds in the wrong direction). The numbers on The Biggest Loser, on the other hand, are astounding. Six pounds in a week? Eleven pounds in a week? Seventeen pounds in a week? Are you kidding me?

I suppose if I did nothing but exercise for seven consecutive days, I'd probably drop five or so pounds in my first week. I'm sure it would taper off after that since I really don't need to lose much weight. But these contestants, who despite what any naysayer might argue, are literally working their butts off. Contrived drama or not, they are eating less, exercising around the clock and losing ungodly amounts of weight. It is exciting to watch the pounds fly off of them and to share in their anticipation as they step on the scale each week.

Sadly, I have only a couple more weeks to enjoy my Tuesday night guilty pleasure. In a few weeks, the season will come to a close with my favorite episode--the finale, in which all the previous contestants return and weigh in one final time. (A night of 16 weigh-ins...my cup truly runneth over).

Fortunately, I will have only a few weeks to fill the gap until my other guilty pleasure returns for another season: American Idol. I will not spend time arguing that it is possible to like Radiohead, hate pop music and enjoy American Idol all at the same time. I'm just glad that it comes on Tuesday nights (and Wednesdays and Thursdays for that matter), so that I can continue to look forward to poker night every week.

More Later

2008-11-12T19:30:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a brief hiatus from blogging. Life is crappy. I'm glad that Obama won and I love my kids more than ever, but I don't feel like writing for a few days.

Where Were You?

2008-11-07T05:43:00.000-08:00

On my couch, in the company of my husband, Jonah, and our good friend Ron. That's where I was when I heard the news that Barack Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States of America. The location and company don't seem all that significant to me now, but I know it is going to be one of those things that I will recall in 10, 20, 30 years. It will be something my children and grandchildren will ask me about. It will join the ranks of the Challenger explosion and 9-11 as the "where were you" moments in the lives of my generation.

The night started off a little rocky. I got Caleb to bed early and swiftly, but Sarah, perhaps sensing the urgency in my voice while I read to her, took what seemed like an eternity to get to sleep (yes, I read to her until she falls asleep, but that's another blog for another day). It was 7:30 p.m., and I didn't want to miss a moment of the election returns. I knew that the polls had closed in several states, yet instead of sitting in front of the T.V., I was in Sarah's bedroom going on 40-plus minutes of reading (normally the entire process takes 20 minutes). When the usually reliable books failed to work (namely The Beatles Yellow Submarine), I switched to Strawberry Shortcake's Cinderella, a shallow tale made even more so by the fact that the word "berry" is used instead of "very" throughout the entire book. I followed that with The Beatles Yellow Submarine book yet again, and she was finally sound asleep.

At last I joined Jonah, Ron and my slightly inebriated mother (who wisely left before the election was called and went to bed) in the living room. But my excitement was quickly tempered by what I saw on the screen. A few states had already been called for McCain. And though I knew Georgia wasn't really a factor in the election, I thought and hoped that we would surprise the nation. For some reason, seeing Georgia go so red so early in the evening made me feel like the election was doomed.

A glass of wine and a couple of hours later, things began to look up. When Pennsylvania and Ohio were called in favor of Obama, I knew it was just a matter of time since California's 55 electoral votes were a lock. The clock struck 11 p.m., and our country and the world were forever changed. We popped open the champagne, which I had reluctantly put in the refrigerator that afternoon. I implored Ron to call his mother, a 75-year-old black woman, who surely, I told Ron, didn't expect to see this moment in her lifetime. She didn't answer the phone with hello, instead she was singing a moving gospel song. Ron held the phone out so we could here.

There are so many aspects of this victory that I am still trying to comprehend. Setting aside the historical significance of the election for just a moment, we now have a democrat as our president-elect. After eight years of Bush, that in and of itself is something to celebrate. We also have a president who wasn't the next in line to take the baton of the democratic party, a refreshing change from the candidates offered up in the last two elections. And dangit, I really like this guy. I like his ideas and his eloquence and his demeanor. I think he is going to be a great leader and bring about many positive changes in our wounded world.

Now back to the unavoidable historical significance. This is a moment that is absolutely unprecedented in our country and the world. More than half of the people in this country voted for a black man for president. In a country where just 40-some years ago blacks were forced to use different restrooms and ride in the back of the bus, in a country where racism is still unarguably rampant, the people, by majority, elected a black man as leader of the free world. We voted for a man who is the son of Kenyan and whose middle name is Hussein, which despite all of the fear tactics used by people on the other side, didn't scare enough people away from voting for him.

It's been a few days since the election, and life has somewhat returned to normal. But every now and then, I'll be in the middle of a parking lot or emptying the dishwasher or lying awake in bed, and I'll stop and reflect on the enormity of what happened. We, the people of the United States of America, elected a black man as our president. Sometimes it brings a smile to my face, sometimes a tear wells up in my eye, but mostly, it makes me really proud to be an American.

Half Empty

2008-11-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that I haven't blogged about politics in six whole days. The presidential election is just three days away, so you'd think I'd be in a blogging frenzy. In truth, my brain has hit the point of information overload. To me, any news is bad news.

Just this morning, I saw the headline that Obama's Kenyan aunt is living illegally in the United States. In my mind, every headline like that puts Obama one step closer to losing. It fuels the fire of those who believe that Obama is a lying African terrorist with a secret agenda to destroy the United States.

This election has been over-analyzed to the point of no return. Every possible scenario has been discussed. Every demographic scrutinized. Every skeleton exposed. Every bit of mud slung. Every scare tactic used. And even though, by all accounts, Obama stands a pretty good chance of winning, I refuse to believe it.

My glass is definitely half empty. Between the Bradley Effect, early voting glitches and the ghosts of the elections past, something is bound to go wrong. Optimism got me absolutely nowhere in 2000 and 2004. The outcome of this election, whichever way it goes, is so momentous, so historical, so significant, it is almost to much to bear.

If McCain wins, I will spend the next four years praying that I won't awake to the worst news of my life. I can't even write the headline I envision on cnn.com. The thought is so nausea-inducing, so utterly terrifying, it makes me pine for the dread I felt on November 8, 2000.

On the flip side, well, I have thought about it, but I'm too superstitious to put it in writing.

So I think for the next few days I will continue to tune out and fill my mind with vapid thoughts. Wait, the word "vapid" takes me right back to Sarah Palin. I guess there's no escape.

Throwing It All Away

2008-10-28T14:19:00.000-07:00

So it's 5:19 p.m., and I'm staring at the clock, wondering when I can have my first glass of wine. Tonight it will be well deserved. If this day had a theme, it would definitely be "throwing." Throwing up and throwing a tantrum.

Caleb has a bit of a cold. Nothing dramatic--a runny nose and a cough. If I were to keep him in the house every time he has a cold, he would spend half of his waking life at home. So while Sarah was at school, I took Caleb to run errands with me. He did okay in the beginning when we went to Toys-R-Us (go figure). By the time we got to Marshall's, he was getting antsy. When I ran into We're Nuts to pick up a few (well, nine to be precise) bottles of wine, he was downright cranky. No problem. We were heading to Moe's afterwards, and he's always happy with a plate of chips and guacamole in front of him.

Moe's was remarkably uncrowded. In fact, when we got in line to order, we were the only people within a couple of feet radius. Thanks god. Caleb started coughing as I was directing the man behind the counter to add cilantro, chopped jalapenos and black olives to my salad. No big deal since he had been coughing all day long. But then he threw up. A lot. On the floor. On his jacket. It wasn't your run-of-the-mill throw up. It was thick and red (from strawberries) and caused, I'm nearly positive, by all of the phlegm in his system.

Fortunately no one saw.. When I frantically asked the man behind the counter for a towel, I think he thought I was insane. As I was on my hands and knees cleaning the floor, I looked up and saw two of Sarah's classmates' mothers and their kids at an adjacent table. Actually, I think they saw me first. "There's Sarah's mommy," one of the girl's said. I explained the situation, and they kindly offered to help. But truthfully, my only option at that point was to pay and exit Moe's as quickly as possible.

Of course Caleb was totally fine, and we proceeded to have a picnic in the back of my minivan. Chips, guacamole and all.

We waited nearly 40 minutes in the Country Day carpool line to pick up Sarah (yet I was still the ninth car in line...in the world of Country Day carpool, I will always be a loser). As we were on our way home, she announced that she really, really had to go potty. I have a portable potty that I keep in the car, because she has a very low threshold for holding it in, but we were right next to the Kroger, and I had to go too, so I figured we may as well run inside. She protested at first, but I offered to buy her candy on the way out. Done deal.

As we were in the checkout line, Sarah scanned the selection of candy. I had already put some cupcakes on the belt, and the cashier scanned them. She also scanned the M&Ms that Caleb picked out. Sarah could not make up her mind. I gave her all of the requisite warnings, counted to three several times, etc., but still no decision. Finally I made one more plea to no avail. I grabbed a bag of peanut M&Ms and placed them on the belt.

She was not pleased, and as we made our way to the exit, she ran back to the candy aisle. When I informed her that she was not getting anything else, she threw a tantrum unlike anything I have ever experienced before. She cried, screamed, told me she didn't like me anymore, cried some more, screamed some more, and caused quite a scene. In fact, all of the cashiers and bag boys and customers were looking on in horror. I was holding Caleb and trying to convince Sarah to settle down and walk out of the store with me. What I needed to do was pick Sarah up and force her out of the store, but I couldn't put Caleb down because he would've taken off running.

Right as I was contemplating an elaborate move that involved a cart, restraints and a lot of screaming from both children, a nice cashier stepped in who looked like she had raised at least two generations of children herself. I couldn't quite hear everything that she said to Sarah, but she somehow managed to calm her down to the point that I was able to hold her hand and walk out of the store. Seven miserable minutes later we were home.

So now it's my turn to throw something. I'm going to throw out my 6 p.m. rule and start on my first glass of wine a little early. Cheers!

Driving Myself Insane

2008-10-27T07:20:00.001-07:00

I think I should just resign myself to the fact that I will never get Sarah to school on time. No matter how hard I try to get out of the door by 7:25 a.m., there is always some sort of unforeseen event that eats up three to four minutes of my time. Now, I know that that doesn't seem like a lot of time, but in the world of Amy's mad morning flurry, it is the difference between pulling into the Country Day traffic circle at 8:00 a.m. (hurray, on time!) and pulling in at 8:04 a.m. (#$@%, late yet again).

This morning it was Jonah asking me to pull up his online calendar and look at his daily work schedule. Since the word no is not in my vocabulary, I did it, and then proceeded to scan the next two weeks of his schedule at his request.

Some days it is Caleb darting down the hallway when I tell him it's time to get dressed. Other days it is Sarah coming to the car bowless when I had in fact put a bow in her hair, setting off a chain of events that requires me to run around the house looking for that elusive yellow bow. Most of the time, though, it's me, doing something completely useless, like checking the Chatham County jail's online booking website to see if I know anyone who was arrested overnight (so far, I've known three people!).

It doesn't matter if I wake up at 5 a.m., 6 a.m., or 7 a.m. I will never fail to be late. I am convinced it is genetic. My mother is always late too. Then again, I watched her rushing around like a maniac, trying to get me places on time growing up, so maybe it is just a learned behavior (though I'd prefer to think that it is something over which I have no control).

If I am just able to accept the fact that I will be late and learn to cope, I will be a better mother. Yelling "why the hell are you letting that car in, buddy?" to the car in front of me on the way to school is not setting a good example for my children. Especially when Sarah asks, "who is he letting in? Why is he letting somebody in?" (To be fair though, the guy in front of me this morning stopped three times to let cars turn in front of him on Whitefield. He obviously was not in a hurry.) And if I get behind a slow car that causes me to miss a light, you might as well call in DFACS.

So I hereby resolve to no longer get agitated in the mornings when I'm running late. I will not run around like a maniac looking for Sarah's bow. Instead I will walk calmly and say no curse words in the process. I will not yell at the cars in front of me, even if I am behind the worst driver in the city of Savannah. I will not pretend like I'm on the Schuylkill Parkway in Philadelphia when I am just on Montgomery Cross Road. I will come to accept and appreciate 8:04 a.m., 8:05 a.m. and even 8:06 a.m. I will pass along the tradition of tardiness to my daughter, as my mother passed it along to me, and I will embrace it.

A Modest Proposal?

2008-10-25T06:01:00.000-07:00

What will America look like in 2012 if Obama is elected president? According to Focus on the Family Action, a conservative Christian group, there will be a lot of drastic changes. For starters, the group envisions the now liberal Supreme Court deciding that gay marriage is a constitutionally protected right. This decision has far-reaching ripple effects, among them the disbandment of the Boy Scouts, because they are now forced "to obey the Supreme Court decision that they would have to hire homosexual scoutmasters and allow them to sleep in tents with young boys."

There is a reversal of the 2003 Partial Birth Abortion Ban Act, and it is now permissible to abort a baby just seconds before it is born. It is illegal to prohibit the distribution of child pornography. Home schooling becomes illegal too. The U.S. becomes a single provider of health care and now ensures all Americans, creating years-long waiting lists for treatment such as cancer care. I could go on and on, but you should really just read it for yourself.

Has Focus on the Family Action been brushing up on their Jonathan Swift? Doubtful. While they admit that the letter is full of "what ifs," they are quick to tell their constituents that it is not just "empty speculation." This begs the question, what they hell have they been smoking? We are talking about Barack Obama, right? The senator from Illinois? The same man who says (disappointingly) that he is not in favor of legalizing gay marriage? The same man who does not want to change the health care plans of those who already are insured? The same man who says that he wants to restrict late-term abortions, as long as the health of the mother is not jeopardized?

I'm confused and a little frightened. But I do rest assured knowing that anyone stupid enough to buy this load of crap never would've voted for Obama in the first place. And I sincerely hope that Focus on the Family Action has an opportunity to see firsthand what America looks like in 2012 as Obama easily wins his second term in office.

OxyMORONS

2008-10-22T05:34:00.000-07:00

I can't believe how truly naive I am sometimes. I tend to make assumptions about groups of people, and it usually turns out that I am wrong. For example, when I worked at SCAD back in 2000, I was certain that all of my officemates would be equally horrified that Bush won the presidential election. After all, I worked in an office with a bunch of SCAD graduates, all of them pursuing a career in the field of art. Surely they'd be democrats. I was wrong. As I walked through the front door of my office on November 8 intentionally donned in black from head to toe, I quickly learned that several of my coworkers had voted for Bush. Don't you know that Bush hates artists, I thought. Obviously that's not true (well, I don't think so anyway), but I was a bit surprised that someone with an M.F.A. in painting would be a dyed-the-wool republican.

Artists aren't the only group that I wrongly assume are hard-core democrats. Certainly Jews, with all of the struggles we have faced throughout history, would be more inclined to vote democrat. Not so. Over the past couple of decades, it seems like many Jews have migrated to the republican party. I blame money. I suspect that a large percentage of Jews are in the fabled top 1 percent of Americans making the most money, and they want to protect their nest. Fair enough. I doubt these same Jews are on the front lines in the fight against abortion and gay rights and advocating for creationism and abstinence education in the classroom.

But suddenly in 2008 a new group of Jews has come onto the scene. They are republican-come-latelys who are rabid McCain/Palin supporters and who hate Obama with every fiber of their being. They are forwarding e-mails warning their friends and family that Obama had a Pakistani roommate when he was a freshman in college who he later visited in Pakistan; that he was once associated with Tony Rezko, who was named Entrepreneur of the Decade by the Arab-American
Business and Professional Association; that he had his friends at Columbia University call him Barack instead of Barry. Really, shouldn't they just simplify the e-mail and say what they really are thinking: Obama is a Muslim-loving pseudo terrorist who is going to turn his back on Israel and destroy the Jews.

These are one-issue Jews who are buying the same rhetoric that uniformed, ignorant, uneducated Americans are buying. I have found this beyond frustrating and have really been grappling with the reality that Jews and democrats have become fire and ice. The worst part is there is nothing I can do about it except let it be known that I am disgusted. Well that, and wear my Obama t-shirt to the Jewish Food Festival this weekend.

UPDATE
As I was writing this very blog entry from the Starbucks in 12 Oaks, my friend (who was wearing a "Pro-Woman, Anti-Palin" button) and I were approached by a man who questioned us for supporting Obama. He was angry. Foaming at the mouth angry. I don't think he recognized me, but I recognized him. He is Jewish.

*******
A QUOTE FROM THE JEWS FOR OBAMA WEBSITE
"We believe it is extremely important to show Jewish support for Obama's campaign, not only because of his well-known support of Israel's peace and security, but because Obama is aligned with Judaism's major moral and ethical values, including Tikkun Olam, social justice, the environment, education, family, and civil rights."

ARTICLE BY ALAN DERSHOWITZ
Why I Support Israel and Obama
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alan-dershowitz/why-i-support-israel-and_b_135660.html

My Confession

2008-10-15T06:38:00.001-07:00

I think it's only fair that I issue a warning to my friends: I am a dangerous person with connections to an array of very questionable and evil individuals. There are several red flags that you all should know about.

Let me start with the present. There are two Muslim women who I occasionally chat with at my son's school. One I'm pretty sure is a convert, which makes her all the more dangerous, and the other is from Jerusalem. They dress traditionally and cover their heads. I know what you are thinking: how could I speak to anyone with ties to Islam? How could I betray Israel?

And my past. Wow. Where do I even start? One of Jonah's friends who spent quite a bit of time at our house is currently serving 10 years in prison for armed robbery. He just couldn't lick his crack addiction and robbed a taxi driver in order to get a fix. He also was shot once when he tried to buy drugs. We even visited him at the hospital. Since I do consider him a friend and spent countless hours entertaining him at our house, it can only mean that I support violence and the legalization of crack.

Jonah's family has a lot of questionable connections. His mother spent time in Cuba, and one of his cousins is a communist who lives is Belgium. If you put A and B together, you have probably figured out by now that Jonah must be a communist too, and since I'm his wife, I am a communist by association.

One of my relatives participated in a horrendous racially charged crime many years ago, which means that I am indeed a racist. I have another relative who has been in and out of jail for drugs, among other offenses. But you already know how I feel about drugs and crime.

My former rabbi, whom I deeply miss, was very hawkish. Once he gave a rousing sermon from the bima practically calling us to arms in the Middle East. You guessed it, that makes me a war monger. If I disagreed with him so much, I most certainly would have abruptly left his congregation.

So please, steer clear from me. Distrust me at all costs. And be sure to copy and paste this in an email and forward it to all of your friends. It is important that everyone out there knows that I am a Muslim-loving communist and racist who advocates for violence and drug use and wants to obliterate the Middle East off the map.

Sarah Palin Part I: A Sonnet

2008-10-12T12:31:00.000-07:00

From out of nowhere to McCain's VP
A mom of five, a former beauty queen
A choice that even Fox could not foresee
A hockey mom a shader pale than green

A few days in, surprise, Bristol's with child
The "redneck" dad flies to the RNC
They're set to wed! Their image is restyled!
The right rejoice (for she is white, you see)

But something lurks behind her fabled specs
Of books despised and jilted former friends
The use of clout to axe her sister's ex
All this news her dear ole John defends.

The former mayor of meth-town USA
Is president...just one heartbeat away.

An Ode to Coffee: A Sonnet

2008-10-11T07:26:00.001-07:00

Each morn I wake to your delightful smell
Aroma wafts, my senses start to wake
On night's transgressions I no longer dwell
A new day dawns, for it is what I make

The grounds hit water, singing to the gods
Delicious liquid dripping slowly down
From little beans, from heaven's tiny pods
A magic berry turned from green to brown

The glass carafe is filled with nature's gold
Steaming hot and ready to be poured
Though at your nearest Starbucks it is sold
My own brewed pot is what is most adored

I take that first and most delicious sip
My long day's journey now a pleasant trip.

A Reflection on Perfection

2008-10-09T19:44:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure whether I love Angelina Jolie or loathe her. Pictures surfaced over the weekend of her and Brad Pitt at the premiere of her new movie. Just three months after giving birth to twins and with four other children under the age of 7 at home, she looked fan-fucking-tabulous. There were no obvious signs of baby weight, her hair and makeup were flawless and there was nary a sign of sleepless nights. I always knew that Angelina Jolie was superhuman, but this was just plain old ridiculous.

Now I know what most people are thinking: she has nannies out of the wazoo, personal trainers and chefs, and a team of hair and makeup artists. I'm sure that the latter is true, but I don't get the impression that she is a hands-off Hollywood mom who does nothing but exercise and order her nannies around. On the contrary, she seems very involved, and from what I've read, it is she and Brad who answer the middle-of-the-night wakeup calls from the kids. Oh, and did I mention she breastfeeds?

To some extent, Angelina makes the rest of us look like terrible mothers. With just two kids, I am forever frazzled, do not have the energy or willpower to commit to a diet or exercise regimen, and leave the house every day in nothing more than jeans and a face that is more flawed than flawless.

But while I surely envy Angelina and her supermom persona, I also think she is a much-needed public figure. For years, having a baby was a surefire one-way ticket to frumpiness. In some ways, Angelina gives us mothers something to strive for. You don't have to give up your sense of self just because you are a mom. You don't have to ditch your sophisticated duds for tattered, ill-fitting maternity wear once the baby has arrived. You may not be able to afford a makeup artist and hair stylist, but you can surely spend an extra few minutes slapping on concealer and mascara and flat ironing your hair.

So maybe it's time we stop rolling our eyes at Angelina and all the Hollywood moms who seem to transform back into their old selves before their six-week post-partum checkup. Maybe it's time we learn from them and try to transform ourselves too. And if we wake up next to Brad Pitt in the morning, that will just be the icing on the cake.

Obama's Kool-Aid

2008-10-08T05:41:00.000-07:00

Yes, my friends, I would drink Obama's Kool-Aid. I don't remember feeling this invigorated about a politician, well, ever. I admit I was pretty excited back in 2004 when my co-workers and I ditched work for a John Edwards rally in Johnson Square. And when Howard Dean first came onto the scene, I even left the confines of my home and dragged my baby to a Dean meeting at the public library. Of course, that was before Edwards' infidelities and Dean's infamous "wooooo" speech. Nonetheless, I was never totally enamored with either of them. They were a refreshing change from Bush, but they didn't have any big impact on my outlook or my patriotism.

Michelle Obama was put on a stake for saying, "for the first time in my adult life I am proud of my country because it feels like hope is finally making a comeback.” Of course she was forced to clarify her comments, make retractions and kiss up to the pundits at Fox News. But I think she had a pretty valid point. Obama's "Got Hope?" campaign really rings true to those of us who totally lost hope over the past eight years. When Jonah and I went to Europe five years ago, I was honestly embarrassed to tell people that I was an American. I'm sure I will be raked over the coals by republicans and democrats alike for a statement like that, but that is truly how I felt at the time.

The fact that our country nominated Obama as the democratic candidate speaks volumes about how far we've come as a country since that trip to Europe in 2003. I may have liked Edwards and Dean back in 2004, but the public decided that Kerry was the better choice. The democrats for whatever reason weren't ready for a revolution back then. We are now. The fact that we can rally together for that kind of change is what is so great about this country.

So now why would I drink Obama's Kool-Aid? The man is just so convincing when he speaks. Obviously being a great public speaker isn't the only quality I want in a president, but it definitely gives him or her credibility on the world stage and even right here at home. There is something to be said for a president who can come on TV during a State of the Union address and actually reassure Americans. I don't think that anyone can argue that Bush's speeches and State of the Union addresses have restored hope in America.

So pass me the Oh-Yeah Orange-Pineapple. I'm ready to take a big sip.

Will the Real VPILF Please Stand Up!

2008-10-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

As soon as Sarah Palin came on to the scene, the hype began: she's a MILF, a VPILF, a sexy librarian-like figure who men all over America are secretly fantasizing about. I think it's about time to even the playing field. Joe Biden is kind of hot. I'm not sure if it was his piercing blue eyes, his smug confidence or his superior intelligence, but after the debates last night, I think he stole a little of Palin's VPILF thunder.

I've been more than a little irritated by all of the attention Palin's looks have received over the past five weeks. Maybe it's a catty female thing, but I just don't get it. She certainly has attractive qualities, but she's no Angelina Jolie or Giselle Bundchen. She's not sultry like Megan Fox or cute and perky like Elisha Cuthbert.

Of course, there haven't exactly been too many attractive female politicians for men to pine over in the United States. Madeline Albright, Geraldine Ferraro, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Janet Reno. The pickings are pretty slim. Not to say that there aren't any attractive female politicians. I think Condoleezza Rice is kind of cute. Stephanie Herseth Sandlin, a Congresswoman from South Dakota, is down right pretty (okay, I had never heard of her either, but she turned up on a google search of attractive female politicians). While Sarah Palin surely falls on the higher end of the female politician attractiveness meter, there is something almost shrewish about her. But maybe that has more to do with her politics than her appearance.

Now back to my new-found crush on Joe Biden. He is the college professor you would have requested office hours with, even if you really didn't have a legitimate issue to discuss. He is the older man with the trophy wife whose motives you don't really question. He is the man who steps onto the elevator and makes you blush. And god willing, he will be the next Vice President of the United States.

The Last Things To Go

2008-10-02T10:25:00.001-07:00

In this abysmal economy, it seems like everyone is figuring out what to cut out of their lives. The first things that we kicked to the curb were our home water delivery and our private recycling pickup. There are several other things that are getting ready for the chopping block, among them my online Weight Watchers subscription and our daily newspaper delivery.

Most of these services are not being cut just to save money; some are a matter of practicality. We can get filtered water from our refrigerator, I can take the recyclables to the nearby recycling facility myself, I can read the newspaper online (which I do anyway while the newspaper itself collects dust), and I have more than proven that I cannot follow Weight Watchers for more than a couple of days at a time.

But there are some luxuries that I am not willing to give up so quickly. These will definitely be the last things to go.

1. Batdorf and Bronson coffee. I may not be good at many things, but I excel at making a cup of coffee. I attribute my coffee-making abilities to knowing the exact proportion of water to coffee grounds (believe me, it's not what they say on the packaging) and to the coffee itself--Dancing Goats, Ethiopia Yirgacheffe, Yemen Mocha, Sumatra Lake Tawar. Each one is better than the next. I am unwilling to even try a different or cheaper coffee.

2. Red wine. No surprises here, given the name of my blog. I will not scale back to one or two glasses a week in the name of saving money. Can't do it. Now I am willing to stick to cheaper bottles ($11.99 and under). In fact, I've never been particularly comfortable spending much more than that on wine. And I should point out that Habersham Beverage Warehouse gives a 10% discount when you buy 12 bottles at a time, so you better believe I will do the prudent thing and stock up in volume.

3. My hair. I'll use drugstore shampoo from here to eternity, but I will not part ways with my hair stylist. I've had enough bad hair experiences in the past (hello, junior year of college...no wonder my dating life came to a near standstill that year) to know that you can't mess around with your hair. I did promise myself I wouldn't buy any salon products (okay, so I do occassionally splurge on products that promise to get rid of the frizz), but my hairstylist showed me the most incredible hair product ever yesterday. It would have been a disservice to my hair not to buy it. But that's it.

So there you have it. The last three things I am unwilling to give up. I'm willing to downgrade our cable package, put a moratorium on all new clothes and shoes and majorly scale back on take-out before I am willing to give up those things. Of course, the way things are looking right now, I'll be drinking Folgers, guzzling Two Buck Chuck every other week and going to Fantastic Sams for a trim before it's all over.

An Open Letter

2008-10-01T05:39:00.000-07:00

Dear City of Savannah and Chatham County,

I have lived in your lovely city and county for 29 of my 34 years. In all that time, I have never asked for anything, until now. There are many crucial issues facing our community: crime, poverty, economic growth, etc. But there is one issue that you seem to have overlooked. It is an issue that you must deal with in order to keep this citizen productive and happy. You must synchronize the lights so that I can make it from my house to Country Day in a timely fashion.

Perhaps you don't understand the extreme stress of trying to get your child to school by 8 a.m. Perhaps you aren't aware of the many factors that make getting out of the door with a 2 year old and a 4 year old next to impossible. Perhaps you have never spent 5 minutes of your valuable morning time searching for a sippy cup.

When I put my key into the ignition of my Toyota Sienna at 7:39 a.m., I have an expectation that there is some chance I might pull into the Country Day traffic circle by 8:00 a.m. My hope starts to diminish when I miss the first light at the Village. I start breaking out into a cold sweat as I approach the lights (yes, two consecutive lights that can't be more than 50 feet apart) on Whitefield Avenue by the Truman Parkway entrance. The lights like to taunt me. If I make the first, the second is sure to turn red before I make it through.

Fortunately, you never run radar at the point where Whitefield splits into two north-bound lanes, so I start to pick up the pace. I momentarily get distracted by the new signs that announce the impending opening of the Cajun Grill Cafe, a drive-through that will be serving my family dinner at least once a week whether the food is good or not. My excitement about the restaurant is tempered when I am the first car to miss the light at Waters Avenue and Montgomery Cross Road. Although missing the light enables me to pass breakfast back to my children, change the album on the ipod and assess the state of my hair, it also is the kiss of death. There is no way I will make it to Country Day on time.

Once my luck has run this dry, there is no point expecting that I will make any other lights. I know that I am going to miss the light at Montgomery Cross Road and Hodgson Memorial, as well as the crucial light at Montgomery Cross Road and White Bluff. The three or four lights along White Bluff are pretty insignificant at this point. I will miss them for sure, but it won't matter.

So, my dear city and county, could you please see to it that I make that first light at the Village? Could you then synchronize all of the remaining lights from that point forth? Because, really, mile-wise it's not all that far to Country Day. But my morning commute seems to take an eternity.

Sincerely,
Amy Pine

P.S. If you ever find yourself in a budget shortfall, you might want to consider running radar on Whitefield.

Reality Bites

2008-09-29T05:56:00.000-07:00

I've tried in earnest to blog on a more regular basis, but I'm finding it increasingly difficult. I really intended this blog to be more about motherhood than anything else. Then a little thing came along called Sarah Palin, and I have found blogging about her to be particularly irresistible. But after last week, I have plenty of personal things to blog about. The only problem is, I can't do it. It must be my Jewish guilt.

When the Real World debuted back in the 1990s and people began living lives of debauchery in front of TV cameras, I always wondered how many Jews would be included in the mix. Most of the Jews I know, present company included, could never have a life filled with drugs, heavy alcohol consumption, cigarettes and random sex documented on TV. What if their mom watched? Or their grandparents? Or their great aunt Miriam?

It reminds me of the time Jonah and I both watched in horror as his law partner Wallace smoked a cigarette at an event that included all of his family members. Mind you, Wallace was probably 30 years old at the time, but how could he smoke in front of his parents? Wouldn't they be be shocked, horrified, mortified, appalled? That's when it became clear to me--Jews and non Jews operate in totally different spheres. If Jonah and I had been caught with a cigarette, even at the age of 30, we would have been written out of our parents' wills.

With that in mind, I will not blog about the events of the past week. Nor will I ever write a memoir, though I think I could come up with enough juicy details to fill at least a couple hundred pages. But I will try to blog more often, even if it means I have to continue focusing all of my attention on an inexperienced twit with a grating voice that may become the leader of the free world.

Rock On!

2008-09-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

So the potential future Vice President of the United States of America named her newborn son Trig Paxton Van Palin because, according to her friend, it rhymed with Van Halen, and that would be a cool thing to do. Um, okay.

I'm not going to lie. Even if my best friend pulled a stunt like that I would mock her endlessly behind her back. I'm a fan of rock music (not Van Halen, per se, but I think Jonah has a few of their pre-Sammy Hagar CDs floating around), but to name your child after a band? I would maybe expect that from a young mother working a blue collar job (at a Walmart, say), but not from someone who is poised to have control over those fabled buttons at the White House that could lead to World War III.

In that respect, I'm like Bill Maher, who has been called a snob by critics who find it appalling that he wants an intellectual in the White House (or Number One Observatory Circle, as the case may be). I could not agree with him more. Being intellectual is not the only quality I want in a world leader, but it is certainly one of many that I would like him or her to possess. I want someone who had drive, even from a young age. Someone who went to a four-year college, had a serious major, and went on to receive a higher degree. I do not want someone who went to five colleges in a short period of time, received only an undergraduate degree in communications, worked as a sportscaster and named her kid after a rock band.

In the words of Van Halen:

Is not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough

Severing All Ties

2008-09-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

Difficult as it may be, I am going to resist the temptation to write another post about Sarah Palin. Instead I am going to focus on poor old me. After a four-and-a-half year battle with carpal tunnel syndrome, I am finally going to go under the knife and (hopefully) take care of the problem for good.

I always thought that carpal tunnel was something that secretaries got when they typed too many letters. Turns out that pregnancy hormones also can lead to carpal tunnel. I didn't know this at the time; instead, I was diagnosed by Jonah's chess/poker buddy Don who may be a rough-and-tumble guy but apparently knows a lot about pregnancy-related ailments. Don was right, and my OB referred me to a plastic surgeon who gave me a single, glorious shot of cortisone in my wrist that put an end to my sleepless nights of endless hand shaking.

Eight months after Sarah was born, the carpal tunnel returned. This time the plastic surgeon wouldn't give me a shot. He said surgery was my only option. I sought a second opinion with an orthopedist who specializes in the hand (who knew?), and he agreed to give me another shot.

One pregnancy and a couple of shots later and my luck ran out. The carpal tunnel has returned yet again, and unless there's a back alley doctor willing to give me a cortisone shot on the sly, surgery it is.

The procedure is actually quite simple. The doctor gives me a local anesthetic, makes and two-inch incision in my wrist and then severs my median nerve. It takes all of 15 minutes. I guess the median nerve is a pretty useless body part. Well, I hope so at least.

I'm not quite sure what I'm more nervous about--the procedure itself, the recovery or whether I'll blurt out something completely embarrassing while I'm under the local anesthetic. And I can't help but wonder, if carpal tunnel occurs frequently with pregnancy, and Sarah Palin has been pregnant five times...

UPDATE
I was mistaken. They did not sever my median nerve. Apparently that would be a bad, bad thing.

Community Organizer 0, Sportscaster 1

2008-09-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

Those republicans sure are a snarky bunch. Making fun of Obama's position as a community organizer two decades ago seems to be at the top of their attack strategies list. I'm not going to make an argument as to why being a community organizer is a noble job. Anyone with half a brain should be able to figure out how that kind of a position would make a nice segue into politics. What I would like to do is make a list of what some other key republicans were doing in their careers when they were Obama's age.

So Obama was around 24 when he began working as a community organizer in Chicago. When Sarah Palin was 24, she worked as as a sportccaster for a station in Anchorage and also helped with the Palin family's commercial fishing business. When Rudolph Giuliani (perhaps the snarkiest republican of all when it comes to Obama's work as a community organizer) was around the same age, he worked as a law clerk but was given notice that he was considered available for military service. His application for a deferment was subsequently rejected. When George W. Bush was 24, he was rejected from the University of Texas School of Law. When California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger was 24, he was body building. You get the idea.

The republicans are focusing on Obama's work as a community organizer to the exclusion of all else. They seem to forget that he was editor of the Harvard Law Review, a member of the Illinois State Senate and a United States Senator.

But hey, I guess when it comes time for the president or vice president to throw out a pitch at a Major League Baseball game, Palin's work as a 24-year-old sports reporter will give her a major advantage.

I'll Be Packing My Bags

2008-09-03T18:18:00.000-07:00

I used to think, "well, I don't like McCain, but he's not that bad. He's no Bush." Now that this whole Sarah Palin thing is sinking in, those thoughts that swirled around my head in 2000 and 2004 are starting to come back. Canada? Amsterdam? Where will I move if this woman becomes the Vice President of the United States of America?

Obviously my threats over the past eight years were empty. I'm still right here in Savannah (the heart of the South, no less). But Sarah Palin? The more I learn about her, the more frightened I become. I know this whole "one heartbeat away from being the President" thing is cliché, but it's true. I can think of a million horrid republicans I'd rather see in her spot. Even Condoleezza Rice is an easier pill to swallow. At least I can actually picture Rice meeting with important world leaders.

And this whole teen pregnancy thing. Yes, the private lives of the candidates' families should technically be left out of the election, especially in the case of minors. But her stance on abstinence education makes this issue almost impossible to overlook. Her daughter's pregnancy betrays the fallacy of her argument. Hey Sarah, your daughter was going to bang the studly hockey player no matter what. Maybe if she had explored her birth control options, she wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.

It would have been the equivalent of Bush making one of his campaign platforms minimum mandatory sentences for carrying a fake ID. Or Clinton rallying to impose fines on people who have extramarital affairs. Or like certain republicans opposing gay rights when they're being busted for soliciting sex with same-sex partners in airport bathrooms. Oh wait, that happened.

I could go on and on. And I'm sure I will in the days and weeks that come. But clearly if I'm pining for someone more like Condoleezza Rice, something is terribly, terribly wrong. And by god, Canada and Amsterdam are too cold.

I'm Running for VP!

2008-08-31T13:19:00.000-07:00

Well, not really. But I do share one thing in common with Sarah Palin--we were both communications majors in college. I actually received a double major in English and communications, and my communications degree is from the Annenberg School at the University of Pennsylvania, so it wasn't your usual fluff (though I did take a class called Communications, Culture and the Sexual Minority, which involved watching a lot of gay porn). I don't know. I'm just having a hard time picturing her as Vice President. If I want a former beauty queen with nothing more than an undergraduate degree in communications to be my VP, I'll join the Junior League.

In all seriousness, I dislike Palin for her political beliefs, not for her résumé. Of course we don't know that much about her yet (just give the Democratic spinsters some more time), but so far we've learned that she thinks that creationism should be taught in public schools, is against abortion even in the case of rape or incest, thinks humans are not responsible for global warming, wanted to take polar bears off the extinction list so it wouldn't interfere with drilling for oil in Alaska and supported Pat Buchanan during his 2000 bid for President. I'm not really sure if I want to know any more.

On the bright side, I'm enjoying the fact that people think she's a MILF, or a VPILF (see www.vpilf.com). Hey, if men around America start ogling over a 44-year-old mother of five, there's hope for me yet!

Coming Full Circle

2008-08-10T07:30:00.001-07:00

I can't believe that Sarah is about to start Pre-K. In eight days to be exact. I'm not really sure what I'm more nervous about--how she'll fare as one of the youngest kids in her class, whether she can hoist herself onto the potty all by herself, my ability to regularly launder her uniforms, or the tall, skinny, blonde trophy wife mommies who will join and intimidate me in the carpool line.

Actually my biggest fear is getting her to school by 8 a.m. five days a week. Given my track record for punctuality, the odds are definitely not in my favor. Sure, I got her to school on time sometimes last year. By sometimes, I mean probably less than 10 times total. Her preschool last year started at 9 a.m. It was closer too. And the traffic was pretty light at 8:30 a.m., and I only had one school zone to drive through. Come August 19, I will have to brave 7:30 a.m. traffic and three, yes three, school zones.

It's also very weird that Sarah will be attending my Alma Mater. I never thought that I'd live in Savannah as an adult, so having a child follow in my footsteps is a strange concept to grasp. I hope that she has a great experience and that the school lives up to its current hype--and expense. And I hope more than anything else that Sarah will never have to face a Saturday detention as I once did for being habitually late to school.

Burning Down the House

2008-07-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

So I almost burned down my house today. With a diaper bag and a toaster. Let me explain.

We took the kids to Tybee, and as soon as we got home, I tossed my diaper bag on the kitchen counter and headed straight to the shower with the kids. The shower should've been an indication of how the rest of the afternoon would go. The water wasn’t draining properly so we were standing in a few inches of sandy, greasy water. Before I could stop her, Sarah announced she was making a “tee-tee” in the shower (a lovely trick that daddy taught her back when the water was draining properly). I tried to shuffle Caleb to the back of the shower and bathe him quickly. He started to wail before the shampoo even touched his head. “Mama poohwah,” he said, which in Caleb speak means “mommy, pick me up.” I had to hold him for the duration of the shower.

Sarah on the other hand, was having a blast sitting in the sandy, greasy and now urine-filled water. I’m still not sure where Jonah was during all of this. One thing is clear, he was not in the kitchen or the dining room, otherwise he would’ve been the first to discover the smoldering diaper bag.

I took Caleb out quickly since he was clearly miserable and hopefully ready for a nap. At the same time, Jonah came into the bathroom and got into the shower with Sarah (luckily for him, the water finally drained). I was preparing to get my robe on and get Caleb ready for his nap, when I smelled something burning.

When we had first come in from the beach, I noticed that the house still smelled like the bagel I had scorched earlier in the morning. At first I thought to myself, “wow, I can’t believe that burnt bagel still smells so potent.” I walked out of the bedroom, still in my towel, and noticed smoke. As I walked into the dining room, the smoke got thicker. I followed the smoke all the way to the kitchen, remaining unusually calm for reasons I still don’t understand.

I walked over to the toaster—a Cusinart two-slice model. To operate the toaster, you push down the lever, and after a couple of minutes, your food is ready and the lever pops back up. But the leaver was down—had clearly been down for a long time thanks to the large bag bearing down on it—and burning to a nice crisp on the hot rod was the plastic strap of my $250 Mia Bossi diaper bag.

I immediately removed the rapidly melting strap and turned off the toaster. I turned the hood fan on by the stove and opened the screen door in the dining room. Then I looked down the hallway at the smoke detector with an evil and unsympathetic eye and wondered why the hell it didn’t go off.

So now I have to replace the toaster, which has melted Mia Bossi diaper bag strap plastic caked in it, and send an email to Mia Bossi explaining the situation and asking if they have any replacement straps (the strap was removable, so all hope is not lost). But all of those things are irrelevant. I am truly grateful that I noticed the burning diaper bag in time, otherwise I might be looking at the rubble that once was my kitchen right now.

Still, I have lingering questions. Where was Jonah and does he actually have two functioning eyes and the ability to smell? Why didn’t my cat, Yum Yums, come running into the bathroom meowing like crazy to let us know something was amiss? How is it that I’ve never burned anything in this toaster, yet I charred two things in one day? Is this a sign from above that I should potty train Caleb and start using a purse again?

Welcome!

2008-07-20T14:59:00.000-07:00

This is my official attempt to enter the world of blogging. I must admit that I am kind of a blogging virgin. I am not a regular blog reader, unless you count Perez Hilton, which I only read to take my mind off the demands of motherhood. Seriously. I have no interest in David Beckham, Britney, Lindsay, Paris, Nicole, Brangelina and their brood, Posh and Becks, Kate Hudson, Kate Bosworth, Cate Blanchett, Kate Winslet, Kate Beckinsale or Katie Holmes. Did I mention David Beckham? I honestly barely even peaked at his Armani underwear ad that Perez posted on his site.

Anyway, I digress. I decided to name my blog Mommy Loves Red Wine for obvious reasons. I’m a mommy to two wonderful and completely energy-draining children—Sarah, age 4 (well in two weeks), and Caleb, age 2—and I love red wine—my beverage of choice when the kids are finally in bed. I usually guzzle about one-and-a-half to twoish glasses of red wine every night. I occasionally sip directly out of the bottle, though I usually don’t calculate that into my nightly allotment of wine (which, when I’m strictly sticking to Weight Watchers, is 3.5 points a night). A sip here and there shouldn’t count, right?

Of course I’m no wine expert. I know that I like cabernet and shiraz and sometimes malbec or the likes, but I’m pretty sure I was the demographic the guy who wrote “Wine for Dummies” had in mind when he penned his book.

Come to think of it, I’m really not a kid expert either. Despite the fact that I gave birth to two children and have watched them blossom into active and inquisitive toddlers, I still have a lot to learn. Let’s just say I won’t be teaching the parenthood preparation class at your local hospital any time soon.

I suspect that I will blog a lot about motherhood and my trial-by-fire approach to parenthood, but I may also cover topics such as politics, celebrities, current events, etc. While I may not dedicate an entire entry to David Beckham’s Armani underwear ad, I hope that my blog will prove just as awe-inspiring, glorious and colossal as, well never mind.