Smithwick's Is My Homie (Or being Irish-American)

At my favorite bar, the owner/bartender can do a perfect pour of Guinness. That's a big deal, because it's flippin' hard to create a shamrock on top of a glass of beer. Things like that impress me because, you see, I'm a crazy Irish-American girl.   There are quite a few of us out there, and we're sometimes pretty stereotypical.  So much so that there is a trending topic called  #irishgirlproblems on Twitter right now.

I think we have a lot of those. Problems, that is.

For one thing, not only is my skin the color of chalk (except when I drink; then it turns an angry shade of red on all of my facial extremities), not only do I have freckles (which I have grown to love), but I have the bad Irish teeth. Ask anyone of Irish/Anglo descent, and they will tell you that their bill at the dentist's office is outrageous. I was lucky and didn't get the crooked-row-of-tombstones set of chompers that many of my Celtic brethren and sisters have, they're just bad. Like, I can brush my teeth three times a day and I still get cavities. My first root canal was performed when I was only 8. And they're yellow. Yeah, I probably drink too much coffee and red wine, but even after bleaching them, they're still yellow. I don't like to be photographed next to my friends with their shiny white teeth. I look like a meth whore in comparison.

Irish hair is crazy, too. In my family, you either have jet-black hair and olive skin(from the lucky Cherokee side) or you're some shade of ginger. I belong in the ginger category. I was born a coppery strawberry blonde, and my hair deepened to a mousy reddish-brown by 4th grade. I was hittin' the old Clairol by my senior year to become a fiery redhead. I have since dyed it every shade of red known to man. My brother is a strawberry blonde, my niece is a lush auburn, and my great-nephew is a complete carrot-top. There was so much red hair in my wedding party, even the pastor commented on it. And there is a LOT of frizz in this family. My hair grows exponentially when exposed to any humidity.  We all burn like crazy. SPF 75 is a must in this family. Oh, and did I mention that I have no eyelashes unless I wear mascara? That's another plus of being Irish! Your face lacks complete expression without makeup! If you're an Irish guy, you're just screwed. Sorry about that.

                                                Photo courtesy of The Atlantic


 Irish-heritage people get real excited when they hear bagpipes. Put some bagpipes and a bodhran in an American pub, and you'll see us freak out. If you add a fiddle and a tin-whistle, get out of the way - it's like somebody just mainlined musical heroin into our veins. We love music; we're infected by it. My grandfather was a fiddler, and my dad has told me lots of stories of his gatherings, where all of the people in his tiny town would come to hear him play reels and country dances. It was a foot-stomping good time - with arms tightly down to the sides, of course.

Next comes the language. Gaelic is still spoken in some areas of Ireland and Scotland, and it is a confusing language, because it sounds NOTHING like it looks.  In some ways it's like French, with the soft consonants. For instance the name Siobhan is pronounced "Sha-von" . My favorite is Dun Laoghaire, a small coastal town in Cork where some of my family hails from. The first time I pronounced it, I sounded like I was hacking up a lung-cookie. It's pronounced, "Dun Leery."  Oh, and if you hear someone say "slawnt ya", they like you and they probably have a drink in their hand. You should touch your drink to theirs. It's polite.

One of my biggest pet-peeves is when people call St Patrick's Day "St. Patty's Day". That is wrong. That would make it Saint Patricia's day. Padraigh is Patrick in Gaelic. Thus, the correct shortened name is "St. Paddy's Day". Paddy is a common term of endearment for men named Patrick in Ireland.  I know, I'm a freaking snob.

Ever notice how many writers and musicians are from Ireland or have Irish heritage? A lot. That's because Irish people are pretty melancholy, on the whole. Depression usually = creativity. Have you ever known a truly happy Irish writer? Really? They usually are a flummoxed sort. Not particularly social, kind of moody, talk to themselves a lot. I mean, Van Morrison has one happy song. I'm glad that brown-eyed girl made him happy long enough  to give us that one. James Joyce? Have you read "Ulysses?" Yeah, let's just assume Joyce was probably a bit schizophrenic. And if you really want to cheer yourself up, read "Angela's Ashes."  We like to write about death, ghosts rattling around, and crazy women in attics.  My husband is a saint. That is all I am saying.

With all of that said, I'm a proud Irish-American. When I read stories about Brian Boru, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Boadicea, and my own Kennedy ancestors -  who escaped the potato famine to come to this country, I feel very proud to have green in my blood. Sure, there are the clan wars,  Protestant vs. Catholic troubles, and the abject poverty as well. But those things are all part of a rich culture which has survived many centuries of attempted extermination. Now, the Irish are a worldwide diaspora - in every country and continent on earth. And I jam out to Flogging Molly and the Chieftains in my car every chance I get, even though those damned bagpipes are to blame for two speeding tickets. Oops.

Slainte!

Prime

"I wish I could go back and shake myself."  There comes a time in your life when we all feel that way. Perhaps it's regret over a missed opportunity; a moment when you wake up and realize that you made a mistake. But did you? Or are you just learning?

Pretty much most of my teens and twenties were spent this way; thinking back over things I had said or done - things which I thought were right at the time and turned out to be bad. Asking Eric R. to the school dance and having him reject me in front of his friends - merely embarrassing. Quitting piano, when I was in the midst of becoming a concert pianist? I still regret that one.  That was laziness. I got sick of the Czerny etudes and not having long, beautiful fingernails. My piano teacher made me cut them almost to the quick. I continually rebelled. I was 19, ok?

So, then you hit your thirties, and a light switch goes off. At least, that was my experience. You start looking at your life as something more than the expectations you, or others, held.  It's strange. Suddenly, it's not so much about what others think of you. Sure, that should still matter. But you are more rational about it. Does that chick at Village Inn really hate you because you didn't figure her tip correctly, and you left coffee creamer spilled on the table? No.  It's kind of a narcissism, really, to think people care that much about what you have said or done. I guarantee they are more wrapped up in their own issues and problems.

So here are some things I have learned as I've gotten older, and maybe you have too:

1. Life is about relationships. It really is. The people who are in our lives, whether by blood or by choice, have incredible influence and importance to us.  Do you really think, on your deathbed, that you are going to be thinking about that Prada handbag you should have bought with your income tax return 20 years ago? No, you're going to be thinking about your daughter's first steps, the first time you kissed your future husband or wife, your grandmother coloring with you on the carpet while Andy Griffith flickered on the TV. These memories are the imprint - the things that we are meant to focus on.  I can remember feeling devastated when I thought I had lost my best friend in 4th grade. People matter.Work is important, but the people that love us should come first.

2. Do what you love. This goes for work, hobbies, or just rolling down a steep hill on a summer day.  At some point, the child that is inside us lost their childhood joy. I know of people who were stuck at a job that they hated for forty years. Why? Money. Money and fear. Why should things that don't matter control us?  See above if you think otherwise. Go after what you want. Yes, it may be hard to break those golden handcuffs. It may mean giving up some luxuries that you thought you couldn't live without. But why should your job, your toxic relationship, the boundaries that you have closed  around yourself  relegate you to a life of quiet despair? Listen to "Ants Marching" by Dave Matthews and you'll see what I mean. He puts it into better words than I.

3. Do something completely unpredictable, and conquer a fear.  Whether it's taking a class that you never thought you'd be interested in, going skydiving, or taking a trip somewhere "dangerous", you need this. When I was in my twenties, I was absolutely terrified to drive on a highway. I'm not joking. I would drive every surface street in Springfield to avoid 65 and I-44. One day, when I was 30 years old, I decided I would conquer that fear. I drove all the way to St. Louis with my daughter. I was shaking when I took that entrance ramp. I survived! And then I was pleasantly surprised with how enjoyable the open road was. I went on drives every weekend after that. And now I live for driving in big cities.  Nothing is more exhilarating than flying along a highway, with the radio blaring and the wind in your hair. I'm a late bloomer, but when I bloom - watch out!

4. Sexy has nothing to do with what you see in the mirror. It has everything to do with confidence. There's a reason why Ben Franklin was a notorious playboy, after all. The guy had it. Sure, he may have been a bit on the chubby side and losing his hair, but who cares. I have seen this phenomena play out many times.  You see the dashingly handsome guy with the plain-jane (to our eyes) girl, or vice versa. You wonder - how did she end up with HIM?  The great seducer, Casanova, in his memoirs wrote that it was all in how he made women feel about themselves. It was less about what they saw, and more about how they FELT when they were with him. Ladies, I am telling you, spend less time obsessing over your waistline and your beauty treatments, and cultivate your intellect, your charm, and your sense of humor. How do you think I snagged my guy? It wasn't dumb luck and a Playboy Bunny physique. I challenge him.  Oh, and that brings me to my next point:

5. You don't NEED a man. Get the word NEED out of your vocabulary when it comes to romantic relationships. Neediness is the number one turn-off for anyone.  The man(or woman) should be the cherry on the top of an otherwise full life. When you get to the point in your life when you are happy and settled being alone, then you will probably meet someone with whom you can share.  I see the serial relationship mistake all too often - the fear of a cold bed drives people into the next warm one they can find. I met my  current husband after a divorce, two deaths, and a whole two years of cultivating myself.  It wasn't easy. There were lots of nights spent wondering if I would play out the rest of  my years alone. But I would be damned if I would settle. And then I met the boy who spun my world around, and  with whom I could talk about the Fibonacci sequence and Chopin  over coffee and who liked salty Irish food.  The sundae that was my life became even sweeter.

6. I never knew how much my heart could grow until I was loved by a child. Children aren't for everyone, and I do not judge anyone for not wanting children. Kudos if  you know that about yourself . There are also plenty of parents out there who should have been required to take a test before breeding. But for me there is nothing like the intense and complete madness which is unconditional love.  I would easily starve, kill, or maim for my daughter. She is the single most important thing in my life, at any moment.  Children really do change everything.

When her father died, it threw my world into a terrifying plethora of fears. What if I died? What would happen to her? My health became my most important asset. The frailty and challenges of single motherhood were a hothouse of emotion.  In any given day, I was frazzled, laughing my ass off at her antics, and then crying uncontrollably. When she stopped breathing in my arms one cold February night, my whole world felt like it was slipping from my grasp. As it turns out, it was a fever seizure, and a few hours and an ambulance trip to the hospital, she was fine. When you have a child, it's as if your heart has decided to take a merry jaunt outside your body, and isn't coming back anytime soon. It is the most powerful emotion I have ever experienced.  I would not trade a carefree life for it, ever.


As I round out the years of my thirties, and await 40 in just three short years, I am very thankful for all of the mistakes I've made, those embarrassing moments, as well as the times when I didn't totally hate myself.  I dust off my Czerny etudes every now and then, and listen to my long fingernails clack on the piano keys.  I'm in my prime, thank you. And I can't wait to see what the future holds.

An Irrational Fears Compendium

I'm a quirky individual. You probably have gathered that by now. If you've stuck with me this far, you are possibly OK with that. So, now that I'm in my safe place, I'm going to share some very interesting tidbits about myself. Hopefully you will relate, and feel inspired to share your own irrational fears with others. Sharing is freedom. Especially when we're sharing insane clowns and escalators.

 In no particular order, herein lie my own personal nightmares. Be warned; this could get ugly.


1. Escalators. Don't ever get behind me on an escalator. You WILL be sorry. I will stand there for the amount of time it takes to sing "He's a Yankee-Doodle Dandy, he's a Yankee-Doodle boy" before I mount the magical moving staircase. Yes, I've timed it out.  This doesn't sound like a long time, but it really is. If it's Black Friday at Macy's, I guarantee I will keep you from getting that GREAT deal on the scarf and mittens set for little JoJo. I don't know where this fear came from, but Providence has chosen to grant me with a child who just LOVES escalators. We rode every escalator and people-mover at DFW this summer, simultaneously appeasing her boredom and attempting to conquer my fear. There are A LOT of escalators at DFW. It didn't work. I still fantasize about falling and getting sucked into the mechanism. And losing fingers - that would be bad, bad, bad.

2. Revolving Doors. This was a REAL PROBLEM in New York. These nifty things are everywhere. Sure, with their polished chrome and slick glass they are aesthetically pleasing.  If there is a door next to them, I WILL go through it. Sometimes there is not, and I have to bite the bullet and go for it. I secretly curse the architects of these buildings.  Some doors move fast, some move slow. Some don't move at all, but because they are circular, I don't like them anyway.  I am reminded of the scene in "The Rock" where Sean Connery and Nic Cage are trying to time the fan-blade motion when escaping from Alcatraz. Time that sucker wrong, and it will cut you in half. Yep. I guess I don't like things that make me move. Yet, I run on a treadmill  all the time.  Go figure.  It drives my husband crazy.

3. Clowns.  Lots of people have this one. Who invented clowns, really?? They make babies cry, they are loud and obnoxious, and serial-killers have a predilection toward dressing as them. Maybe it was the movie "It". Maybe it was my abnormal sense of humor. I don't find them funny, or cute. I will cross the road if I see one, especially if it makes eye-contact. F-that!  Mimes? Funny as hell. I have stopped trying to figure myself out.

4. Spontaneous Human Combustion. Every time I drink, I think of this one. It doesn't stop me.  I can't remember if it was an episode of "The Twilight Zone" or some supernatural/unexplained book I tortured myself with as a child, but this has been one of my fears.  Poof! All of a sudden, you're carbon. Usually there is a femur or something left amongst the ashes, but mostly you're gone. Best they can figure, your body becomes saturated with alcohol and flammable. At least I'm not a smoker.

5. The School Dream (Nightmare). Haven't we all had those? I'm 37 years old. Yet I am still known to wake up in a cold sweat, because I've forgotten my locker combination/schedule/test. Or I'm naked. Those are awesome. Another recurring one is the "getting locked in the school at night" scenario. I was WAY too much of an over-achiever in school. I think this carries over into adulthood. The best is ending a semester of college, and realizing you flunked a class because you just "forgot" that you had it. Freak. Like you would forget something you had to pay for.

6. Jack Frost. My dad used to sing  "The Christmas Song" to me when I was little. What a gem of a song, right? Except when your child has a wild imagination. I did not want Jack Frost nipping at my nose, thank you. I envisioned Jack as a sharp-featured fiend with pale skin and pointy teeth. Not unlike the creature in Nosferatu or Christopher Walken. Take your pick. I had a skylight over my bed, and each night in the winter, I would squeeze my eyes shut, just knowing Jack Frost was peering in at me from that skylight, just waiting for his opportunity to strike. Damn Nat King Cole.

So there we have it. If you doubted my insanity, you have zero cause to ever doubt it again, friends. But seriously, we all have our fears.  I have friends who are afraid of zombies, paper-cuts, and Pomeranians. It's part of the human condition.  If you feel like sharing, I would love to hear yours.

City Mouse

If you ask me what my number one indulgence in life is, I won't skip a beat with my answer. It isn't Godiva chocolates (although they're lovely), Manolo Blahniks (although I have 73 pairs of shoes), or fancy cars (although I appreciate a vintage Aston Martin). No. If I had unlimited cash, I'd spend it travelling the world.  Seeing new things, having new experiences and creating memories that will last until my final breath on this earth are what cause me to be liberal with my credit card number.

My favorite places to visit are cities. I have lived, all my life, in a mid-sized Midwestern city known for its cashew chicken, its single, strangely phallic skyscraper, and its friendly, safe and welcoming feel. I love my hometown - it will always be where I hang my hat. Well, at least 50-95% of the time! I enjoy the fact that I can go to my local stores and see familiar faces and schoolmates. I love the street that my salon is on. It's a wonderful place, and it is home.

But, while I love the smallness of my city and the people in it, I also crave the motion and energy of a big city. To me, there's nothing like it. Maybe its the ability to disappear that I enjoy - the feeling of being a tiny platelet rushing along in the bloodstream of a behemoth.  I've never wanted to be a big fish in a small pond. The city affords anonymity - the ability to disappear in a crowd. I'll never, ever forget the first time I went to New York City and got swept up in the human tidal wave on Madison Avenue. It was exhilarating. Different cities have their own identity, their own spirit. I felt like a true American in New York. To me, it's the most patriotic city in our nation. I've been craving it lately.

Speaking of cravings, no city can ever replace New Orleans in my heart. It is my soul's mecca. I miss it like I'd miss a lover.  That may sound a bit much - trust me, for me it isn't. Not to belabor a point, but there is something about that city that draws me. It isn't just one thing; it's a culmination of so many dizzying factors that combine into the perfect maelstrom of what makes me tick. I take a deep breath every time I set foot in that city. I love the smell of New Orleans. I love the people. I love the way it FEELS. It is ancient, immovable, and unapologetically true to itself. Someday, my husband and I will have a second home there. It may be a tiny closet of an apartment, but it doesn't matter. Going there is a pilgrimage to me.

There are many other cities I have visited. Chicago, with it's relentless cold and gorgeous parks and theaters, Dallas with its ribbon-candy network of freeways, and Kansas City, which we visit almost monthly to see my in-laws. Each of these places have left a mark. I love getting caught up in them - the differences are fun to see. The citizens of these cities have their own style of moving, their own ways of dressing, eating and even loving. I can't wait to be introduced to the West Coast. LA, San Francisco and Seattle are all on future itineraries.  And I really want to go to Boston - I think I would love it.

While I enjoy a relaxing weekend in the country, I also need the rhythm of a city to show me what the rest of the world is like. People of many races, languages and cultures. The ability to walk to get the perfect cup of coffee and a gyro from a real Greek restaurant - these are the things that a city provides. Catching a train or a streetcar to get from one end of town to another is so much more exciting than driving there. The subway is a free form of late-night entertainment in NYC!  Could I live that way all of the time? Probably not. The fast pace would wear on me after awhile, and I would miss my home base. It is, after all where I was born and raised.

And I have to admit, my pillow feels  pretty nice after my travels  -  even when this "city mouse" has insomnia and is using it to prop herself up in bed as she writes. ;)

Wedded Bliss...and All That Jazz

Entre deux coeurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles. - Desbordes-Valmord
"Two hearts in love need no words."

Our wedding day, November 20th, 2011 was a combination of many emotions, as are most weddings. We celebrated in New Orleans, with a smattering of our closest friends and immediate family. New Orleans is a place close to my heart; it's where Ryan and I got engaged last year, where we took our first trip as a couple, and a place I have visited every year since 2005. I truly believe it is my spiritual "home", the place on earth that seems to resonate with everything that I love and appreciate about life: good food, amazing music, and a rich cultural background flush with indomitable spirit.  When Ryan proposed, we decided immediately that we would marry there the following year.

Like any bride, I found myself suddenly immersed in the planning of my wedding. While we wanted a small, intimate ceremony, I still needed a dress, attendants, and all of the accoutrements that a wedding needs. I didn't get that the first time around, so I wanted it this time. Especially since I'm never doing it again!

My dress was found at a Black Friday sample sale. I had gone into a bridal store, merely to try on dresses, and came out two hours later with my dream dress! I knew that I wanted a vintage-style dress, and as vintage wedding gowns are hard to come by, and even harder to alter, I knew I would probably need to settle with an inspired piece. Ryan's sister, who went with me, said that she knew the moment I put on the dress that it was perfect for me.  The dress was a dream; golden-champagne satin and rhinestones- something that Jean Harlow or Rita Hayworth would have worn.  Even better, it was 80% off! That gave me plenty of money to buy my bridesmaids' dresses. Since I was asking them to travel all the way to NOLA for me(Australia was the farthest!), the least I could do was buy their dresses.

The next year was spent making invitations and all of the paper-crafts to compliment them. I had A LOT of fun doing these! I promise, I will post a tutorial on how I made them, so that other brides can use them as a template. You can easily substitute papers of your choice to personalize them. I received many compliments, and they were so easy, and saved us tons of money. I also made the votive candle covers, and welcome boxes for our guests that stayed in the same hotel as us during the wedding.

My sister, with the help of my MIL, did the flowers - which we placed in antique milk-glass and hobnail containers. I wanted a wild-flower and English country look to the bouquets - nothing too precious or perfect. The flowers we chose were dusty miller, allium, chrysanthemums, Queen Anne's lace and Bells of Ireland.  My own bouquet was a brooch bouquet with vintage heirloom jewelry from mine and Ryan's family. It's a gorgeous keepsake that I will always have - and it sparkled so beautifully the day of the wedding.

We chose the Benachi House and Gardens for our wedding and reception location. It is located in the Esplanade Ridge area of NOLA - a beautiful divided street cutting through the middle of New Orleans. Whereas the mansions in the Garden District were built by wealthy white plantation owners, the Esplanade area was developed by free people of color and Creole gentry.  The area is very diverse and eclectic, and is breathtakingly beautiful with gigantic live oaks spanning the neutral ground.

The day of the wedding was gorgeous, sunny and HUMID. The weather was unseasonably warm, even for New Orleans, with temperatures rising to the low 80s by the afternoon. I started prepping for the wedding at 8AM, after a nice breakfast at the Degas House, home to the famous French painter's family. We spent our wedding night here as well, and I would highly recommend a stay there. My daughter and I started  putting together the plastic wine glasses and organizing the decor in piles so that it would be easy to locate once things got busy. (It didn't stay this way, but, hey - that's a wedding for ya!) I put the Marco Negri in the fridge to chill, and made some lemonade for the reception as well. My sister, mom and MIL arrived at 11:30 and started prepping the flowers. We started up the music and enjoyed the next few hours of hard work and scurrying around like mad-women.

We started taking photos around 2PM, so I was dressed and ready by 1:30. Since our wedding was an outdoor ceremony, we wanted to make sure that we got plenty of photos before we lost light. My friend, Rebecca Arvizu and her daughter Sophia were our photographers. They got some great shots. My favorite moment was when Ryan and I had our first-look. The expression on his face when he turned around and saw me is one I will never forget!


And then, suddenly it was time to decorate and get ready for the ceremony to begin! The next hour and a half was a flurry of activity. The caterers were late - throwing all of my well-orchestrated plans into chaos. This kept us from being able to decorate the tables and get the bar set-up until 4:30, which was only half an hour before we started! Bridesmaids, groomsmen and even some of our guests were running, manically trying to get everything set up. I was somewhat crippled by my dress, and people kept telling me to sit down, so I finally took their advice. A flustered bride isn't a pretty bride!

Somehow, it all worked out. And then, it was time. The musicians began playing, and the girls started to walk down. Our entry music - the cello line of "Secrets" by OneRepublic began, and the world just slipped away. I squeezed my daughter's hand, and she escorted me down the aisle. I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Everyone looked so beautiful and happy for us. It was everything that I had always dreamed of, when I saw my groom waiting for me at the end. He didn't run away! That's a miracle!

While we were saying our vows, a car-alarm (which I didn't even notice!) started going off. This got some laughs, and it was the perfect antidote to any remaining stress we were feeling.  You can plan a wedding perfectly, but something is ALWAYS going to go wrong! It's part of the fun. Kids are going to get tired and cranky, you're going to get a stain on your dress, and the music isn't going to play on cue. The goal isn't to have everything run like clockwork, but rather to enjoy the company and love of the human beings who have come to celebrate with you. The rest is just lagniappe. ;)

And celebrate we did! The next few hours were spent dancing, dining on the spectacular food that we had chosen, and laughing and talking with friends and our families. There were lots of special, unforgettable moments. Funny toasts, a competitive bouquet and garter toss, and kids running and playing.  Later in the evening, a gorgeous fog rolled into the area, cloaking everything in a mystical veil. It was like being transported 100 years in the past... the gas-light era of Southern romance. This is what I love about New Orleans - she always finds new ways to enchant you.

By the end of the night, we were tired and ready to rest. We  cleaned up the venue and packed up the car with the help of our friends, and said our goodnights and good-byes. So many people came up to us and told us it was the most beautiful wedding they had ever been to. That made all of the planning, money and time spent on the details so worth it! I truly felt like I had gotten the wedding of my dreams. Even though some of our best friends and family couldn't make it, we still felt like they were there celebrating with us in spirit.

Our wedding day was a time drenched with emotion, and we were so happy that we could share our moment with the ones closest to us.

(All photographs by Arvizu Photography)

Cereal Bonanza!!

When I was a kid, I looked forward to my morning bowl of cereal every night before I went to sleep. I would drift off into dreamland, snuggling my chubby cheek against the pillow as visions of crunchy, sugar-coated goodness danced in my head. Not much has changed. I have a constant cinema of food-porn racing through my head at any given moment.  I'll always be a fat kid at heart.

I had my favorites, of course.  These are my Cereal Friends:

Number one on my list was ALWAYS Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries. This was the Jenna Jameson of my food fantasies, the ever-loving carbohydrate star. Even though it would cut your mouth to pieces after the first bowl, I'd always go back for more of those little golden nuggets with their artificially-colored spherical  buddies. I'd save the berries for last, chasing them around my bowl till the milk turned pink.

A close second was Cookie Crisp. The wizard on the box was creepy, and again, they made your mouth raw, but whoever figured out how to shrink those cookies was my hero. My mom would get pissed, but I would forget to roll the inner bag down on purpose, because I liked them a little stale. Sometimes, stale is better. I like donuts this way as well. Call me gross.

In third place was Corn POPS!  Can't forget the all CAPS - that's important!  Whatever high-fructose ooze they coated these babies with, it was delectable to my twelve-year-old taste buds. My fiance preferred the much touted "Mom-tested" KiX  corn cereal when he was a kid. His parents were health-conscious, I guess.  Mine, not so much. Hello childhood obesity!

Honeycomb was probably the "healthiest" cereal I consumed as a child proper. I think I thought it was healthy because it always had soccer players and other various athletes on the box. I was never a various athlete.  Maybe I thought Honeycomb could magically make me hit that softball and not get picked last for the team.

Next was Fruity Pebbles. It could have been because I loved "The Flintstones" and wanted to be Betty Rubble. But, I really think it was picking the dried, crusty leftovers off the rim of the bowl. This was the best part. I watch in amazement when I see my daughter do the same damn thing.  I let her. Those crusties are friggin'  hard to get off before you run that stupid bowl through the dishwasher.

When I was in high-school, I finally shed my so called baby-weight (I don't buy that. I think that is a lie from the pit of hell. The only time you shed "baby-weight" is after you spawn.)  In any event, I was trying to be conscious of the invisible highway from my hand to my mouth. I elevated my tastes to Raisin Bran. I would carefully measure the 3/4 cup serving, put in my skim milk, add more raisins and a heaping tablespoon of sugar. Don't judge. My Rocky Mountains still fit.

Cereal is great - while I have moved onto Kashi GoLean! with those ridiculously happy people of various ethnicities on the box, I still turn to cereal in times of food woe.  I still read all the information that surrounds the package, and peruse the nutritional information.  I take great pleasure in pouring the milk, hearing the crunch, and enjoying this all-around bowl of happiness. Where would bachelors, time-crunched single-moms, and various athletes be without it?





Tell me your favorites...

To the Ladies of "Mad Men"

I discovered Mad Men about three years ago.  I was wanting something new to watch. I was single, with a TV (gasp!) all to myself!   Let's be honest here - I love Carrie Bradshaw and her shoes, but I wanted something a bit meatier to sink my fangs into. I was channel-surfing, and this Hitchcock-esque image of a dapper man with a cigarette, lounging on a couch flashed across my screen.  I kept watching. 10 minutes in, I was hooked. 

It isn't just the "Vertigo" - inspired opening credits, the machinations of 60s corporate life, and the mystery of Don Draper and his identity that keep me coming back... it's the girls.

Let's start with Betty Draper.  Betty is the perfect tragic, selfish and pristine Nordic anti-heroine.  She is also a shitty mother. Yes, I said it. When I saw Sally wander into the room with the dry-cleaning bag over her head, I was horrified that Betty scolded her about leaving the clothing on the floor, and not the SUFFOCATION risk.  I get that it was a different time, and that the dangers of drinking out of the garden hose and eating desiccant were as yet, unknown.  But Betty, for all of your Grace Kelly ice-queen perfection, you are a mess. I know your first husband was a cheater. I get that it's hard to give up your dreams to be a suburban housewife; I couldn't do it. Your therapist was a quack, and I am sorry that Lilly Pulitzer can't solve all your problems. But Sally is going to be a tequila-swilling, sexually promiscuous pothead if you don't stop ignoring her, threatening to cut off her fingers, and calling her fat.  But... I still like your clothes, Mommy-Dearest.

And on to Joan. If I could be any woman on Mad Men, I would LIKE to be Joan Holloway.  That chick has swagger. When I first saw her sashay her rump onscreen, I had to pick my jaw up from the floor. I'm sure 99% of the male population had the same reaction. Finally, a WOman!  On the television!  She navigates the secretarial pool at Sterling-Cooper like a barracuda, terrorizing the underlings like a red-headed, bengaline clad goddess.  Thank you for bringing back the cantilevered hourglass. Thank you for bringing back the Bitch.  Not since Erica Kane have we seen a character who can convey vulnerability and contempt with just a glance. I loved it when she told Peggy to "Stop dressing like a little girl."  This is a woman with few female friends. She knew how to be the Alpha, and to work with the "system".  So, you're gonna treat me like a sex-object? Fine. I'll manipulate you until you're putty and THEN get what I want.  Sure, she's jealous, hot-tempered and devious. What's wrong with that? And you gotta love a girl who can sing in French while playing a mean accordian.

Peggy. Peggy is the 60s woman. Pure and simple, she shows the transition from old-fashioned mores into the sexual revolution and equality in the workplace. She's my favorite character - I identify with her. I understand the ambition, the drive to be considered an equal. When she showed up at the burlesque club in Season 2 to hang with the boys to celebrate a successful ad campaign, that took moxie. Ladies didn't do that back then. Peggy wasn't concerned with being a lady. She wanted to be seen as just as important as the men at  Sterling-Cooper, and she was. More so, in fact. Don Draper's grudging support of her, and their symbiotic relationship shows just how intelligent Peggy Olson really is. She didn't go the route of seduction, like Joan. She went the direction of careful and studious observation. That's one of the things about quiet people. They see a lot, and absorb more - their life is a careful chess game.  Peggy may have looked like a hick-girl off the wagon in Season 1, but that girl knew what she deserved. And thankfully, it was NOT Pete Campbell. Eww.


There are so many things to love about the show - the clothing, the decor, the alcohol. There is the romance of a time past, as well as the ugly underbelly of misogyny and politics. The women make the show. I found out recently that most of the writers of the show are female. I think that is astounding - and it really speaks to the fact that the series is honest. It shines a true mirror on the 60s.  For all of their flaws and their dependence on girdles and long-line bras, the women of Mad Men are US -  our mothers, our grandmothers. Those women fought hard for us to be able to vote, to become CEOS and business-owners, or even to choose to stay home with our kids.  I think about that every time I put on a vintage dress - I wonder who wore it before me. Times may change, but women stay the same.