The Audacity of Hops

I try to avoid writing about politics, because I respect many people that have different political opinions than my own. Yet, I must say it. I simply must: the "Beer Summit" looked like the WORST HAPPY HOUR OF ALL TIME.

Call it "The Audacity of Hops," "Yes, Three Cans," a "Brew Ha Ha," or "Beeristroika," the fact of the matter is that any happy hour that involves sitting outside in full suit coats in the middle of a Mid-Atlantic summer qualifies as no damn good.

Additionally, I take great exception to the beer presentation itself. I would love this president, no matter what, if he had gone onto the White House lawn with a cooler of suds and a bottle opener. I know that the commentators would have a field day talking about the president's disdain for the dignity of the office, but I argue that there is dignity in simplicity.

On the other hand, there is nothing simple about four different beers, served in chilled glasses, off a silver tray, held by a BUTLER.

No. The pomp and circumstance revealed this meeting to be exactly what it was: a show, public relations, an attempt to make a troubling issue go away.

I'm not going to opine about the issue itself, because, like I said, it is too complicated to fix over a beverage, or by my late-night ramblings.

Let me, instead, offer unsolicited advice to our Bartender-In-Chief:

1) Next time, provide all attendees with free T-shirts advertising a sponsored liquor. A tank top advertising Jose Cuervo, for example, would be far more comfortable. And sex-y.

2) Either make the party BYOB, or choose one beer for everybody. This is supposed to be a backyard get together, not a night at TGI Fridays.

3) Don't give in to peer pressure. Apparently, Gates was going to drink a Red Stripe, but caved to the pressure of the American/Massachusetts brewers by drinking a Sam Adams Light. This is beer, not diplomacy. Don't let anybody hate on your beer selections, or the selections of your guest.

4) Yet, to completely contradict my previous statement, I'm gonna put on my hating hat: Bud Light, Mr. President? Really? The idea that the ruler of the free world likes such swill makes me feel a little empty inside.

5) Lose the butler. Instead, train your dog to bring the beers out balanced on his head (because I, personally, would love to see that). Your only other option is to get your own drinks out of your own cooler.

The First Lady is not an option. Don't even think of asking Michelle to get beers for you. She'll cut you.

6) Finally, Mr. President, a simple bit of advice: Don't invite Biden. Who needs his non-alcoholic-brew-drinking,long-pointless-story-telling, face around anyway?

I know that most of these thoughts have been stated already, more clearly, thoughtfully, and eloquently. Yet, as a citizen, and when beer is involved, I must invoke my freedom of speech.

The future of all pointless, contrived photo ops is resting on this.

A List of Goals that Kinda Turned Into a Michelle Obama Rant

It's good to have goals.

*Following yesterday's post, I've vowed that Owen will only watch one hour of television a day. As we speak, he is outside, playing with his water-sand table, happy as can be. My neighbor gave him a cookie, which reaffirms Owen's view that the world is a fantastic place where magical things happen all the time. (And by the way, Facebook friends, I know that this is my status report, too. Although Owen sees magic in the world, his mother is NOT made of magic, and only has so much creativity to give.)

*We're about to go to Grandma and Grandpa Campbell's house to do Early Easter (all of the fun, none of the big, elaborate meals) with the grandparents, Aunt Erin, Uncle Doug, and Cousin William. I'm going to step back and let Owen and William figure things out for themselves. There will be toy-snatching. There will be tears. There may even be fisticuffs. But, for once, there will not be Nancy, the Insane Helicopter Parent, micro-managing Owen's every move. Unless blood is shed, I'm going to let natural consequences do the teaching.

*Since the Washington and British press have determined that Michelle Obama is the Black Jackie O (I stole that from my friend, Coby), I am going to try to be more like her. You've probably heard a bit about her arms, since it's been breathlessly discussed EVERY SINGLE DAY since Obama won the election. (By the way, if I lived in Chicago, I wouldn't bother having toned arms because it is SO COLD that you're in a parka, like nine months of the year...)

Anyway, as was the case with Owen, I am getting a little bicep on my right arm, because that's the side that I carry twenty-pound Joel. I've attempted to hold Joel on the left, so I can be equally cut, but it just feels off. I'm afraid I'll drop him.

The only solution to this is: working out both arms or having twins. Guess what I'm going to do? If your answer involves a double stroller, you're WRONG.

In addition to having Michelle arms, I am going to plant a vegetable garden this year, just like she did on the White House Lawn. Or at least buy a tomato plant.

I'm going to attempt to buy some stylish summer dresses that I can wear with cute cardigans. How fun that will be. However, I will not buy them at J. Crew. If I read one more time that Michelle Obama is "everywoman" because she shops at J. Crew, I will eat the magazine. The "everywomen" I know shop at Old Navy---maybe The Limited if they're feeling extravagant.

Finally, in an attempt to be like Michelle Obama, I will get an Ivy League education, hug Queen Elizabeth, and make my children clean their rooms.

Or at least do one of those things. You guess which one.

Obama's Neighbor

In November, I say to my good friend, Joanne (while she's still in the hospital, having just given birth), "Hey, let's go to the inauguration!"


She responds, God love her, "Oh, I'm so there!" We email our congressmen, hope for tickets. Time passes. The brain cells we (okay, I'll speak for myself, I) lost during pregnancy and childbirth grow back. We realize that perhaps, perhaps, it wouldn't be fun to stand on the National Mall for five or so hours, infant sons strapped into Baby Bjorns, as the Arctic winds howl and our sons demand to be breastfed. All to point at a speck in the distance and say, "That's Obama!"


So, instead, we're going to watch the inauguration from her house, eating pizza (which we're pretending is Chicago-style) while the older boys play with monster trucks and the infants demand to be breastfed (some things never change).


The main drag of my home, Calvert County, is Route 4. If you follow Route 4 long enough, it eventually turns into Pennsylvania Avenue. Consequently, I tell out-of-towners that I live "just down the road from the president." If one visits Calvert County, he or she will discover that we have a Wal-Mart AND an Applebees. We're pretty metropolitan-- that is, if you're visiting from Ghana or the Navajo Reservation. However, most people would find Calvert County to be....lacking in fine dining or culture. To that, I reply, "Yes, but I live right down the road from the President..."


I get a kick out of the concept that I can drive to DC and do interesting, even historical things. I rarely do any of these things, but I could, I could! Pre-children, Paul and I would take the Metro in and go to museums, restaurants, and even performances. Together, we attended the International Spy Museum, ate with our fingers at an Ethiopian restaurant, and attended a reading by my literary hero, David Sedaris. It was so cool for a girl from suburban Arizona to be in a big city, doing big city stuff.


With the boys, our trips to DC have been far less frequent. Okay, Joel hasn't been there at all, yet. The focus has changed, too. Instead of Irish pubs or walking tours of Georgetown ("Here are the famous steps that the priest fell down at the end of The Exorcist"), we take Owen to the National Zoo to see the Pandas, or the National History Museum to look at the dinosaur bones.
Owen has also seen his father and uncle run the Marine Corps Marathon. Although these are not necessarily the things I want to see the most (except for the marathon, of course), I love experiencing them with Owen and Joel's fresh eyes.


So, while I won't see Obama become president in person, I still have the gumption and the need to do something big, something historic in The District with the boys and Paul. Someday, I will dress them up in their finest, and make them roll Easter Eggs on the White House Lawn. I will drag them downtown during the height of the Mid-Atlantic Summer to see the fireworks on Independence Day. They will march up and down every inch of that Mall, and see every monument...even the Jefferson Memorial, even though it is far away and inconvenient.



Who knows, maybe we'll even see a speck, and one of us will say, "Hey, That's Obama!" He is our neighbor, after all.

Feed Him, Little Cat

When Joel is acting fussy, Owen has started to say, "Feed Him, Little Cat." Your guess is as good as mine...

Owen has been toying with my emotions come naptime. He napped every day last week, after not napping for a good three weeks prior. Now he's back to not napping. It's the inconsistency that kills me. The other day, Owen said, "I took a nap." Outraged, I replied, "No, you did NOT take a nap, and if you had any consideration, you would take one and give Mommy the time she needs." As you can imagine, this came across to Owen as "Blah Blah Mommy Blah," as his attention was already diverted by a piece of lint on the ground.

When we voted yesterday, I introduced him to the words "McCain" and "Obama." He finds "Obama" to be hilarious and great fun to say. Then, at story time today, the librarian read a book, Llama Llama Red Pajama. She asked, "What rhymes with Llama?" Owen said, "Obama!" The two year old next to him said, "Osama!" And that, my friends, passes for political discourse in my life these days...