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.

Living the Dream

In my version of heaven, there will be mimosas. Lots and lots of mimosas. There will also be bacon, gooey egg casseroles, and perfectly ripe blackberries. In other words, heaven will serve brunch.

Whenever we travel to more exotic locales---Annapolis, Charlottesville, Asheville, Boulder---(okay, perhaps I've set the "exotic" bar a bit low)---I picture myself living there, and dining on egg-white omelets or sweet-cream infused French Toast. I would become one of those effortless urban mothers, who wear their babies in designer slings and smell of lavender essential oil. While I eat my delectable breakfast, drink my organic coffee, and read The New York Times (because that is what I would read in my fantasy, instead of the gossip section of The Post), Owen would scamper in fields of wildflowers while Joel nestled in my sling.

This will be as likely to happen as my cake decorating career. Behold!

As soon as I took the cake out of the pan, it did this:



Refusing to be thwarted, I did this atrocity:



Which made me very angry, like HULK! SMASH!:



After much repair work and forced intervention by my mother, we ended up with this:



My friends cooed and said it was great. I have wonderful, deceitful friends.

While it is entirely possible that I will never have my own cake-themed program on the Food Network (that is, unless Cake Wrecks.com becomes a TV show), I will do my best to be a bruncher.

Hence, I declare to you today that all of my parties, whether it be a New Year's Eve bash, a Halloween get-together, a birthday party, or a Bachelorette soiree, will be a brunch.

It's called living the dream, folks. Living the dream.

A Day in the Life

I can only imagine life as my youngest son. You wake up, and are forced to wear embarrassing outfits like this:



You finally accept this strange woman who constantly vies for your affection:



Sometimes, especially when placed on the ground for the sin of biting, life is pretty dreadful:



But, after a reasoned discussion with Mom, all is forgiven:






People feed you strange, but delicious delicacies:



You give your mother the occasional heart attack:



And you eat another strange substance while people sing and blow out candles in a vaguely cult-like fashion.



It's a weird life. But it's pretty wonderful, too.

Sip Until Reality Returns

Hosting a party is a lot like childbirth. The end result is pretty great, but getting there involves lots of deep breathing, freak-outs, and the occasional distilled painkiller.

Tomorrow is Joel's first birthday. I thought I would make things easy-squeezy and invite some people over for pancakes. I called it a "pajama party," in the Evite, and encouraged everybody to roll out of bed and come on over. Nothing to it.

That is "nothing to it," if I wasn't a freaking LOON. Whenever I have a birthday party for one of my boys, I become one of those Stepford-Wife/Martha Stewart Pod People, except that I have no crafty talents whatsoever.

For Owen's second party, Paul came home to find me on the kitchen table, muttering unspeakable things to the poor, innocent streamers. I hated those streamers, putting on airs, acting like they were too good to drape gracefully and twirl festively. Filled with rage, I crumpled the streamers into a ball, and told them to do something impossible, since they do not have sexual organs. I imagine you get the gist.

Did I mention I was in my first trimester during this episode?

At this same party, I got it into my head that I was going to make cupcakes that looked like monkey faces. Each cupcake would have a Nilla wafer face, with M&M eyes and a cute, little Red Vined mouth. They were adorable little crackhead monkey birthday cupcakes. So cute that they made Owen's guests cry.

I think I did a better job with Owen's third birthday, except for the part when Owen took all the party favors, hid in a corner and cried out "Mine! Mine! Mine!" We had issues with boundaries back then.

So now, with Joel's "easy" first birthday, I've done the following ridiculous actions:

1) Decide that I need to make a cake that looks like a duck pond.
2) Decide that my mother needs to have a "messy fun" station outside for the older kids, while (in theory) Joel mingles with his baby peeps. They'll probably be talking about the price of formula, and maybe Obama's health care initiatives. Those babies LOVE politics.
3) Decide that the menu of pancakes and fruit is NOT ENOUGH, and insist on making egg souffles.
4) Decide that I need to scour the house before the babies and toddlers descend upon it, eating syrupy pancakes and having "messy fun."

Probably these are the only actions I should be taking:
1) Sit down.
2) Open bottle of red.
3) Take sips until reality returns.

I get a bit crazy about these things because I have happy memories of parties from my childhood---homemade cakes, treasure hunts, costumes, streamers---and I want the boys to have the same memories.

Also, my baby will be ONE. That alone is reason to celebrate.

Habitat

I had an idea. A really wonderful, excellent idea. And, because it was my idea, I didn't trouble myself with pesky details like "cost" or "time" or "difficulty." Instead, while my idea was still a tiny embryo, I called my father and asked, "Would you be interested in building a playhouse for the boys?"

And just like that, the embryo took growth hormones and became my father's BIG ASS BABY.

We've had two trips to Lowe's so far. Our backyard is scattered with sawhorses, lumber, and nails. Dad wakes up with the sun, puts on his trusty tool belt, and works in the July heat, hammering, sawing, pounding, and marking. He does this until he grows weary. This becomes apparent when he starts hammering nails the wrong way, or memorably, sawing the cord off of his just-purchased circular saw.

After a break, a beer, and a snooze on the couch while "watching" Rawhide, he's back outside, ready for more construction fun. The man is a machine. As he sweats in the sun, my mom, the boys and I stand on the deck, drinking water and occasionally asking if he needs anything.

"See, son," I say to Owen, "this is what it would be like to work for the government."

Part of my dad's urgency is that he has a deadline. He lives in Colorado, and needs to complete the job while he's here. The other reason he is working so hard is because it is an act of love.

My father is a quiet man, a man that lights up the most when talking about politics (a topic I avoid most strenuously when I'm around him), The Simpsons, and Habitat for Humanity. Habitat has become his retirement job and joy. In addition to working at the building sites as often as possible, Dad assists with fund-raising and computer work for the organization. He's traveled to the Gulf Coast to build new houses for the victims of the various hurricanes.

In theory, Habitat helps the people who need cost-effective housing. However, I think that it helps my father just as much. My mother showed me a picture of Dad. He's next to a section of an unfinished house. The workers wrote on the framing and insulation, which would later be covered with drywall. These are the wishes and prayers, built into the house with as much care as the screws and nails.

Dad chose to quote Les Miserables: "To love another person is to see the face of God."

And really, that's it. To love another person--by using the talents you've been given---is allowing that divinity, that spirit, to become as obvious and concrete as cleanly-cut planks of wood.

My father doesn't always know how to play with the boys. But, there's no doubt that he loves them. Every time that they play in that playhouse, they will know that their Grandpa Ed built it for them. As for me? I will look at that playhouse and see the face of God.

The Great Questions, Yet Unanswered.

1. Why do I need to buy party favors for a baby's birthday party? The whole concept of party favors---buy cheap junk, preferably choking hazards and then assemble it into cutesy bags---fills me with rage.

If Joel was in charge of party favors, he would have me buy filthy, germ-laden shoes for his guests. Shoes are, after all, his favorite toys. With this thoughtful gesture, the babies could have something to chomp on, with the added bonus of Hepatitis or Hoof and Mouth Disease.

Now THAT'S a favor.

2. Am I morphing into a Redneck? I bought a plastic baby pool from K-Mart. I brought it home, put it on the deck, filled it up, placed two boys in it, cracked open a beer, and dipped my toes in the water while they played.

Paul came home and told me it was the most redneck thing he had ever seen. I said, "Shut yer mouth and get me some Fritos."

Tell, me, loyal readers. Am I...changing? How's my neck looking?

(P.S. Owen says "water" like the Southern Maryland native he is: "wa-dur." I correct him most voraciously. "Wa-ter, ya'll, Wa-ter!"

3. Good God! What else can I do with all this zucchini? It's been a gratin. We've grilled it. We've put it on pizza. In omelets. We've made zucchini bread. I'm considering a zucchini birthday cake.

I fear the zucchini will rise up and smother us all in our sleep.

4. How much will I regret letting both boys nap until 5:45 PM? I'm guessing quite a bit.

Weekend Clean-Up

Paul's back from California! He gave a presentation to a bunch of Marines, and informed me that Marine call names either come from 1) something stupid that the Marine did or 2) something related to the Marines's last name.

Some samples:
1) Last name: Wurtz. Call Name: Liver
2) Last name: Campbell Call Name: Soup
3) Stupid thing: Having big ears Call Name: Ears
4) Stupid thing: Talking quietly Call Name: Mumbles
5) Stupid thing: Having a belly Call Name: Pooh

I love that a man or woman can serve our country and do acts of daring-do, all the while being called "Pooh" by his friends and commanding officers.

By the way, the only fighter pilot I ever met had a fairly non-offensive nickname: Piper. Why? Because he played the bagpipes. I will speak boldly and argue that there is nothing stupid about playing the bagpipes. His wife, perhaps, would disagree...


Blog contest! What would be your military name, and why?

Me first: I think I would be Pansy because I would be weak and useless in any military capacity.

***

My mother has taught preschool for almost twenty years. My friends call her the "child whisperer," because children flock to her as if she was coated with Cheerios and Apple Juice. When two or more children are gathered, my mother is on the floor, making puppets out of lint and air, and they are enraptured.

You can imagine it was a bit of a surprise to both of us when my mother walked into the kitchen to see Joel for the first time in six months. He looked at her, with her gray curly hair and pale blue pajamas. He opened his mouth in abject terror. He screamed, silently, for almost a minute, until he was finally able to produce a horrified wail. Clearly, he thought my mother was a monster.

Two days later, he's almost ready to let her hold him.

Now my father, meanwhile, a quiet man who tends to enjoy a good sit with the paper of a lively viewing of Deadliest Catch?
A man, who while he loves his grandchildren dearly, does not feel inclined to play with them all day long? Joel has deemed him the MOST AWESOME PERSON EVER.

And oh, does it piss off Mom. It's really pretty hilarious.

***

And it's marathon training season again! Paul came home around 9:00 PM last night, and immediately changed into his running clothes to run five miles in the dark. Then, he woke up at 6:00 AM this morning to run another fourteen. I told my mother, "If you two weren't here, I would officially want to kill him."

***

Paul worked all last week with a young, blond twenty-year old. They traveled together, ate together, shared deep, dark secrets, and painted each others' toenails. She's very pretty, and I don't hate her at all. Not. one. bit.

It turns out, as Paul drove her home, that she lives directly across the street from my good friends. He saw them walking down the street, and felt the need to explain why he was traveling with this young chickie.

I'm kinda disappointed, because I would have loved a phone call from my friend, concerned about the extracurricular activities of my jet-setting husband. That would have been a lot of fun.

***

That's all! Don't forget to submit your military name!