Breast Cancer Rears its Head

I don't want to be a downer here, but please read this.

Now go check your breasts. Promise to do so every other month. Read here to learn why every month might be too often. I'm no doctor, though I aspired to be one, so check with a real doc to ask questions and find out what's right for you.

Here's an article on CNN's site about the mom from Toddler Planet whom I raced in celebration of. Check it out.

And by the way, my new favorite breast cancer walk T-shirt says Hakuna Ma Ta-Tas. Love it.

Sick About Being Sick

I don't like to shake hands. Not because I'm snooty, though I admit I can be. Because of all those nasty freaking germs out there. Like tampons, handkerchiefs, and mascara, some things should not be shared. I'm uncomfortable touching other people's hands, especially strangers. Think about it. Do you know where that hand has been? What's worse is when you do know and someone juts out her manicured hand in a gesture to make corporate niceness. No thank you.

I'm talking to you, Roxanne! I know you don't wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, even though you're dressed to the nines, fooling your minions into thinking you are a maven of cleanliness and perfection. Even my boys know better, and they scrub extra hard after a few good plops in the potty. You, Roxanne, are a germ infester. And I know you don't give a rat's ass about sick days, considering you once sent a CAB to your 10-year old daughter's school to pick her up when the nurse called you at work saying your child had a fever. You were the boss, the head honcho, the big cheese, and you kept on working, even though telecommuting and working from home were acceptable and even encouraged at the time.

And by the way, you were still at your desk when I left at 6:00 that day.

Germs make us sick, and I don't want to get sick. I work for myself and don't have the luxury of paid sick days. On those days that mucus flows like Niagara Falls, I simply work in my bubble and stay away from clients. I do have the luxury to be productive in my own wee little world. I was struck to learn that about half of all private sector workers don't get paid sick days either. Are you as incredulous as I am? Did you naturally assume you have paid sick days? Better rifle through that new employee handbook that HR handed you on day one with the soggy sandwich in orientation.

Raise your hand if your kid has been in daycare/preschool/school/gynmastics with another kid who has clear case of the runs or a runny nose?

Raise the other hand if you have ever pumped up your kid with Tylenol/Motrin/Benadryl to mask a minor ailment because you couldn't afford to take time off from work?

Now how does it feel to be sitting at the coffee shop/your desk/library/McDonald's (yes, they have free wireless!) with your arms up in the air?

Seriously, those parents, most of 'em anyway, aren't to be blamed. The finger pointing goes beyond the mom and dad just trying to get by (especially these days!). The fault lies with the system. If bosses like Roxanne don't value paid sick time, who will? Clearly the people in the C-Suite have the pull, and they're pulling in the wrong direction. That leaves us parents being pulled in all directions.

As a culture, it's no secret that we value productivity more than people. It is a utilitarian (not to be confused with Unitarian) society indeed. I could even make the leap to call our philosophy Darwinism, but some folks out there don't want to hear all that crazy talk. Just take a look at the state of our healthcare, maternity and paternity leave, heart disease rates, and poverty levels. For a first class developed nation, we pretty much suck at the things that make, and keep, our citizens happy and healthy. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Does that ring a bell? All that productivity is literally killing us, but hey, those fine folks at Halliburton and their ilk are making a killing. Our culture, policies, politics, and philosophy must change.

If you think it's tough to juggle work and family when you're sick, just wait til you add ailing parents to the equation. Now that's some murky territory that you definitely don't want to be treading in. It takes a village, my ass.

THE MAN, you know, the one we all work for, is a bastard. Make that with a capital B.

Click here to tell THE MAN what you think. The hard work is already done, thanks to the fine moms at Moms Rising.

A Baby Boy's Earth Shattering Beginnings

The earthquake in China got a lot of attention in the first few days, perhaps because a noted NPR journalist just happened to be there and brought some of the devastation to life. The catastrophic scale was clearly evident in the reporter's quaking voice. Professional as she is, even she could not dam up the welling tears during her broadcasts. Faithful NPR listeners felt the palpable pain and listened in horrors, mouths agape.

China to many of us is nothing more than one giant, albeit VERY giant, factory. It's a tag attached to our goods, sewn into our garments, with no faces, people, hearts, souls, and emotions tied to it. To many, China simply represents the new land of opportunity. Monetary, that is. Not the taste of freedom that defines opportunity for Americans. Greed, expansion, corporate bullying, government handshakes, profit margins. That defines opportunity in China. It has become a commodity. And commodities lack emotion or other humanizing traits.

And then the earth shattered.

China, for a brief moment in time, became real to us. We saw the masses as individuals. We were jolted awake to realize that these are people just like us.

I sat in my air conditioned home, seated on a scrumptious leather sofa, snacking on edamame and sipping 2 Buck Chuck while watching the horror unfold. The utter chaos was remarkable, heart wrenching, yet so distant, geographically and conceptually. I couldn't wrap my head around the seismic force of nature that instantly crumbled buildings and crushed lives. And the news went on. For days. Maybe a week. I walked furiously on the treadmill, headphones attached to my little TV monitor, so I could tune in to every speck of news out there. Of course the gym, with Bird and Deal safely playing in the Kids' Club haven, was the only place I could watch the news. Lord knows I didn't need to subject my little guys to that sort of devastation. I'm not ashamed to admit that I sniffled like a hay fever sufferer and wiped away some serious tears while burning rubber on that treadmill.

So what now? What's happened to those people? Where are they living? How are they faring? Will they ever rebuild their lives? And what, dear God, what about the children? What about the children left motherless and the mothers left childless?

My life is cake. And that's just mostly good fortune blowing kisses my way.

Here it is almost 2 months after the earthquake, and we don't hear squat about it. It was easy to watch the newscasts somberly, perhaps even shedding a tear or two, as I did. It was easy to get choked up and hug our kids extra hard for a while there. That wore off after meltdown #76. Then we simply switched the channel to watch HGTV's Design Star or something equally innane. Then media focused its fickle attention on matters like Hollywood's baby boom and the fall of Bear Stearns.

Our lives went on. And go on.

You must take a look at this. You will be moved, I assure you.

Too Tired to Type

Are you sometimes so tired that you cannot lift one more finger to strike the keyboard? So tired that your eyelids are closed for a good 3 minutes before you realize you've been drooling on your arm? That is me today. Too many late nights, laughs with friends, belly stuffing meals, ice cream, cookies, blueberry pie, cupcakes, and wine have officially caught up with me. I have so much to say and share but cannot bring myself to expend one more iota of energy on anything but sleep. Zzzzzz...........

5:00 Fridays

I was first introduced to this drink when I was away for a long overdue girls' weekend. We were nursing pretty vicious hangovers and decided to partake in some hair of the ol' dog after we had eaten a gloriously greasy, Swanson Hungry Man portioned, breakfast and watched an afternoon of girly movies (Princess Diaries 2 and The Sweetest Thing) in our pajamas.

My good friend Christy concocted this cocktail but has not come up with a suitable name for it. Not that we don't keep drinking it. It's akin to dressing up an unnamed child and taking it out for a stroll just hoping a name will strike you while you're out and about. Just a couple weeks ago she drank almost the entire bottle of cranberry vodka by herself when trying to christen the cocktail. Luckily we were having a family sleep over that night so no one was driving and there were others in fine shape to deal with the kids. We're messy and wacky here at Chez Dirt & Noise but one thing we are not is irresponsible. I guess Christy figured that the more she drank the more inspiration she would have. Let's just say that all inspiration went out the door when our boys woke up at 5:00 AM....a mere four hours after we went to bed. Yeah, good times all around. I don't recommend overindulging unless you are absolved of all responsibility. Girls' weekend, anyone?

Anyway, this is the perfect cocktail to savor when you're away from your kids (OK, let's be real, and husbands. Chances are they won't like this drink anyway. Husbands that is, not kids. Definitely not suitable for kids. Unless your kids are 21.). This drink reminds me of a sweet little afternoon nip to catch a happy buzz out on the deck while playing Celebrity Crush with your girlfriends. You know, the game where you gab about all the hot celebs you'd like to mash with? Oh come on, like you don't dream about gettin' your freak on with some hot Penn Badgley action? Ahem, or is that just moi?

This is a lovely summer libation that's great with girlfriends on a hot day. It's meant to evoke girliness. You know, the kind of girl you were before you had children. Harken waaaaayyy back beyond the cobwebs and fish her out. Got her? Now don't let her go.

Yeah, that one. The one with the hot gams and 100+ pairs of shoes. Matching handbags too, natch. The one who had the time to paint her nails, decide she hated the color, and redo it all in one sitting. The one who actually had time to read the paper in bed with a cup of fresh steaming coffee in a mug without a top. Remember her? Now pour her a drink.

I call this drink, Missed Independence, in honor of the 4th of July and those days that I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard in Minneapolis back when I was single and fancy free. And had fabulous nails and shoes Imelda would crave. Note that I don't want that life back; the memories are way sweeter than the reality, of course. I do love my family but there are times that even Calgon doesn't take me away.

Missed Independence
Get yourself a good sized glass. Nothing frou frou and delicate here. Even one of those big red Solo cups will do.

Fill it with ice in any shape or size. Pull out the fancy star shaped ice cube maker for the occasion.

Pour in a shot or so of cranberry vodka. Stoli won't let you down.

Now add some Sprite (not diet, it'll taste gross and less decadent) to fill the glass.

Stir. Garnish with a toothpick of blueberries and strawberries and a sprig of mint for a punch of color. Use a skewer if you want to make it a healthy snack too.

Cheers to my Missed Independence...and yours!

I'd like a side of advice, please.

Dear Dowager at Panera,

Was I asking for your advice? Did I look like I wanted some advice? Do you have a shortwave receptor to my brainwaves to detect I was in need of advice? Was I wearing a T-shirt pronouncing, "Go ahead, give me your opinion?" Um, no on all counts.

What exactly made you think that I was interested in your unsolicited advice?

Do I give a shit that you have eight grandchildren and raised four children? The act of simply having 'em does not qualify you to dole out advice, lady. Let me see some SAT scores, job evaluations, eHarmony profiles, psychiatric evaluations, sperm donor applications, and resumes before I choose to take advice from you. For all I know those kids of yours are whack job Neo-cons who actually think Bush has done a great job in office. For all I know those grandkids torment preschoolers on the playground and sneak weed from their parents' sock drawer. For all I know those kids eat applesauce with their fingers because they never mastered those fine motor skills that their parents deem overrated.

I am not interested in talking to you. Especially about my children. Sure, if you want to chat about the weather or how busy the parking lot is, I'm all ears. I'll at least grant you smile and head nod like I do when I hear "Hey Mommy" for the 1400th time in a day. But don't come to my table and inquire about what my kids are eating. And do not park yourself next to us and wince, groan, or sigh every so often when you look our way. If it wasn't such a pain to make two kids move, carry three trays, and keep track of a teddy bear, I would have switched tables. Oh, but then I wouldn't have blog fodder, would I?

For the record, my kids have astoundingly great eating habits. A grilled cheese panini on wheat bread with some fruit and an organic yogurt is a perfectly acceptable, healthy even, meal. Have you checked out the sales of Lunchables lately, woman? I assure you that crap will never make its way into my shopping cart. So what if Bird and Deal had a chocolate milk treat? Don't assume that they belly up to an Ovaltine tap at home every night. And seriously, you're hung up on cheese? First of all their dad is from Wisconsin so there's no in hell we're giving up cheese. Secondly, cheese represents truth in advertising because it really does make everything better. Thirdly, did I mention it's not your business? Um, as I recall, I wasn't talking to you and was avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Bird and Deal exhibited excellent table manners that day. For a 3 and 4 year old, they exercised amazing restraint, sitting quietly while I happily munched away on my salad. They actually ate half of my salad. Did you notice that? Oh, I suppose not. You were probably scouting your next victim. Your snorting and omigoshing made way more noise than my kids did. And yeah, we totally noticed you were eavesdropping on our conversation. That's why we talked in our super special, ultra secret spy inside voices.

You should be ashamed and embarrassed. Did you realize that all the other people in our vicinity were staring at you aghast and giving me consoling looks of sympathy (and glad they weren't your prey)? Of course not. You were too busy being self-righteous. Here's a tip, next time you feel the urge to inflict your opinions on a mother, leave. Walk out. Go to your car and talk to yourself. People will be more forgiving if you're busted talking to yourself than if you're chastising a mom who's just trying to get her kids fed before nap time.

By the way, when we got back in the car, away from your creepy watchful eye, my kids asked, "Mommy, who WAS that old lady and why was she talking to us?"

My sentiments exactly.

Signed,

A Bad Mom Trying

Ad Cents

Is anyone aware of the proposed legislation to limit the ability of small publishers and bloggers to carry or sell advertising? I've just heard of it from a graduate school alum (helps to be part of a Journalism school listserv). This could affect Google AdSense and operations like Federated Media.

It seems that the Internet Advertising Bureau is the only group trying to battle this legislation. Anyone have insight on this issue? I can understand how this could be under the radar for me because I am living at a frenetic pace these days, but how could it get by my blogging brethren? Is it for real? Is there more to know? Am I over reacting? Please shed some light on this girl in the dark.

Yoo hoo! That would be me. Over here. No, here. Just follow the sound of my panting and hyperventilating. I'm in the corner behind the stack of to-do lists, bills, business cards, receipts, dog eared recipes from Cookie, and Post-it notes of books to buy (which include Sacred Hunger, Silent Spring, The World Without Us, Mississippi Sissy, Loving Frank, Blessed Unrest, and Blindness in case you're wondering).

What up, man? This mama needs a new pair of shoes!