Maternal instinct

This is our little man's first photo shoot. That face! He was graced with a fairly even temperament and an intrinsically happy disposition. He was an obscenely easy newborn. And while he may be getting a bit more bossy now since he turned two, he at least maintains his manners. i.e: Let me do it myself! PLEASE!

The pregnancy was a bit of surprise. By "bit" I mean we had no clue. When birth control companies boast 99% effectiveness, the remainder is obviously based on actual people who use birth control and still get pregnant. Officially, we make up that 1% margin.

I knew I was pregnant about 12 hours after it happened. How I would know this innately, with no previous pregnancies, and zero knowledge about pregnancy in general, well, my acute knowledge suprised everyone. Everyone but me. Maternal instinct apparently starts tout de suite.

When I told JohnnyMac we were late. He simply said, ok. I reiterated we were late. Not late for dinner late, but late for nature late. Again, he simply said ok with calm eyes and voice. He asked me what we should do first. I opted for pregnancy test. I took multiple. All signs pointing to yes. Why I thought a 2nd or 3rd test would actually be the most accurate, I can not say. As if the urine on the first tests was somehow compromised. Or as if I had put the stick outside for a moment and directly in the path of a pregnant dog in the neighborhood. No. The first result was the same as the last result. Large blue plus sign.

I called my Ob-Gyn's office and spoke to her Nurse. The nurse asked me how late I was, and I replied "About 12 hours." The Nurse seriously guffawed (loudly) into the telephone. I don't think she stopped her laughter for several mintues. She cleared her throat and informed me most women don't become concerned until they are four weeks late or more. Four weeks late or more? I told her there would be no patiently waiting four weeks to confirm. She tried to placate me. She suggested home tests and since I had already accomplished this preemptive measure, I shared my results. She then shifted her attention and took me a bit more seriously before responding with a "Hmmmm. There are rarely false positives."

She then asked me how I knew I was late, what kind of tracking did I do. I told her. She asked me how long I kept track, was it for a few weeks, a month? I approximated fifteen years. She laughed. And told me in her two plus decades of being a nurse, she could not recall a patient ever knowing quite that quickly. She told me I would be the talk of the office that day.

Maternal instinct. When it comes, it apparently comes full force.

City of Angels? Indeed.

I have been fortunate enough to celebrate many a thing in my life. From birthdays to babies to blogging. I have also celebrated many great moments in sports history including but not limited to when my Kansas Jayhawks won the NCAA tournament in 2008. When celebrating, components I might include in the fete might be gifts, tributes, perhaps photos of the moment, and of course, signature cocktails.

What never occurs to me is reckless defiance of all social morays with not a shred of care for danger or consequences.

Of course, recklessness and lawlessness don't occur to you either so you might be trying to see the correlation here. Oh do come closer and I will share.

Before I begin, let me note that I am a big fan of L.A. I have spent numerous weeks there and have always received the gold star treatment (and I am no one that matters in L.A. I assure you.) While many accuse Los Angeles of being trite, fake, shallow, that has not been my experience in any visit.

L.A. is a town that has many a pretty face, and one that proves the earth's crust isn't the only place in which silicone is the second most abundant element. Because I have always had a fabulous time, recent news of antics must be met with a modicum of concern.

After the recent NBA Championship series in which the Lakers beat the Magic, I am certain much celebrating was in store. With not only great play, Phil Jackson also broke Red Auberbach's record with his tenth title win and is now, the winningest coach in NBA Playoffs. Just like Kool and the Gang...celebrate, good times, come on. I am sure the majority of people celebrated in style, after all, who doesn't like a good fizzing champagne geyser.

However, did you know what the other idiots in L.A. were doing? To them, a note:

Dear (certain) Citizens of L.A:

Hark the Kobe Bryant sings....I am sure you were all crazed with excitement. When I am excited, I might go a touch wild too, but you know what I don't do? Light things on fire. If you werent sure what you should do, perhaps look to your knight in basketball armor. What was he doing? Oh, leaping with joy. You know what he wasn't doing? Lighting things on fire. So if the man who helped land the Title was satisfied with merely dancing a jig...why weren't you?


In all your joyful bedlam, you couldn't just high five each other? Even cover your body in purple and gold paint? Even a tattoo of the Lakers logo wouldn't be too fanatic for you true fanatics, would it? But no, you thought good times = fire. Wow.

And the throwing of rocks and bottles at police officers and other people who are also celebrating with you.

And the total destruction of buses.

And the looting of garages.

And throwing of lit fireworks into crowds.

And then more arson.

And then the flipping of the police car. Oh, excuse me: the attempted flipping of the police car.

Here are some wonderful photos of your night time activity. Yours is an interesting version of a victory dance.


Now, while I am an attorney, I am certainly not well versed in police investigation tactics. However, I could give you one or two pieces of advice.

When celebrating, do not act like a complete %@#&*!^ moron. Oh, too late for that?

How about: Do not set property on fire. Especially property that does not belong to you. And then POSE IN FRONT OF YOUR CRIME WITH YOUR BAND OF #&@*^!%$! moron friends and let someone take your picture. How hard will the LAPD have to dig for you? Not too deep when you photograph is on the front the Times, the Sentinel, and the LA Daily News. Good job, smarty.
Clearly, you DO like riots.

In 2000, after the Lakers won their first NBA title in 12 years, you also enjoyed rioting outside Staples Center, with more burning police cars and countless other acts of juvenile thought process. Dozens of people were arrested and injured then.

Stop that. Burning down someone's news stand certainly doesn't make your victory any sweeter. And since only 25 people were arrested that night, there will likely be a knock at your door any minute since you took a PHOTO of yourself breaking the law. Think about it, and maybe just settle for a chest bump next time.

And since your Mayor is going to have a celebration parade despite the city's hurting economy, that ought to be a good time. Normal people: bring your helmets and flame retardant outfits.

Pigpen

We have a neighbor, and his nickname is Pigpen. Why? Oh, so many reasons. Pigpen lives alone and produces more bags of trash in one week than we do in a month including the fact we are changing diapers throughout the day. Every day. How do I know? Because Pigpen thinks his front doorway is a Trophy Case for Glad Bags.

This is what I saw after being out of town this weekend. And it reminded of me the hundreds of bags of trash lining the streets of New York at night. JohnnyMac said these bags sat here for three entire days. Eww.

One day while washing my car, Pigpen pulled his 2008 Caddy into his garage. He opened the car door and threw about 5 pounds of garbage onto his garage floor. Said hello to me and went inside. Eww.

Pigpen also has a dog. His dog does not go outside. Where might his doggie go potty you might curiosly ask? In Pigpen's backyard. How do I know? We have been to the house next door a hundred times. Pigpen's backyard is a composter's dream. Eww.

One day Pigpen had his front door open when I pulled up with friends. He better have some serious rappelling gear in order to climb over the piles of trash littering his entire hall. No wonder that dog doesnt go outside. He little legs aren't strong enough to navigate all the debris. I am sure the army of bugs that certainly reside there too love it but I don't. Please keep your moutain of trash bags inside or better yet, in the dumpster which is the perfect storage place for such items. Eww.

Take A Bite Of: 12 Layer Chocolate Cake

Your soon to be favorite birthday gift. This recipe is from Art Smith, personal chef to Oprah for over a decade. The picture alone will make you salivate. Its birthday weekend here for multiple family and friends so what better way to show some love than 12 layers of deliciousness? Buon Appetito!

12 Layer Chocolate Cake

Ingredients:
Cake:
Butter, flour, and waxed paper, for coating the pans
3 sticks unsalted butter, softened
2 1/4 c. sugar
6 eggs
4 1/4 c. all-purpose flour, sifted 3 times
1 1/2 t. baking powder
pinchs salt
3 c. milk
1 1/2 t. vanilla extract

Icing:
3 c. sugar
1/2 c. high-quality cocoa powder
2 sticks unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1 can (12-ounce) evaporated milk
1 T. vanilla extract

Pecan halves, for garnish (optional)

Directions
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter four 9-inch cake pans and line the bottoms with waxed paper, then butter the paper. Flour the pans.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. To the butter and egg mixture, gradually add the flour mixture and milk, alternating between them. Continue to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Once the flour and milk are incorporated, add the vanilla extract.

Add 1 cup of batter to each prepared pan and bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until light brown. Remove the layers from the pans and cool on a wire rack, placing the paper side down. Wash the pans. Butter and flour the pans again for the next batch of cakes. Repeat the process until 12 layers are baked.

When all the layers have cooled, make the icing. Combine the sugar, cocoa, butter, and evaporated milk in a large saucepan. Bring to a rolling boil, then reduce heat and cool 2 minutes until the icing is thin but spreadable. (This icing becomes thicker as it cools.) Add the vanilla extract.

Remove the waxed paper from each layer. Place one layer of cake on a wire rack and spread with icing. (For easier cleanup, assemble the cake over an edged sheet pan to collect runoff icing.) Add the next layer and ice it. Continue adding and icing layers, then pour remaining icing over the top. Icing that drips down can be used to cover the sides. Garnish with pecan halves, if desired.

Fartin' around

Primarily as a tribute to a certain someone's birthday, I write this post. This certain someone shall remain nameless however, she won't care and is already laughing hysterically as she reads this 3,000 miles away. I will let her pass this story along to all of her friends, who will nod knowingly and say, yes....that is so M.

I remember calling someone in my family once and following the typical salutations, I inquired "so what are you doing this morning?" The response was "oh, I'm just fartin" around."

Ummm, what?

Oh, I'm a quick one. I could easily extract the meaning. Let me just ask, why in the world would we take the actual act of "wandering aimlessly with no definitive goal" and instead, turn it into fartin' around? Pray tell. Is that streamlining? Too many words in the former? When asked what you were doing, couldn't just say, "not much?" Is that too boring? Wanted to spice it up a bit?

This fartin' around (and never with the g on the end, of course not) is an odd phrase for multiple reasons. If you were "fartin' around" would you actually tell people? Oh, I know YOU would (M.M.) but for the rest of the population, I am not so confident. This expression is not something you likely hear everday, and trust me, I am not sad about it. If I never heard it again, I wouldn't flinch a bit.

And while we are on the topic, lets just bring up the whole genre of bathroom humor. Here is a tiny speck of opinion: If it comes out an orifice, its not funny. It should be kept behind a closed door. No need to use it as a platform for jovial conversations, jokes, and by all means, don't turn it into what you might think are clever colloquialisms.

Oh yes, I know some people (M.M) just love the emails about farting, pooping, toilet bowls, pull my finger...uh huh...and while I enjoy jokes and parody so very much but I do try to have some tiny parameters around potty humor.

Let's expand. In addition to "fartin' around", here are other expressions I vote to be banned from daily conversation:

sh*t or get off the pot. You find someone's indecision so tiresome that your own brain can not come up with any other suggestion but "sh*t or get off the pot?" Really? In theory, if someone is on the pot, and it is their pot, can they not sit there all day long if they choose? Doing their business, knitting, contemplating life? Isn't the use and duration up to them? However, wouldn't it be more straightforward to simply say "MAKE A DECISION". Doesn't that help everyone? You don't confuse them, and you clean up the airwaves of nonsensical analogies involving poop.

sh*tcanned. What does this mean? Fired? Wasted? When you say "what happened to X" and someone replies "He got sh*tcanned" are we 100% clear on the outcome? How about saying "fired". Or "wasted". See how easy? And no confusion whatsoever.

And potentially my least favorite: sh*ts and giggles. When did this become a response to why you did something? Why did you go to Florida? For sh*ts and giggles? Really, thats why?

Hmmmm. I have had the giggles, and believe me, I see very little synchronicity between the two. Couldn't say you went "for fun", or "on the spur of the moment", oh no, you are motivated by the opportunity to soil yourself and laugh about it.

Next stop, commitment papers.

And while I have no hope or intention of changing some people's lifelong embrace of fart/poop/toilet humor, I can promise you, I will plot and scheme to get M.M. back the first time my son says "pull my finger." Count on it.

And Happy Birthday wonderful M.M. We love you! And the rest of our family and friends will be laughing when they know INSTANTLY who I am writing about...

Prepping for Peachtree

We are less than 1 month from the Peachtree Road Race. Also known as the biggest 10K in the world. You may recall I have had a somewhat symbiotic relationship with the Peachtree Road Race for the past 6 years. This year will be no different, except as always, I hope to improve
my time and NOT be passed by 80 year old men.

So in effort to get ready for Peachtree, I am bumping up that running schedule.
Running is not a favored past time. I like it, but primarily when its over. Except I do get a big charge out of the Peachtree. And physical fitness is part of my daily commitment to myself.

So it is an understatement to confess I wanted to build a statue in my own honor when I ran a 5 minute mile a week ago. I just couldn't believe the watch but I assure you, I looked at it again. And again (and let's be honest...again and again and again.) I am not 16 so running anything less than a 10 minute mile is SHAZAM time for me. I literally felt like a bonafide bad ass.

Until, I tried to run two days ago. In the heat this time, since it will be, oh, 90+ degrees and 100% humidity on July 4. At my park of choice, all the runners are out. So it is motivating, and very telling. But I got my great big inflated running ego out there and I put it to good use. Oh......I see. Now, able body and legs, you turn your back on me. I felt like a sled dog with zero training. Was I still digesting that protein shake? Did someone fill my shorts with sand and lead? What the *@(&!? Baby kittens playing in someone's lawn were outpacing me.

The coup de grace? Being passed by a woman pushing a baby jogger with not one but two TINY babies inside that appeared to be all of, mmmm, about 4 weeks old. I would have tricked myself into believing she was just that nanny except they all had the identical mop of hair. Curses.

Provided I keep at it, I remind myself that I didn't even train the first year and was fine. Oh, it that dissipating youth? And seeing that 5 minute mark on my stop watch? I liken it to seeing a unicorn. Something you swear you really saw but know you will never see again.

Enough is enough

I declined to make any snarky comment when I heard a whisper of some new little show on a TV station called TV Land (what is this station by the way?) The show is called "Cougar" and it is only one of the recent examples of capitalizing on a social phenomenon that spotlights 40- something women pursuing 20- something men. The network press included a fascinating tidbit that the 40 year old "star" (loosely defined) is “sure to break all the stereotypes people hold about who ‘cougars’ are.” Unless you can do something to change the overall opinion of "SILLY", I doubt any stereotypes will be evaporated. But this is not a show I will watch, recommend, or discuss again so why comment, right? Commenting only inclinates relevance, yes?

And then last week, I heard Courtney Cox is not only starring in a show show on ABC this fall called "Cougar Town" but she is also the Executive Producer so the onus of "You have got to be kidding" lies quite heavily on her shoulders. So far, it has been highly criticized (of course it has because the premise is ridiculous) but the reasons it is being criticized indicate the script is littered with explicit language, gratuitous references to kinky sex, overabundance of the f-word, and sex with boys as young as 15. Really, Monica Geller? Weren't you on another bad show that was cancelled early called Dirt because the script, dialogue, and premise were so poor? Not learning from mistakes?

I find the use of the word "cougar" to describe sexually active women in their 40's with a penchant for college boys to be trite and overused. I can't imagine these shows or any of the future variations of such theme being entertaining or interesting.

OH, and I think I saw both of these shows the first time they were released under the name "THE GRADUATE."


And since "cougar" is a new slang term, when did this slang term expand to mean sexually active 40-something women who like cleavage, very little intellectual conversation, an abundance of tanning, all with a voracious appetite for the pool boy? Coo coo ka choo Mrs. Robinson, at least you had class. And even Stella, getting her groove back, did it the good old-fashioned way: met a young rascal, got her swerve on, and didn't have to post it to Facebook.

So some 40 year old women like Zac Efron, or that other kid from the Gossip show. Good for them. Why is their a special name for this?

A friend of mine in his last year of medical residency (and 29) told me a few months ago that he had some quality "getting to know you (biblically)" time with one of his mother's friends. I wouldn't call that "Cougar-ish". I would call that "someone will be injured when his Mom discovers this tiny piece of information." I think Cougar-time loses some of its mystique and intrigue for her when it lands on her son's nether region, yes?

Why would any woman actually call herself a "cougar" and laugh about it? Like cougar is a euphemism for "sophisticated" or "savvy". It is neither. The act of being interested in someone two decades your junior isn't novel, just ask Hef (Hugh Hefner) and about 100 other well known men.

Use "cougar" all you want if you can determine a way it can be presented just a touch less desperate. Let's not tart it up for all the calmer, more refined, and more discrete ladies. Can it not be a normal social paradigm that some women like younger men? Can we just leave it at that? Do we have to take it to a predatory level? Or shall we cease with the use of the word cougar that is frankly to the point of ad naseum?

Saturday Night Live does a skit called Cougar Den for a reason. If you think being called a Cougar is your ticket out of mid-life crisis, perhaps watch the clip. And next time you are trolling down at Panama Beach in your tube top, this clip is but a tiny window of what the world is seeing.

Incontinence Couture

Let me start by taking the seat furthest away from the mockery section as possible.

Depends makes the "adult absorption brief" which is apparently very, very different from a diaper. How is it different, the jury is out but the company assures it clients the products have no similarities. Hmmm.

However, people have a variety of medical issues, at a variety of ages. And I respect that people need certain items to live a simpler and more pleasant life.

Therefore, you have got to love that Depends says, not only will we make the product, we will sashay them right down that catwalk, baby.

Here, some Chinese women model the new diapers for active seniors, at a park in Beijing a few weeks ago.

If the worry of bladder control has you down, Depends wants you to shrug that bad attitude. Of course, you wouldn't wear yours over your pants but just add your oversized sunglasses and your Jimmy Choo's, and you wear your head high.

But I am not positive this is what Helen Gurley Brown had in mind when she said black goes with everthing.

Take A Bite Of: Peach Mustard Pork Chops

A twist on your regular marinade. Its summer time (almost) in the South and we love our peaches. Here is an interesting and delicious option we made last night. Buon Appetito!

Peach Mustard Pork Chops

Ingredients
4 (1 1/2-inch thick) pork chops
Safflower or corn oil, for brushing
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Directions
Peach-Mustard BBQ Sauce (recipe follows)

Prepare an outdoor grill with a high heat for both direct and indirect grilling. Position a drip pan under the grate on the cooler side of the grill.

Brush the pork chops on both sides with oil and season with salt and black pepper to taste. Set aside for 15 minutes.

Grill the chops over the heat until brown on both sides, about 4 minutes per side. Move them to the cool side of the grill and brush with some of the Peach-Mustard BBQ Sauce. Cook the chops, covered, turning and basting with sauce every 5 minutes, until an instant-read thermometer inserted crosswise into the chops registers 140 degrees F, about 15 minutes more. Let rest for 10 minutes.

To serve: Drizzle the chops with more sauce and serve.

Peach-Mustard BBQ Sauce
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons minced onion
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 tablespoons cider vinegar
1/2 cup whole-grain mustard
1/4 cup Dijon mustard
3/4 cup peach jam or preserves
1 tablespoon bourbon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the vinegar and boil until almost completely reduced and the mixture looks like wet sand, about 4 minutes. Whisk in both mustards and the jam or preserves. Simmer, whisking, until jam melts, about 1 minute. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the bourbon and salt.

Note: Stir in the bourbon at the end to give a big jolt to the sauce. This Southern blend goes great with pork but can also be paired with chicken, duck, or veal. Makes approx: 1 1/4 cups.