Mixt President Papa

Four years ago, when President Obama won the white house in a relative land slide, at least for a "black guy," my first thought wasn't here is America's first black president. Just as my thought wasn't, here is America's first black Academy award winning female lead when Halle Berry, in that UNFORGETTABLE dress, won the naked Gold guy. What I thought to myself and I imagine other mixt mommas may have thought and parents of mixt kids was this: doesn't anyone get it?

So on the precipice of what could be a historic check yourself moment for America and the Tea Naggers that have risen from the ironic ashes of a partially failed civil rights movement, I will explain this "it" as I know it. Truths, self-evidence, and all:

All people are created equal or in an equal manner. For the most part we are made up of cells and organs, genetic hacks. When we start to compare ourselves to one another, and it starts early: on the playground, in sports, academics, beauty, etc... we come up with wild assertions about who or what is better. We make our own stereotypes from the inequities we see in each other, from the insecurities we come to know in ourselves. Through these comparisons, the next thing you know, we are all bigots.

The nice thing about being mixt isn't that one is prejudice free. Ok, so maybe that isn't the nice thing. But truthfully it is that you can recognize certain cultural nuances from a definitively unique perspective and then MOVE ON. That is what I like about our president. Oh yeah, and he isn't the first black president. He's the first mixed one. And that may be questionable...

Of course, same could be said for almost ALL American blacks and certainly some American whites, descendants of slaves and land owners alike. There was so much fluidity between races during colonial times that has recently been well-researched, peer reviewed, and documented that it really is hard to know. But that is a different post.

So for now, God/Goddess bless America, our choices, our next four years, and beyond. ...As the universe shakes its head at the third rock from "the" sun.

Spirit Howl of the Red Wolf Mother

Last weekend I spent some time in the dreaded pediatric urgent care wing of our not so local hospital. MJ had the cooties. They were bad cooties. Subsequently, she was hurling her little guts out for the first time since she gained "toddler consciousness" of life, but utterly no understanding of it all.

Since dehydration isn't an option for homo sapiens, we waited it out until that recommended 12th hour of vomiting everything and went right to said germ factory where they somehow still cure people. While there, the male nurse who neglected to identify himself as one and instead decided to call himself the "health care professional who would be seeing us today," went into this long explanation of dehydration. He also said it was good that I got her there before she was severely dehydrated and then continued to talk about vein restriction, etc...

While I was in medical school for about 15 minutes, my feverish kid who is now apparently no longer allowed to have fluids until "treatment" is wailing through his lecture. And believe me, it felt like one. Now, as an avowed life-long hypochondriac who grew up with a sickly mother, I have to say I could do without the schooling. Yep, "I am here in a reasonable amount of time to fix my kid specifically BECAUSE I know these things" --In my mind. I smile until he is done feeling self-important while rocking my child. Also it was pretty apparent he had no clue about me and was making some assumptions. None of those included Prep school.

And then we waited for her Zofran to arrive and had some more incompetency I won't bore myself or anyone else with... but I happened upon a revelation in that room, while Happy Feet was thankfully keeping MJ occasionally distracted from feeling like a poop. I was thinking, after I finally had to tell Nurse Focker to go fock himself basically, the tiger mom has nothing on the red wolf mother. Maybe it was my spirit animal finally talking to me and I have been waiting a long time to hear her. I always thought she would be some kind of cat. But nope, definitely a big pack-leading, yet female red wolf. Um, I was also delirious without any sleep.

Here is what she said and why the tiger mom, my apologies Amy Chua, has nothing on her:

"The fabric is only made whole by the individual threads. When there are more threads, the softer and warmer it will be."

Tigers and red wolfs are similar in that they have no natural predators and are mostly nocturnal, but that is about where it ends. The red wolf itself is a hybrid species midway between a grey wolf and a coyote. It is a social animal and within the pack there is a mutual sense of care for the young. Yes, there is definitely a territorial nature between separate packs, but within the group there is a village mentality. Both the male and the female care for the young.

This is how I intend to raise my daughter. I intend to tell her that it really does take a village not just for big things like social change, but also in situations where we are simply communicating with one another. We must be mindful that we do not know the other pack and it is simply wrong to judge without a good sniff test. Pun intended. I hope though she doesn't think I mean butt sniffing. You know how canine are...

I intend and hope I succeed in helping her be proud of who she is first and what she does second. Because none of us are defined by our careers or where we went to school. Ultimately when a person is dead and gone, we think of them fondly when they were kind and showed compassion. I tend to hope, and maybe too optimistically, that no one thinks too fondly of the asshole that trampled everyone to success. And those who DO think that way, well I hope we wolves can breed them out. The coming election should be pretty telling in this regard.

As it turns out, both dahduh and mahmuh got sick too. And I made soup for my pack. I will post that recipe soon because there IS such a thing as a short cut to homemade 1/2 Jewish girl Chicken Noodle Soup. 20 mins, I swear...

Hope no one else gets these cooties. And more on the red wolf mother's philosophy soon. I have a feeling this isn't her last appearance.

Signed,

Red Wolf RS Day.

Canning Like a Mofo

There are many great things about growing your own food in the summer. The first on that list for me is that I don't actually do the growing. Generally I have a brown thumb, as in, when you look at my thumb it is brown and also when I plant things they tend to turn the same color.

For example, during my unfortunate stint living in Maryland when everything around me and in my life was dying and falling apart, I attempted two feeble vegetable gardens. One was next to the garage which it is of note to say: was also falling apart. The other garden was under the Japanese maple which is one of the few things I miss about that house. These gardens were clearly constructed for flowers or non-edible plants and were certainly not raised beds or anything, were weed ridden and probably had some used hypodermic needles in there. But I hand tilled the earth, removing empty Frito bag litter, put some seeds in, and never watered more than once or twice. And regardless, I got *some* yield. There was quite a bit of kale actually. The rest just kind of languished. But that was wet and wild Maryland where even if you don't water something will grow.

I now live in a place where if you don't have a tub full of body butter to jump into every morning, you will undoubtedly turn into the crypt keeper within a year. I assume the same goes for vegetables and fruits. But again, this is an assumption I have never had the pleasure of enduring. MJ's Dad has a green thumb.

Part of the deal with this green thumb is that if he grows it, I cook it, use it in salads or "can" it. At the beginning of growing season, which at 7000 feet or so is painfully short, I thought to myself there is no way that we will even have close to enough food to can anything. Phew, got outta that one. I can eat the 30 tomatoes or so and freeze some green beans. Done and off to read, shop, write, take yoga or anything with my Sunday that doesn't involve someone's God or homemaking. Ha! Except ok,I will make a salad or two...

And then he watered. And put interesting organic things in the water which I believe may have included fish poop. Yep, fish poop. They sell it at Home Depot or something if you don't believe me!







The next thing you know....I couldn't keep up. There were over 80 tomatoes alone on the window sill ripening. We had to put them there because, you see, up here we run out of season and vine ripening becomes just not an option.

So one day, he comes home with a pressure cooker and Ball mason jars. I am like, what the hell is that and what do you expect me to do with it? I just got my nails did AND I do not own an apron. (Interesting point of fact, he DOES own an apron.) Long story short, we put the thing together and stared at it for awhile with the typical fear expression of those scared of kitchen equipment disfigurement. Fortunately the thing came with instructions for how to can as well. And we had lemons. The lemons are the most important part of this yarn I am spinning because the lemons saved my canning experience.

As it turns out, you use lemon juice (we used real organic fresh squeezed like the food snobs we are) to can tomatoes at home. I squeezed so much lemon my hands may have been bleached. So much for that brown thumb. But I had squeezed too much lemon and we had extra. This meant lemonade. And further we had BOURBON!!

Watching a pressure cooker build just that while being overly protective of your toddler coming into the kitchen is so much more fun when you have hard lemonade. And even more so when you coax your male partner into a red apron. Unfortunately there are no pictures of that!

And now, when we can, we always have a fresh cocktail and we always make it a family event. 17 quarts of tomatoes and 18 pints of his and baby's (mild) and hers (hot) salsa! Not too bad for the Rockies...

Speaking of Mofo's: mother nature is good.

Rainshiny Day's Hard Lemonade Recipe:

1/2 cup freshly squeezed organic lemon juice
1/3 cup agave or unrefined sugar of choice
3 cups fresh mint infused water or soda water
1/3 (or more) cup bourbon of choice
crushed ice
sliced lemons and mint sprigs for garnish

* I like to serve these in a Moscow Mule Mug for some reason.

Where is the cute coffee guy?

So I'll admit it even though some of you bitches are the same and don't: I have a wandering eye. I am one of those women that other women whisper about, but secretly want to be. There is not and never has been an ounce of shame in my game. I have been a player and done it better than any man ever has, making no apologies for being the fairer sex while doing it.

Living on the edge of wanting something else even when everything is damn near close to perfect, or not, helps me cope with said perpetual wonder/wanderlust. Until I bust. Post kiddo, seems the bust could and would never happen again. Naturally there is some relief in that. No one wants to be a middle-aged player. Not cute! (Unless you are J-Lo or Elizabeth Taylor, I guess?)

However, I really like seeing cute coffee guy. Allow me to indulge myself if no one else in a long overly complex explanation.

Once you have children I am afraid all focus on your vagina and measures of satisfaction shift from the ill na na to concern for you child, especially while one is nursing. I am convinced that "extended" breastfeeding makes this particular shift even more severe. I say this not just based on experience, but also on science. Low sex drive and bf'ing are partners in non-crime for a reason. The body doesn't want to support a growing life while simultaneously feeding one. Further, many women feel all touched out after being tugged on regularly by a sweet sweet squishy squish. And while I didn't have too horrible of a birth experience, albeit long, there is still some element of you did this to me when I look at her dad. The "this" isn't fat or stretch marks, thank you genes. It's more emotional than that. THIS is everything: World upside down, tongue twisted with syllables that can't begin to describe the universal shift in love and consciousness and devotion. Plus, we are exhausted and not always kind to one another. We have no family near, barely have any anyway and have no babysitter. I will leave that at that.

Truth be told, I also had a really hard time mourning the loss of my individuality never to be recovered it feels. And I loved my individual status! Maybe to an often selfish fault...

But oh yeah, I hate sex now and am afraid I always will even though I know I won't. Uh, I hope I won't.

Back to CCG. Some days I work from a coffee shop. I do this because we live so remote that I actually don't have high speed interwebs and my paid life consists of really boring IT application project management. In fact, I could hear YOU starting to snore as I typed it. On the days I am remote and the satellite is misbehaving or my family is or some combination of the two, I come down here to work in a more relaxed state. The first day I started doing this, I was wearing my now infamous yellow happy face t-shirt because I was in a foul mood. This shirt is a pick me up, or at least a disguise.

CCG asked me about my shirt, I thought because I was scowling. But really I have figured out: the strategically placed eyes on it. Either way, he tossed me a vegan, gluten free zucchini bread, no charge and now does every time I come in! At least he was making sure he didn't poison me and, bonus, now I only pay for my drink!!

From that day on, despite his questionably gay voice he has made an effort to make me feel like a girl again, totally without knowing the favor he is doing for me. And, as described above, I completely forgot that could happen. He even feigns interest in my work and waxes coquettish that he could never understand such complicated things. My heart goes pitter patter; I've always enjoyed a tinge of the vapid with batting eyelashes. Seriously, I have interesting problems that many people fix with a gender change.

Anyway. He is not here today and I had to pay for my pastry. All "first world problem memes" aside, I really wish he was. My current life lacks kindness, very ironically, and I need a dose...however small. A dose of feeling pretty for a couple of hours because that is lacking too would be good. Bugger. Maybe next week?

Tu Eres Hippie.

I remember when I first got pregnant. I usually like to say knocked up, but I guess that implies unplanned and MJ was definitely planned. Annoying as it may be that, uh, well-meaning ladies who lunch and do things in "ORDER" tend to ask if she was. Seriously, I have had this happen. We are in our mid 30's, let's start there...

As my girl Issa over at  Akward Black Girl writes, bitches be trippin.

Anyfool,while I was pregnant I watched, "Away We Go." I watched it for several reasons and definitely several times, even once with my partner who "didn't cry." I swear. And in that movie Maya Rudolph's awesome character and her boyfriend who's that quirky cute guy from, "The Office" made fun of Maggie Gyllenhaal's typical liberal professor character: The Rich Hippie. You see why this movie lured me in on every level even though it was out of my typical range of films: action, anime, and comedy.

However, I...no we joined in the mockery of Professor VonToddler Breastfeed. We eschewed anyone who wouldn't use a stroller and MY GOD: the family bed? Shudder.

Fast forward and MJ is 20 months. She is rarely in a stroller. We wear her and mind you I had NO IDEA you could wear a person previously. Further she's still on the boob and yep, we have a family bed. Of course not nearly as gross as it was presented in the film. Oh, our poor poor couch... and cat who hangs out on the end of it no matter what's going on! Sigh. Pobre gato.

So yeah, I am a mixed girl with kinky curls who totally lives in the mountains. I am not rich, though we certainly aren't poor nor do we pretend to be. Worst hippie attribute yet: those who pretend to be poor. Have I mentioned I don't teach? But I do work at Uni. SHITE.

I know for a fact that anyone reading this would be like, "Are you surprised, lady? That's obviously who you are, hippie. Get in touch with yourself.

But really, I come from a major, dirty, and aggressive city. I eat and breathe hip hop some days. I admit to a penchant for The Carolina Chocolate Drops and Ryan Adams on others, but NEVER blue grass. Never the Dead. AND FOR THE LOVE OF NOT GETTING A MIGRAINE: NEVER PHISH!!! I love product and bathing. Not that I am stereotyping or anything. Ha! But how did this happen?!

I will tell you how. I love my daughter. This is what it turns out she needed and what I needed. And that's ok. For now.

But if you judge me, I will knock a ho out in a non-violent wordy kinda way. Plain and simple.

Have I mentioned how much I enjoy canning our home grown food? Suppose I can cover that topic another day.

But seriously: I am not a hippie.