The Fabulous One

OK, so today is a really great day. The sun is shining, those Sparties kicked some serious Husky-butt last night, and I did not have to get up at some ungodly hour to run the shuttle to the soccer dome. Best of all, today is the Middle Chica's 9th birthday.

I know that it is uncouth and marginally negligent for parents to choose a favorite child, so I will merely state that MC holds a very special place in my heart. Her nickname is Fabulous, and it couldn't possibly be more apropos. She loves fairies and ponies and hamsters and princesses. She is a girly-girl, all sparkles and feathers, rainbows and doo-dads--the more the better. In short, she is the complete opposite of me.

My mad love for the Deuce did not start out that way. I found out I was pregnant with her on her older sister's first birthday, so to say she was a surprise is an understatement. I wasn't ready, and to be perfectly honest, I was not happy. I remember I actually took the pregnancy test stick thingy and whipped it at the head of the FM and then promptly burst into tears. In the end, however, my pregnancy went swimmingly well, and since I'd just gotten through the infant stage with Chica 1, I felt I was pretty ready for whatever came next. How wrong I was.

Middle Chica has to have been one of the most difficult newborns that ever graced this planet. First, she was huge--9 pounds 22 inches long--so all of the cutie little newborn things did not fit. Second, and related to the first, she ate ALL the time--every hour on the hour without fail, without respite. Third, the child never slept. I think she dropped off for about 45 minutes sometime during the fourth month, but other than that she was constantly awake. If you tried to put her down, she'd scream holy hell. I was so fried I had no idea which end was up. Ironically enough, despite the fact that she did not enter REM sleep until she was a toddler, MC was one of the happiest kids you'd ever care to meet. She smiled, and laughed, and jibber-jabbered, and was just an agreeable delightful child. She still is.

The Fabulous One is a dancer, and a dreamer, and a giggler. She is the kid who writes you notes that say "I love pizza, do you? Check yes or no." She is the kid on stage that goes left when everyone else goes right, and has no idea, she just beams that smile for miles. She loves to help me cook and play dress-up. She had to stop playing soccer because she kept chasing her own shadow, and it made her coach (me) crazy. She is a spontaneous hugger. When she was 3, the only thing she wanted for Christmas was "a brown baby," so Santa brought her 22 inch African-American baby doll that she named Binda, and to this day, she still goes absolutely everywhere with her. She digs in the dirt for worms and bugs, names them, and makes them fabulously decorated shoebox houses. When she was in Kindergarten, she slipped on some ice, fell and hit her head, and in the CAT Scan machine, she looked at the light, smiled and said, "Cheese!" Yep. That's my kid.

I think one of the reasons I love her so much is because she has exposed me to things I never would have experienced otherwise. Thanks to the MC, I now know how to sew ribbons on ballet shoes, and pin up a proper bun that will not fall out--I even landed a gig as a stage mom at the Nutcracker this year. I no longer have personal issues with the Brownies or the color pink. I've been able to let go of my expectation of report card perfection, and focus on the fact that she's not the best student, but she's steadily improving, and that is OK. She has shown me that being competitive isn't for everyone, that it is perfectly alright to just be. She makes me recognize the value and beauty of a simple gesture performed out of sincere love by an innocent soul.

So here she is, world, my Middle Chica. She is 9 years old today. I have no idea where she came from, but I'm awfully glad she's here.

User's Guide to the D

OK, so, in case you haven't heard, the Final Four is this weekend, and oh, by the way, it's taking place here in Detroit. I have pretty much made peace with the fact that once again I will not be attending due to lack of fundage, and absence of anyone providing free ticketage, despite the fact that it is taking place in my proverbial backyard. I still would like to implement some sort of testing policy whereby ticketholders would be forced to answer a series of questions regarding the sport of basketball and/or the teams involved in the Final Four in order to gain entry into the stadium. Failing said examination would mean immediate forfeiture of the ticket, and they would subsequently be given to a worthy non-ticketholder (ie, someone like me). Creating this system would, I think eliminate the presence of trophy wives just looking to add an activity to their Facebook calendar and 6 year old boys who are only there because their dad's buddy got busted for a DUI the previous weekend. Someday, someday...

But I digress. In the spirit of neighborliness, I thought I would put together a little "Guide to the D" for all of those traveling into our fair city this weekend. I think it will help acclimate some of you to the Metro Detroit area and its surrounding environs, thus making for a more pleasant experience for all. So here we go.

1. Rent a car with GPS. There is shocking lack of public transportation here in the D, so if you're coming into town, make a visit to the fellas at the Hertz counter first. And if a friend suggests that you forgo this step and just take the SMART bus, I would seriously advise you to re-evaluate your friendship as this would mean he/she is advising you to stand on the side of the road unprotected from the elements waiting for a bus that may not arrive. The People Mover is hilarious and makes me laugh because it so does not count. As for the GPS, people in the D know exactly where they are going, so they do not bother to post helpful signage--we figure if you don't know where you're going, you got no business being there.

2. Bring Dramamine. This is really a follow up to #1 for our roads are terrible. Really motion-sickness-inducing terrible. We've gotten quite used to being bumped and knocked about, but you newbies will probably get a little queasy after just one trip down the Lodge.

3. Speed Limit is 70. As it should be. And let's be honest here, the sign says 70 but it really means 77, or 82 if you're tooling around on 696. This is key folks, because there is nothing that screams "I am a visitor from out of town, so please target me for physical violence" like a Chevy Cobalt buzzing along in the left lane at 65 mph. The speed limit is one of the things I truly dig about living here--I'm a Type-A Irish Chick who learned to drive in Jersey so I sincerely appreciate this aspect about this area.

4. Use Caution at Intersections. First, you can't turn left, you have to do a Michigan left which means you gotta go right to go left. Now, it's really not that complicated, but the signs (again with the freakin' signs) make it look like some convoluted NASCAR looking half-racetrack thing with a series of arrows attached. Second, red lights in the D are really more of an advisory opinion--very rarely obeyed. You definitely don't want to be the first sucker off the line unless you're looking to spend Saturday night down at Detroit Receiving recovering from being T-Boned by an Impala.

5. MYOB. We are a basically friendly society here in the D, but we do not like The Man getting in our business (or bidnez as my P-town Homies would say). Therefore, it is perfectly acceptable to smoke to your heart's content inside bars and restaurants. Also, feel free to leave your Bluetooth at home because you can hold your phone and talk and text and whatever else while you drive. Of course this also means you non-smokers will absolutely reek after hanging at the Post tonight, and you will frequently be sideswiped by teenager girls trying to call Britney to see if the party is still at her house because her parents are out of town.

6. Everything Ends in S. This is a very common and somewhat peculiar speech affect that is unique to folks from the D. They put an S on the end of nouns, thus pluralizing everything. This means that my dad works at Fords and I shop for groceries at Krogers. Writing this, I just realized that they could be putting an Apostrophe-S on the end of it, thus making them all possessives, hmm...Well, whichever it is, it's still odd, so listen for it.

7. We are Incredibly Loyal. No matter what happens, we stick by our peeps here in the D. That is why you'll see Winged Wheels and the Olde English D on 75% of the American-made cars in this area, why the Lions still sell tickets at all, and why Monica Conyers has not been institutionalized. This also means that there is a very good possibility that the only colors seen at Ford Field tonight will be Green and White, so those little UConn boys better hold on tight and buckle up. Sparty On!

8. Detroiters are Bad-Ass. I am constantly amazed at the intestinal fortitude of the residents of my adopted hometown. For the past few years, we have been enmeshed in the economic "down-turn" that has only recently affected the rest of the country. Let's face it, the D was in a recession long before the dreaded R word was ever even whispered in Washington, and no one cared. We have houses that we can't sell because the market has deteriorated to the point where most of us are completely upside down. We all personally know someone who is out of work due to being laid off, or their company just suddenly went under with no warning. We sit by and watch the politicians hand out free money to the banking industry with no questions asked while they make the Big 3 submit to the equivalent of a financial pelvic exam, and wonder how the hell we're going to survive. Yet despite all that, we get excited about hosting the Final Four, making sure our streets are pretty and as clean as they'll get, and welcoming the out-of-towners with open arms. Chins up and shoulders back.

Yeah, that's what you need to know to prepare for your weekend here in the D. Welcome.

Bust It

OK, so it's been a really wicked long week. I'm still decompressing after my trip back to Jersey for my HS reunion, and will post in more detail later this week. I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that happened--and my BAC is still inching it's way back towards normal--suffice it to say, I'm just not ready yet.

One tidbit I heard about that struck me prior to the weekend was the fact that one of my favorite songs ever-ever-ever is celebrating a very big anniversary. Yes, much like the class of 1989, Bust A Move is also turning 20 this year.

This is hands down one of the greatest songs of all time, because you simply cannot hear it without dancing--even the white boys need to shake a little tail when that tune comes on. Don't believe me?? Here--I defy you to sit still...




And the fact that this is actual poor-quality video footage from the year the magic happened is even better--and from the Arsenio Hall Show no less. I absolutely looove everything about it--the girlie "dressed in yellow" dancing in her spandex bra/biker short ensemble, the backup dudes with their sculpted hair and very pegged pants--so very, very awesome. The only way it could possibly be better is if it was taken at at house party with big-haired chicks dancing on tables, and I will neither confirm nor deny how I know that a video such as that exists

I'm not ashamed to admit it is a tune that harkens back to the days when there was a kinder, gentler hip-hop, that I still listen to today (and am training the Chicas to appreciate). I still know most of the words to 5 Minutes of Funk, Rapper's Delight, and just about everything on Run DMC's Raising Hell. I love Grandmaster Flash, Rob Bass, and especially the Beastie Boys. Don't get me wrong, I dig Public Enemy as much as the next white chick who grew up in suburban Jersey, but at a certain point, I just couldn't relate to hip-hop anymore, and my affection stayed with the originals. I am just Old School. No pun intended. And now that it's been 20 years, it's official.

Who's Who

OK, so I'm getting ready to take a little trip this weekend. I'm heading back to Jersey for the first time in 10 years, second in 20. Well, I actually did enter the state back in early 2007 for a couple of days, but I was at my Aunt's place in New Brunswick the entire time celebrating a family birthday on St. Patrick's Day, and no one else knew I was there, so I don't count that time (although it was wicked fun from what I can recall). Yes, Kelly-Girl is going home.

It's funny because for my entire life, I've felt like a transplant. I was born in Chicago, moved to Jersey when I was eight and lived there until I graduated, so I really didn't move around that much, but I somehow feel like I got uprooted a lot. In the summer after 6th grade we thought we were moving to London, said tearful good-byes to all we knew, packed up all of our worldly-possessions, and schlepped across the pond, only to come back 3 months later, having missed the entire summer of Recreation and pools, and sleepovers. My parents sent me to the Catholic high school because they were trying to ruin my life by making me find new friends at age 15 at the absolute pinnacle of my awkward stage. Then I went to college where I knew no one, and moved to the D after that, also not knowing a soul (well, except for the FM, which, OK, yeah I was right, I didn't know a soul). Even now, I work an hour away from home, on the other side of town, far away from what familiar Western Wayne surroundings I may have. I guess in a way, I've never been able to shake that new-kid feeling that everyone is staring at you, so apparently I've continued to recreate that scenario throughout my life. Holy Crap--I have been in therapy for entirely too long if I can come up with that one on a Tuesday...

So yeah, I'm the chick who is secretly bored senseless, but looks blandly and nods politely when friends talk about that girl that went to Bishop Borgess, and then married this guy from Northville, and now they live in Plymouth next to that hot guy who went to Churchill, you know the one who was a cousin of that girl with the unfortunate nickname who went to Harrison--no not her, she went to Ladywood. No clue. I can drive my ass all over this entire Metropolis and not get lost, but I am no good at the game of Who's Who. At all.

Recently, I've finally come to understand that I am not truly adrift, bouncing around without an anchor of history and stories and acquaintances. Sure, I am building toward that with my friends here in the D, but I already have that connection with my friends from Jersey. And I have recently realized that not only do I share with them these same common experiences and memories, but that I myself am remembered fondly, and that shock of all shocks, I feel like I belong. Finally. It has truly been the greatest gift I've received in a very long time, and I am eternally grateful for it.

And before you start to wonder if you've somehow wandered into some whiny-self-improving-potpourri-eating-Yanni-listening-Blog, I will tell you that the first thing I am going to do after I get off that freakin' plane in Newark is get my sappy-chick-ass a proper slice of pizza. And fold it in half. The way God intended.

60 Minutes

OK, so I work about 40 miles from my home, which means I have a wicked long commute every day--it takes at least an hour. Sometimes on weekends I can bang it down to about 45 minutes, but after all is said and done, it's just far away, and that's how long it takes. One hour.

Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!

After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.

Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.

Random Dude 2

OK, so I meant to post this yesterday, admittedly as more of a filler, but as with all of my good intentions lately, things seemed to have slipped to the wayside. I did find out yesterday that I am really, legitimately sick, and have the prescriptions to prove it, so I'm feeling a bit better about being so lax with my duties herein. I'm not sure what it is about that 10 day mark when you are sick--you go in at 9 days and it's "I know it's miserable, but it's just a virus, and everyone has it, you just have to tough things out." But you go on day 11, and they throw the medicine cabinet at you--I even got a new inhaler thrown in as a very special bonus. Kind of like the asthmatic equivalent of diggin' thru the pirate's booty chest--instead of choosing a stretchy lizard that sticks to the ceiling or a packet of Jonas Brothers tattoos, I got a little ventolin-delight.

But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.

Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.

It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.

Slainte!

OK, so St. Patrick's Day is upon us, and I have to admit, I'm a little crabby. It could be that, once again, I am not sleeping well or that my Neti Pot addiction has failed to kick this freakin' cold. But let's be honest, more than likely it is because I am not bellied up to the bar in a dark Irish pub swilling down my 9th Black and Tan while belting out "Drunken Sailor" and "Green Alligators" at the top of my lungs with 185 of my closest friends. Yeah, it's not much fun when an adult-oriented, irresponsible holiday falls on A) a work day, and B) on a day when I have Chica-Duty.

So it was with this spirit of pissy unwillingness that I greeted my day, and slogged through it like a 3 year old at the mall two days before Christmas. I even wore a (very cute) green sweater today, which I never do because I'm very Irish every day so why bother show it one one particular day, plus it strikes very close to my policy that grown-ups should avoid holiday-theme-clothing at all costs. I gazed longingly at the full parking lots at Rosie O'Grady's and listened intently to the reports of the drunken sots screaming "WOO HOO!" live from Duggan's and the Old Shillelagh. I reminisced about the St. Pats' of old at Murphy's Law where we'd start the day at the crack of noon and stay til we closed the bar and my shoes would stick to the floor and we couldn't afford Guinness so we drank Miller O'Lite, but never, ever the green kind.

Yeah, I missed that today. Today weighed heavy with meetings and emails, and carpools and homework and it was, quite frankly just a regular Tuesday. Not very Irish or even very holidayish for that matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up tomorrow, my hair will not reek of cigarette smoke, I will have more than 6 crushed slightly damp dollar bills in my pocket, and I won't be trying to piece together how on earth I managed to lose a shoe, come home braless, and get that monstrous bruise on my left forearm. Yes, tomorrow, March 18th, I will wake clear-headed and alert, and blessedly hangover-free. Man, does that suck or what?