And Now, for Something Completely Uncontroversial

I'm not usually one to pick "hot topics" for my posts. So declaring for the MJ is a child molester camp was a bit bold for The Big Piece of Cake. Particularly since I do waver a bit on the subject. But hey - I wrote it, so it's now out there. (Do you think it's a coincidence that I seem to have lost some readers? Yikes.)

Anyway - in honor of my cowardly nature and fear of hate mail, I'm going to take a completely different direction today and tell you something very warm and fuzzy. Rainbows and unicorns all the way - I promise.

Very few people who have met me since I graduated college would know this, but I used to be somewhat of an art chick. Not in the multiple piercings, moody, poetry writing kind of way though. More in the prissy little girl creating pretty little pictures kind of way. I was never destined to be a real artist, like my brother. But I did really enjoy whipping up those pretty little pictures.

For some reason, I was never any good with paint - I always ended up with a big wet mess on the canvas. And my hobbyist attitude didn't engender the dedication required for mastering that medium. Instead I found my comfort zone with pastels. They're like crayons for adults. And even better because you can smear them around to correct mistakes.

Once I graduated from college I lost interest in art classes and it's not like my roommates and I ever sat around crafting together (it was the mid '90s, and for me the word "craft" conjured up images of old ladies with knitting bags or acrylic nailed DIY enthusiasts with Bedazzlers).

So no more art.

Until last week.

Don't know what inspired me, but I was at Michael's trying to find supplies for kid craft projects that my children wouldn't eat or smear on the walls (easier said than done, I may add). Anyway, I saw a package of charcoal pastels and had a flashback of a life drawing class. Then I looked at the color pastels and thought "maybe..."

I bought both oil pastels (because I had never used them before and was curious) and soft (chalk) pastels. And when my kids went to bed that night, I sat down to see if I still had the touch (if touch means the ability to smear colors on paper to somewhat represent the image I was trying to capture).

I started with the oil pastels. Here is the image I used:


And here is my drawing:


Not that great (and my photography is terrible), but I found the oil pastels really hard to work with. I think they require a bit more precision... I won't give up on them, but I put them aside for a second try with the good old soft pastels I once knew so well.

This is the image I used:

And here is my drawing:


Big improvement. And pretty! I'm not quitting my day job any time soon (oh wait a minute - I actually DID quit my day job - just not to become an artist). But I will definitely have fun with this.

And isn't that what hobbies are all about?

What about you? Any childhood pastimes that you've recently picked up again?

1. Origin unknown - SORRY, let me know if it's yours
2. Absolutely Beautiful Things (of course)

Why I Think Michael Jackson Was Guilty As Charged

Today is Michael Jackson's memorial service, and there were some morning commute music block tributes on the radio. I enjoyed this immensely and rocked out to Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground), P.Y.T. and Dirty Diana.

But it also made me think about him and his very weird, sad life. I've avoided saying anything about his death since I do have some pretty serious thoughts on his life. And it's not like I'm a newscaster here. I'm not reporting world events (because to people like me who consider reading US Weekly, "catching up on the news," Michael Jackson's death is a major world event).

So I haven't considered writing about it. Until this morning when I was picturing him singing Shake Your Body and then P.Y.T. and then...what happened to him!?

Back to my rather harsh judgement (or opinion really, since I didn't know him personally and am not in a position to judge - have I missed any disclaimers?)

We've all heard that saying, "If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck..."* And at the end of the day, COME ON! There are WAY too many variables going on here for MJ to be completely and perfectly innocent of the child molestation accusations.

If you still think that's not quite fair, I'll give you a "duck" example from my own life.

At my last job as a conference planner, I met a man who worked for...oh, let's say DHS (it was a different office, but I'm all about protecting privacy here - for non-celebrities I mean). I was walking our Annual Expo show floor with a co-worker who knew him, and stopped with her so they could chat.

Since I wasn't part of the conversation, I had a little time to just observe. He was very handsome and impeccably dressed. His obviously groomed eyebrows were still subtle, so only a woman would be likely to notice. He looked to be in his 30s, but the flat stomach and broad shoulders could easily have walked off a college lacrosse field.

When I came to from this daze of admiration for such a fine specimen of a man, I realized that he was talking about (or more accurately gushing about) his niece and nephew.

So let's see...beautiful Canali suit, perfect hair and eyebrows, rock hard work out body AND routinely chats about his niece and nephew...yeah - he's gay.

As we walked away, my friend commented on how gorgeous he was and how she always felt so nervous talking to him - with the raging crush and all. And of course, I said something to the effect of it being too bad for her that he was gay.

And OF COURSE she was incredulous as to why I would think that, and doubted my expertise on the matter. Which is fair enough - because I'm certainly not an expert. I just see a duck who quacks like a duck and form my own conclusions. While no single one of my observations would make me assume that he was gay, all of them together created a rather flaming red flag.

Epilogue: A year later after returning from an international conference where delegates usually brought their spouses, that same co-worker dragged me into an office to tell me that - what do you know - I was right. Mr. Gorgeous arrived on site with his life partner (and a wallet full of pictures featuring the niece and nephew).

Integrity of Kate's gaydar: 1. Naysayers: 0.**

I would apply this same line of thinking to Michael Jackson being accused of molesting young boys. Let's review the facts:

1. He had no childhood and an physically abusive father.
2. He was a child star in an industry where plentiful drugs and loose morals were a given.
3. He was the darling of said industry and exposed to who knows how many people with said priorities.
4. Sexual predators are everywhere and a child like Michael Jackson would be an easy target for the adults populating his life (admittedly, this is conjecture - but still quite probable).
5. He changed his appearance so many times that by the end he was barely human looking.
6. He had high profile romantic relationships with female celebrities, also known for being somewhat damaged.
7. No one ever really bought these romances which had the distinct air of being more friendship based and possibly just for show (more conjecture - but tell me you didn't think the same thing).
8. He had his first two children with a woman who relinquished all rights as a mother, so I'm going to say there was no romantic relationship there.
9. Those children do not look like their father would likely be a black man (or at least not 100%) and the possibility of all three looking so Caucasian is pretty slim (if this statement offends you - pull out your old high school biology text book and read about dominant genes).
10. Before even becoming a father, he built an estate called Neverland that would be a fantasy home for children (the child he never got to be).
11. He had the monkey thing.
12. He had the Liz and Liza thing.
13. I could go on and on but the big, bottom line is that he had children, including 12 year old boys sleep over. In his own bed.

Each one of those items is not in and of itself condemning, but all together? It doesn't sound like this was a man who was able to have normal romantic relationships with women. It does sound like a very sad, damaged person who made some bad choices. And it does sound like a very good candidate for pedophilia.

Again - I'm no expert, so maybe I'm wrong. But when you invite 12 year old boys into the your bed, you kind give up your right to being given the benefit of the doubt.

And on the possibility that he was in fact a sex offender who was able to buy his way out of jail, I wonder how those children, now adults, feel today. Are they rocking out in their car to P.Y.T.? Are they just happy it's over? Are they in a good place now and able to forgive? That's their story. One that fell off the radar long ago. And it's probably for the best since they would at the very least deserve a chance for a normal life now.

I can't judge Michael Jackson, but I can consider him. I can have pity for the child he never got to be, but also have contempt for the man he chose to be. And I can love the music in spite of the man. My personal opinion can waver on the details and find firmer ground in the big picture. But none of it makes any difference.

Do I think people should be held accountable for their actions? Yes. But after they're dead? I don't know... Because that really doesn't make a difference either. Those of use who are living have a future and when we do look back at the past, we'll all see different things.

Some will chose to see only the good, and some will choose to see only the bad. But both are there to be seen and considered. And in the end, I choose to see it all. With wide open eyes, and dancing feet.

*I Googled this saying since I wasn't sure if it was "quacks" or "walks" and discovered that it's actually a quote from Douglas Adams. And a pretty witty one at that: "If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least to consider the possibility that we have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae on our hands." I may have known this once - but I don't tend to retain factoids or information that isn't relative to my life experience. So sorry Douglas - you just didn't make the cut.

**Why do I keep talking about gay men on my blog...? I don't even have that many gay friends now that I live in the burbs and lost touch with most of the hospitality industry contacts from my meeting planning days. Too bad I don't live in the city anymore - I obviously have some serious fag hag potential going on over here...

Your Identity in Two Paragraphs or Less

Remember when I decided to embrace my mommy blogger identity? No? Well, it was a long time ago... But one of the things I said was that I was going to see if I could join DC Metro Moms and make it official.

They're just now accepting new bloggers, so I'm in! AND I have my first post up today, titled "Your Identity in Two Paragraphs or Less." Actually, the title is a bit longer because it's a rule that you have to put something in the title indicating what the post is about. Something about search engines I think...can't remember...I was too exhausted by figuring out TypePad to do more than skim that part of the instructions.

And now that I think of it, that title is incredibly misleading. It may appear the I will actually attempt to sum up my identity in two paragraphs [insert image of me languidly throwing back my head in a peal of world weary laughter here]. Like THAT would ever happen. No, it's the opposite - I ramble on about how impossible that is for me.

BUT it's not just my usual long-winded hooey (I don't think I've ever written "hooey" before - is that even a word?) There is also a rather shocking "big reveal" in there. Unless of course, you are an IRL friend who already knows my big news...and unless you think "shocking" implies something as sensational as say, the revelation that there is a major swingers community in your neighborhood. Actually that probably is more exciting than my news - but I think you catch my drift - I announce something in that post that is big news for me.

So go visit me at DC Metro Moms today - I'm not sure how many people will be online over a holiday weekend...but if you are, check it out. And please comment so the other Metro Moms don't think I'm a loser. It's so hard being the new girl...

Why I Hate Being a Truck Driver

Now that I’ve got your attention… I don’t really drive one of the big rigs. I drive a Ford Expedition. SUV owners are either saying, “Eh – My Tahoe is just as big,” or “Oh yeah – my Explorer is quite big enough, thank you very much.”

The truth is – I’m just not a “big car” person. They don’t suit me. I don’t know how to gracefully enter or exit them, I can’t park them to save my life, and if I didn’t have a little alarm that lets me know when I’m getting too close to something behind me, I would have taken out any number of trees and bushes by now.

Obviously this truck was not my choice. After almost a year of cramming three car seats across the back seat of Chris’ Jeep Liberty, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we really needed something roomier. Like any other proper suburban family, we initially discussed minivans. Chris was very against this idea. He practically broke out in hives at the thought. But I could have cared less. I’m not much of a car person in general.

I think my disinterest in cars was cultivated early when as a teenager, I drove a 1985 used “Red Renault Alliance.” I put this in quotes because that is generally how people referred to it: “the Red Renault Alliance.” Here is a picture:

My parents purchased this when I got my drivers license so that I could drive myself to school (at the time I had a very inconvenient public transportation commute from Capitol Hill to Georgetown). My father seemed to believe that I was incredibly lucky to have my own car to drive instead of sharing theirs. I of course, knew that “lucky” better described my friends who were getting new Suzuki Samurais and Cabriolet convertibles for their sixteenth birthdays.

Seriously though, I now agree with my father. Upon the Red Renault Alliance’s demise just two short years after we bought it, my brother did have to share a car with my parents. Which in his sixteen year old opinion “sucked.”

The next car that I had was purchased after I got my first job out of college. It was a little blue Toyota Tercel. And in my own twenty-two year old opinion, “it sucked.” But it was all I could afford. And after the dramatic explosion/car flipping/burned feet drama of the Red Renault Alliance, I was not interested in buying anything used.

My tiny Tercel had vinyl seats that burned the backs of my legs in the summer and no power steering. This completely destroyed the amazing talent for parallel parking I developed in my parents’ crowded Capitol Hill neighborhood. But just like the Red Renault Alliance, the Tercel was not a status car, and I continued to view cars as simply a means of transportation.

Eventually, I had other larger sedans (Saturns, a Camry), but my interest level never increased. I liked driving a shiny new car, but had no inclination to actually maintain it.

When I met Chris, it was clear that he wasn’t not a car person either. In fact, when I first started dating him, I always drove. His car was a hand me down from his grandparents. I don’t remember the make, but it was white with maroon interior (I believe his friends called it the “maxi pad”) and it had started emitting fumes that made him light headed after about 15 minutes of driving. He moved on to a very basic Jeep Cherokee and shared my apathetic attitude toward maintenance.

So fast forward eight years, three kids, several mediocre cars and a suburban commute later…and we were at a loss as to what we wanted. One weekend, Chris went out to test drive some minivans he had researched online, and instead came back with this:

I was speechless. It was huge. I had to step up onto a running board in order to hoist myself into the front seat. This was by far, the biggest vehicle that I had ever tried to drive. But it’s now been over a year, and like anything else, I’ve gotten used to it.

Reasons why I hate driving it include the following:

Like I said, I’m terrible at parking it. And I don’t even mean parallel parking. I walk out of the grocery store and locate my car by looking for the big truck parked on a diagonal. No matter how carefully I try to get into a space, I usually end up crooked or right up against one neighboring car and a mile away from the other. I’ve even been keyed! And I often end up with some man trying to help direct me in – like those airport guys on the tarmac helping planes pull up to the gates. It’s just humiliating.

Additionally – I find that people are mean to me. Maybe they see my big truck and think that I have an aggressive personality to go with it. All I know is that I have the hardest time getting people to let me change lanes in traffic. It’s like they’re in their little economy car thinking, “Oh no you don’t, you big gas guzzling bully – you’re not cutting in front of me.” If only I could install a sign that said, “I am not driving this car by choice – I have too many children to fit into an environment-friendly compact car.” I doubt anyone would care. They’d probably just key my sign.

Finally, we just don’t match. I don’t look like a big car person. Not only is it not my style, but I don’t have the attitude to pull it off. I’m not particularly petite, but even if I was, I’ve seen tiny girls climb out of trucks bigger than mine looking like they own the parking lot (they, of course can park without taking up two spaces). This will never be me.

So what car SHOULD I be driving? Most would answer this question with their idea of a dream car. Something eye catching, fast, vintage, expensive… But I’d rather spend the money on my house or a great vacation.

Someday my children will get their drivers licenses, and they’ll be the ones envying their friends with fancy new cars. That’s right – they’ll be driving whatever junkie jalopy we give them. And they’ll be damn lucky to have it!

Originally posted on July 22, 2008. This post ended up on DC Blogs Noted and I got my first hater comments. I felt like I had arrived... Visit Scary Mommy for links to more Flashback Friday Posts!

(sorry to do this on Thursday instead of Friday - but I have something else to post tomorrow...)

As Good as Cake Giveaway: And the Winner Is...

A week ago, I announced a little home decor giveaway for these:

Ribbon Highball Set

Blue Letters Cocktail Napkins

Last night was the deadline for entries and we officially have a winner:



Congratulations to Liz of LizzyDear's Life Reviews who said "I love these pieces, beautiful!" I'll be in touch with information on how to collect your prize.

ALSO - check back on Monday for a giveaway from Polarn O. Pyret children's clothing! (I know - I'm like a giveaway machine over here...)

Guest Posting over at Scary Mommy's Place Today

Remember how I was supposed to guest post for Scary Mommy today, but I sent her something that wasn't at all appropriate for the theme she had in mind? And I just posted it here yesterday?

No? Well go read that first!

Anyway, Scary Mommy was kind enough to just pull an oldie but a goodie from my archives. So go visit me there and tell me if you are "that mom" too.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have "a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean)." And apparently, I completely missed the point...

She was talking about not being perfect - those times when you feel like "bad mom." And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she's posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I'm posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy's blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about "scary mommy moments." And my immediate thought was, "where do I start?!"

I suppose that's a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It's a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I've ever done. Of course it's just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it's head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that's when it starts. Truly, it's right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital...but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents' once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, "I don't know how people take care of multiples - I could never do it."

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy - but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn't know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and...well, let's just say that I spent more time at the doctor's office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up...When people knowingly advised me to "sleep when the baby sleeps," I would reply, "oh yeah? Which one?" (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life...)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away - quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else... Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I've experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming...

But I've also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after "showering with the door closed." But that's just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes - they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.