Don't drink and parent

I can make just one guarantee about motherhood.
No, not the "best adventure you'll ever take" bit . . . that sort of goes without saying.
What I've really discovered in two years?
The first time you go for a girls night out, you will feel old.
Not "oh, I can drive and I'm in control old."
Oh no, this is "they haven't carded me, is it because of this gigantic bag over my shoulder with a diaper sticking out the top or is there a jammy handprint on the back of my fancy going out 100 percent cotton sweatshirt"?
Megan said it had been three years since we last went out and got silly, sloppy falling down drunk.
And I do mean falling down - I tripped on the old sidewalks in Callicoon and landed hands in the gravel.
Those sidewalks were replaced last summer or the one before.
That's how long it's been.
So after a week-long terrible two tantrum fest, I gave in to the pull.
OK, Meg, we're going out.
It started out off OK.
We got our drinks, settled in at our booth and had a nominally adult conversation with the other bar regulars who I haven't chatted up in about three years.
Then I heard the call to the bar.
"Jeanne, let's do shots!"
A 21-year-old was beckoning me to the bar for some flavored so sweet you don't know it'll kill you drink.
One down, she poured me a second.
Two down, she turned the shaker over one more time.
"No, no," I protested. "I have to drive home."
"So do I, silly," she said.
What I meant to say was . . . "I have to drive home and get up in six hours with a toddler who will be bouncing off the wall and begging for Lego waffles broken into pieces with syrup on the side."
Mercy, mercy me.
I settled back into my booth, and the beers kept coming.
Around 1 a.m., I eyed the clock on the wall - or was that two clocks on the wall?
I had to put a stop to this.
Not drunk, I was well on my way.
But the call I posted three years ago to my husband when Megan's bad influence had taken me down (hey, I can dream!) couldn't be made.
I could just imagine . . . "honey, can you rouse our daughter from her sweet princess sleep, strap her in the car and drive all the way to town to get me so I can be sick out the window as you motor us home?"
I'd rather slay the dragon.
I stopped drinking.
I sobered up.
An hour later, I headed home, fully in control of my faculties and fully aware I was in for a bellyache the next morning.
Seven a.m., and my "alarm clock" yelled "Mommy!!!!"
I was in for it.
Sorry, Megan, can we wait until kindergarten before we do it again?

Addiction

I can't help it.
The multiple tabs in Internet Explorer only make it that much easier.
I surf in one, type in my queries in the other.
I'm collecting a mega list.
My "what I have to read" list.
The local library's catalog search, which connects to the Inter-Library-Loan system for the entire system spits out the availability of everything.
I just hit "my list" and move on.
I'm up to 20-some, and I'm hungry for more.
But I can't request just yet.
Request too many, and they pile up.
The pleasure is lost as I sit, curled in the corner of my couch, one eye on the page, the other on the pile on the bookcase. It's the pile I must conquer before the books have to be returned.
Older books are better; there are fewer requests.
They come in faster; they're easier to renew - no one else wants them.
That makes me sad, but oh well.
It's the new books that I salivate for.
I click "request" and I'm told I'm 38th in line or 97th.
How can it be?
Please, read fast.
I'm waiting.

Fine fare for a vegetarian

Bad hummus makes me cranky.
Warmed over veggie burgers on a bed of iceberg . . . blech.
Sticks and twigs are giving us a bad name.
Let's face it: there are more meat-eaters in the world.
They outnumber us, and they're in power.
But when you hand them a brown circle with the distinct flavor of cardboard (a la that bright red packaging from the Boca folks), you're just giving them more ammunition.
If you don't want to eat it, why should they?
To my fellow tree-huggin' veggies, I say stand up for our reputations.
Demand hummus with some tang and zest, whole grain bread with some moisture and ix-nay on the iguid-lay oke-smay.
I'm not asking for much.
Just give me back my peaceful meal.
Their meat breath is turning my stomach.

Are we all in?

I feel like I'm dancing awkwardly over a line drawn in the sand.
My bare foot sinks deep as I step, and I fumble, coming up with a mouth full of dirt.
It's the Politically Correct Tango, the Liberal/Conservative salsa.
Pro-gay rights, pro-choice, I'm a likely target for conservatives.
But my assertion that "illegal" alien is a term for people breaking the law, my respect for the American melting pot over American multi-culturalism? Ah, I must be a conservative.
My voter registration card won't give me away.
I am neither.
I vote.
Not down party lines and not at the caucus.
I do my job as an American every November. I cast my decision. Mine, not anyone else's.
But I struggle with my American values. I want to know why I must choose one or the other.
Why does a call for people of all faiths to respect one another put me on the outs with religious groups?
Why has America become the land of the brave and home of the "well, you better support 'em's"?
We've crossed the line from respect to kowtowing. One can whisper racism and draw hundreds to the fold to throw stones at the accused.
I'm not saying that racism doesn't exist. I have seen it against blacks, against whites, against gays, against straights, against Jews and Christians and Muslims and Hindus.
Were there are two people, there will be disagreements. Where there are differences, there will be judgement.
The trouble comes with more than two people, when two face off against one, when the rules become: "you dislike my brother, therefore you are my enemy."
Brotherhood and unity are one thing.
Picking a fight for someone else is quite another.
The fight against true injustice is being dulled by sparring matches with phantoms.
Want to be American?
Stand tall, together.
Cultures are not to be lost but melted into American life.
Hispanics can speak Spanish at home, children can learn Spanish in school, but the street signs in West Nose Pick, Nebraska should remain in the official language of the country.
Orthodox Jewish women can dress in long skirts or Muslim women in headscarves, but their husbands shouldn't expect it of the Protestant living down the street.
True acceptance comes in balance.
It is not all or nothing, it is without all, we have nothing.
That is the American dream.