An Unpaid Endorsement of My Holiday Haunts

by Ilina

With the holidays creeping upon us and beckoning us to the big box retailers, there are more than a few ideas brewing my
head to keep it local this year. I'm making my list and checking it twice. Who am I kidding? I'm
not checking it at all. It's all I can do to write the list down on a
scrap of torn envelope from my daily ration of junk mail. There are
some places I will hit this holiday season for sure. Keep in mind this
is not host of paid endorsements; these are independently owned
business that I happen love. I would love to know some of your faves, especially since mine are clearly Raleigh-centric! Here are a few of my favorite Triangle things.

Tookies Toys: Independently owned toy store in Cameron Village that carries an awesome selection of Playmobil
and other European brands. The wall of games is great, and the beefed
up science section leaves my six year old drooling. The best part is no
crazy testosterone laden shoot 'em up flaming, bursting, wheeling toys
that some "experts" think boys must play with. And hands down the best
looking wrapped gifts to boot! Did I mention free gift wrapping?

The Lollipop Shop: Did someone mention candy? This is a newcomer to North Hills that carries a mouthwatering buffet, I mean array, of old school candy and new fangled
treats. My sons love the wind up toys and teddy bear accessories. Deal
recently chose a fire chief hat for his little sidekick "Beary." Bird indulged in colorful rock candy and German-made gummi bears. The rainbow of M & Ms and wall of Jelly Bellys make me feel like, well, a kid in a candy store!

Marbles Kids Museum and Museum of Life + Science:
Wonderful places to wile away the hours, rain or shine. A museum
membership makes a dandy holiday gift (and a fantastic present to a kid
who's going to be a big brother or sister!). There are times we go to
Marbles twice in a week just because the boys want to embrace their
inner Scurvy Dog and Black Beard on the pirate ship or bang the drums
in "Brazil." The Life + Science Museum never disappoints. The bears are
always a kick, and the remote control sailboat racing makes us all
captain for a day.

Moxie Kids:
This is where the cool kids shop. Or in our case, this is where the
cool kids' grandfather shops. If you happen to see my sons looking
particularly snazzy, it's because they're sporting some Tea Collection
or Charlie Rockets garb from Moxie Kids. The store is chic and cute without being pretentious. The girls clothes are simply
breathtaking. It's almost worth having a baby girl just to shop there.
Almost.

Cameron Village Library: Forget Cheers, this
is the place where everybody knows our names. When Bird turned one we
donated copies of his favorite books to the library to commemorate his
birthday. If you, like me, see the magic of books, donating to your
local library is a fine fine gift. Talk about the perfect gift for the
person who has everything and the gift that keeps on giving all wrapped
up in one handsome cliche package! Look for The Cat in the Hat at Cameron
Village Library with Bird's nameplate pasted in the cover.

One last thing...

Over the holidays and randomly throughout the year, we take a batch of cupcakes or brownies to the fine fire fighters at Station 6. They've come not once, but twice to save my little Deal (once when he was choking and a second time when he did this).
They literally saved my son's life. Twice. A few doses of sugar fail
miserably as a thank you, but think about it, nothing is grand enough
to show our gratitude for the best gift we have ever gotten.

Ilina blogs about her musings and sons' escapades at Dirt & Noise and supports local businesses in her off time. If you want to follow her non sequitors, follow her on Twitter @ilinap. She also somehow manages to run iFactor, her own marketing consulting business, and cooks home cooked meals every night. Almost.

Halloween 2009, Triangle Mamas Style

In no particular order, here are some of the adorable children of the Triangle Mamas.

This is Abigail in her mama's German dirndl from when she was two.  NIkki says, "I like to think of this as her dramatic reenactment of Gretl's 'So Long, Farewell' exit in The Sound of Music."

Here are Juni and Pip, Cyndi's little ones. Buzz Lightyear here even had "Andy" written on the bottom of his shoe. Very authentic.

What might have been a dragon on the hanger became a dinosaur on Linus. Abby's little man was rawry scary.

From our newest Triangle Mama, Kelly, whose inaugural post will be live Wednesday, we have Mr. Wyatt.

Little Bird was a Little Bear for the day. Marty and her sewing machine pulled off a handmade Halloween again this year, but only with a couple of hours to spare.

Cindy's little dino was so excited, she had the costume on in Target the day they were picking it out.

 

Ilina had a handmade Halloween too. Here is Super Deal and Ninja Bird in all their glory.

Welcome to fall, y'all. Bring on the turkeys and the trees!

Election Day: Local Elections Matter

I'm going to keep this one short so you can take the time to check out the links here.

This Tuesday, October 6, is election day.

Municipal elections don't get much media attention or ad spend, but they are critical to our local way of life. I admittedly bust a move on national elections and can lose sight of what happens in my own backyard. However, now that I am a mother of an elementary age son, I view my world a bit differently. Don't get me wrong, I always vote, no matter how "big" or "small" the race. I love to vote and cherish my right to do so. Since my boys have been born I have taken them with me to the polls, whether nestled into the baby carrier, strapped into the stroller, or walking hand in hand. I even let my then-five-year old fill out the ballot for the presidential election in 2008. Voting is a civic responsibility and honor that won't go unnoticed in my household.

This Tuesday we vote for important local offices. In Wake County we are voting on candidates for school board, mayor of Raleigh, and city council. Cary and Durham have city council races (Primary in Durham with the election November 3). These are the people whose legislation and policies directly affect our lives - schools, zoning, budgets, trash collection, recycling, public transportation, use of public space, green space, parks and recreation, public safety (police and fire) and a whole slew of other responsibilities. In a word, these elected officials matter. To all of us.

And please allow me a sidebar here: Just because I didn't have kids in public school before doesn't mean I didn't vote. All these issues, arguably education especially, affect us all.

So do me, and you, a favor. Please go vote on Tuesday. And have a look at the voter's guide here for more information. Voting is a right we take for granted. Make good use of your right on Tuesday, October 6.

Wake County Voter Information

Durham County Voter Information

And on November 3, there are elections in Durham, Angier, Apex, Fuquay-Varina, Garner, Holly Springs, Knightdale, Morrisville, Rolesville, Wake Forest, Wendell and Zebulon.

As for me, you'll see me at the polls on Tuesday with my two sons in tow. Because I'll be volunteering at the polls all day for Kids Voting, you won't see me in my normal election day partisan attire. But I'll be sporting a Kids Voting T-shirt, proudly supporting an organization that brings our civic process to life in and out of the classroom.

Ilina blogs at Dirt & Noise, where she unleashes her political fury when she's not waxing about her boys' latest mischief or sharing a cocktail recipe on her weekly 5:00 Fridays post.

Intolerance for Raymond Cook's Inebriation

When I was a little girl I had one of those jewelry boxes with a twinkling spinning ballerina inside. I vividly remember the light blue tulle of her tutu and the shimmering tune of Swan Lake
playing when I'd wind it up. I never took a dance class in my life but
I did daydream about being a ballerina. Didn't every little girl? From
when my oldest son Bird could talk he would always tell me that I
looked like a ballerina whenever I wore a skirt. Now at age six, he
still says it. It's as close to being a ballerina as I ever got. I was
not blessed with a lithe body, good posture, discipline, or grace.

But
Elena Shapiro was. I swear if you look up "ballerina" in the dictionary
Elena's picture was right there. Even her name was fit for a ballerina.
Grace embodied.

I am having a hard time wrapping my head around
the recent tragedy of Dr. Raymond Cook killing ballerina Elena Shapiro.
The irony of a reckless young doctor stealing the life of a vital young
woman is not lost on me.

I heard this news over the weekend
before the media extravaganza began. I was reeling then, and the
subsequent news reports continue to make me foam at the mouth. Disdain.
Disgust. I can't find the right words. A man who committed his life to
saving lives took an innocent life in a fleeting, irresponsible moment.
We often turn to doctors in the apex of our vulnerability. We don't
expect them to heighten our despair; we look to them to give us hope
and health. We take faith that they value their oath. First, do no
harm. We hope and assume that doctors above all value human life in and
out of the hospital, for they have seen the most profound and most
remarkable examples of our mortality.

Cook did more than make a
grave mistake; he sent an innocent young woman to her grave. This was
not a fluke accident for which I can empathize. This was not an
it-could-have-happened-to-me moment. If anything, any one of us could
have been Elena Shapiro. In fact, just moments after the accident,
friends of ours took that very same road en route home, their two
children ages 7 and 4 in tow. Sure, before Friday night Raymond Cook
was a regular guffawing golfing guy hanging out with his buddies on a
deserved afternoon off. Apart from the 300 grand salary, million dollar
home, and medical credentials, he could have been my very own husband.
He was a husband, father, son, friend; he wasn't a monster. But his
actions have made him so. The fact that he has a history of such dangerous reckless behavior makes this case even more reprehensible.

Any one of his choices jeopardized
the lives of those who shared the road with him. The combination was
deadly. He embarked on this irresponsible escapade knowingly, even turning down an offer to arrange a ride home from the bar manager who refused to serve him.
Surely cab fare was not out of his budget. And what responsibility do
his golfing buddies share? Is there shame to go around? How many of
them drove home drunk themselves? One hell of an I-told-you-so-lesson.
This is a 40-something year old man who knows the dangers of drinking
and driving. He knows the ramifications of driving nearly twice
the speed limit. Even when running late, I don't drive twice the posted
speed limit. And the cynic in me says that he wouldn't have been
running late if he had just left the bar earlier.

The image of
a wealthy, successful young doctor careening down the street in his
fancy Mercedes after an afternoon of golfing at the club is even too
cliche for a Jodi Piccoult
novel. The Dr. 90210 figure of the swashbuckling, entitled plastic
surgeon who is above the law fits Dr. Cook to a tee. He's surely not
helping the negative stereotypical light cast on his profession. For
the record, I have had reconstructive plastic surgery for medical, not
cosmetic, reasons. Twice. I am not a naysayer. I am not one who is
distrusting of doctors. We have close friends who are physicians, and I
would trust them with my life. Had I the muster to get into medical
school, medicine would have been my chosen profession too. I revere
doctors, which perhaps adds to the bile this case elicits in me. I
don't know Raymond Cook personally. I don't really give a damn what
kind of man his supporters purport him to be. On Friday, September 11,
a date that already has its gruesome share of mind in our collective
psyches, Raymond Cook became a different kind of man. He murdered a
young woman who posed him no threat. His car his weapon, his disregard
for the law and his overindulgence the fuel. The lifetime of shame and
pain Cook lives with pales exponentially to that of Elena Shapiro's
family. And to think of the future he has laid out for his own family.
I shudder.

Think I'm being too hard on the guy? What if Elena were your daughter?

Surely when you look up "hubris" in the dictionary you see Raymond Cook.

Disgrace embodied.

Ilina, a doting mother of two boys, blogs at Dirt & Noise.When she's not busy with her day job in her own marketing consulting business, she manages to inhale books, cook adventurous healthy creations, and window shop on Etsy. Though she posts a cocktail recipe in a weekly feature called 5:00 Fridays,
she is a vehement supporter of drinking responsibly. Having lost two
friends to a drunk driving accident in college, she has no tolerance
for driving while under the influence.

Leave the Road for Cars

I am a big proponent of walking. I have written about it before.  I find it ever so unfortunate to live in a city that is one of the least walkable areas I have ever lived in. Creating a lively, safe, walkable city is not even on the list of criteria for developers and urban planners around these parts. No sirree. We're all about the four-wheeled guzzling monster.  A subdivision north of town welcomes you with a fountain oddly resembling something from an ill-placed resort and signs that boast "26 miles of walking." Um, walking to where exactly? I prefer an organic community with its own pulse, hotspots, and places where you happen upon fellow dwellers in an unstaged, unscheduled manner. And by community, I mean neighborhood, not subdivision, development, planned community. But my beef with the lack of such neighborhoods in Raleigh is for another day.

It seems that others enjoy walking too, whether for exercise, errands, or the whole two birds one stone bit. There are walkers aplenty in a lovely area neighboring my old school neighborhood. I see them everyday, and I know they see me too. I can tell by the glares.

Read on from a letter of complaint I posted to Dirt & Noise.

Dear Walkers of White Oak Road,

Please do not glare at me as I
drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never
had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of
driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The
lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly
line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is
smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I
don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed
limit. Always.

Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in
a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to
shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or
two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my
Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger
firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do
utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room
on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.

But I see you, in your
matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as
I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip
to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a
stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks.
I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the
like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh,
3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.

I happen to be
a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk
with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked
neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with
chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks;
that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks
are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons
we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk.
Danger! Danger! Danger!

From the myriad skateboarders, bikers,
scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I
guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is
this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America
these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the
road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind
curves, don't walk on it. If
you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming
and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That
means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.

You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.

Sincerely,

An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger

Ilina walks, but refuses to run. You can find her walking to her favorite coffee shop, where she writes at Dirt & Noise and Foodie Mama when she's not busy being the voice of the consumer for clients of her marketing consulting business.

Rules of Engagement

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I
stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone
chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the
park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds
bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I
play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some
singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just
thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett
(minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and
the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I
slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more
resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's
clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm
going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys
became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny
them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and
Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably
intertwined.

Cross posted at Dirt & Noise.