We had a great time with my friend and his “baby” sister and her boyfriend Friday night (although she’s in her 20s and volunteered with the Peace Corps in Africa so she’s hardly a baby). We met for dinner at this place, which is always a good, casual choice central to downtown Nashville. In 1993 I rented an apartment in that same area for six months and it always transports me back to a point in my life when I was young, single, and had more hair.

I had the best time catching up with my friend, whom I hadn’t seen since Miss A was just a baby. At one point during dinner he had me laughing so hard over sharing his little brother’s “city gay” versus “country gay” theories that I was nearly crying. It sounds cliche, but it really doesn’t matter how much time passes for true friends–they can sit down and catch up without missing a beat.

Then we all meandered over to Cabana, which is a gorgeous restaurant and bar with a fun vibe. I could go on about how I couldn’t believe all the single 20-somethings were walking around in shorts skimpier than my favorite cotton underwear, but then I don’t want to sound like an old boring married woman who usually spends her Friday nights face down in her memory foam pillow after flipping through the latest issue of Southern Living.

I drank one of these at Cabana. Huzzah! I guess this wouldn’t be acceptable on Monday mornings when I need a pick me up at work.

Then we headed over to Tribe and I had a Cosmo, which was too sweet but I zoned out when under pressure to order and wanted something festive because I was at a real live bar with lots of fancy al-kee-haul. Thank God I didn’t order something like a Sex on the Beach or a strawberry daquiri. Hello…1989 called and wants its drink specials back. I also willingly chose to drink white zinfandel at a wedding reception and dinner two weeks ago (hubby is now cringing). I think I may need an alcohol intervention of the What Not To Drink variety. Someone tell me quick, what drinks are en vogue these days? It was a leap for me to order the vodka and Red Bull. I am more of a beer and wine girl at home and I always love margaritas.

And then hubby and I took a cab home a little after midnight. Honestly I can’t remember the last time he and I had to take a cab home. I’m sure it was pre-parenthood, which would be 2000 or 2001.

I had asked my mom to not bring the girls home before 9 Saturday morning. When Miss C asked me where my car was I told her we had ridden in a cab home and that my car was downtown in the city. Of course that was not a thorough enough reply and she asked that question that would make all parents billionaires if they had a dollar each time it was uttered: Why? To which I responded, “Because mommy and daddy were out late and we needed someone to drive us home.” That seemed to satisfy her, although I hope she didn’t tell everyone at her Vacation Bible School program last night that mommy and daddy had to take a cab home Friday.

In the past few weeks hubby has bought two gorgeous hanging planters for our back patio, surprised me with a pink digital camera, and suggested after lunch on Tuesday that we walk over to Target because he just loved spending time with me. Sigh…

Now hubby is a manly man. He wears two colors of socks: black and white. He loves beer. He loves football. He’s cooked a whole pig. He’s worked with broken ribs (his own). He’s tended bar. He can open a bottle of beer with his teeth. He’s done a lot of crazy ass guy stuff through the years, some of which may or may not have been illegal.

Hubby’s eyes glaze over if I say the words accessorize, duvet, or exfoliate. When we registered for wedding gifts I remember him slowly meandering toward the electronics department to catch up on NFL football scores while I lovingly gazed at stemware and fine bone china.

Tonight we’re going out with one of my best college guy friends who is flying into town to visit his little sister and her boyfriend. My friend also happens to be gay. We worked together in college as co-editors of the entertainment section of our college newspaper. Our friendship endured me having a hissy fit on deadline one night and me telling him to go to hell. Now that is friendship!

I know hubby won’t order any flirtinis or bust a move on the dance floor (dating myself there aren’t I) or spend more than 1.2 seconds deciding what to wear tonight, but I know he can hang out with the best of gay men and not feel uncomfortable.

Now, I’ve just got to figure out what I’m going to wear.

I’ve been writing a lot at the new digs and elsewhere.

Here’s what’s shakin’:

OopsieDazie hair accessory giveaway at Savvy Housewife (ends tomorrow at midnight)

TripFlix award-winning family travel DVD giveaway at Savvy Housewife (ends next Tuesday at midnight)

A savvy guide to a festive July 4th with delectable recipes, festive drinks, fresh invites, and patriotic wear that won’t make you feel like Betsy Ross

I confess I don’t have my mother’s green thumb over at Deep South Moms

I write about the cost of daycare (and how we are no longer in the double daycare fees days…yee haw) in my Monday working mom post at Blissfully Domestic

You don’t need a blog to enter the giveaways; just a valid e-mail address.

And yes, she does this pose thing completely on her own.

Yesterday afternoon I took Miss C to buy her pink ballet slippers at the local dance studio where she’ll be taking a six-week ballet princesses course starting tomorrow. I assumed they had the shoes in stock and then realized they had to be ordered and won’t ship until next week. So, I did what every good mother who has dropped the ball does in order to shield her child from mommy’s little screw ups. I improvised and embellished (which sounds much nicer than lying). I told Miss C that her new dance shoes would be waiting for her next week and that she would “get” to wear her favorite Hello Kitty tennis shoes to her first class tomorrow night.

But I digress.

We arrived as a class was dismissing. The studio was a blur of pink tights and leotards. The girls rushed to their proud parents outside the classroom. The tiniest little girl, her tousled brunette hair pulled up in a pony tail, emerged red-faced and bawling. Her mother headed toward her while holding the hand of a little boy I assumed was baby brother. My heart broke for the little girl. I’m not sure what happened but she was clearly having A Moment. I was relieved to see her mother did not hesitate to comfort her. That is, until she opened her mouth.

OH MY GOD. She began to console her daughter in the most annoying sing song baby talk fake mommy saccharine voices I have ever heard in my life. She was laughing and chuckling and shushing like nobody’s business. It was a state I’ve witnessed before — the sing song mommy voice zone. For a split second I thought, “Wow, I wonder what sort of happy mommy drugs she’s taking?” This was quickly followed by, “I wonder where can I get some?”

I’m all for the cooing cadence of baby talk when children are babies. I love to snuggle with the girls and drive them crazy with mama kisses, but the over the top sing song mommy voice creeps me out. I’ve heard it whem moms are in Target and their kids are beet red and wailing and the moms are pushing their red carts like zombies, sipping their Starbucks frappuccinos, and staring into space. Come to think of it, Target always puts me into a relaxed Zen like state, too. I’ve heard it at the playground when a child has a tantrum over leaving and the parent slowly heading toward their minivan, keys in hand, eyes wide. I’m never really certain whether they truly are that laid back (or they are smoking ganja in the car pool lane), or if they’re about to snap.

I can’t be too critical, though, because the creepy sing song mommy voice tried to suck me under during a particularly unpleasant morning at church with the girls recently. And at least it is more pleasant and genteel than the WalMart redneck mama holler: “You gonna git a whippin!!!!!” or “Git your ass in the cart!”

Guess who swam underwater at the pool this weekend without the aid of floaties?

I’m really proud of Miss C. When we were in Florida just last month she hesitated to even jump in the pool with her floaties on and insisted that the hubby or I stay close by constantly.

I’d love to say she inherited her swimming ability from me, but I’m not a very good swimmer. The hubby, however, used to lifeguard at our little hometown country club pool in the late 80s.

And now, some great moments in Miss C’s road to floaty freedom.

Summer 2003

Miss C navigating the chlorinated waters in her posh, super deluxe, pimped out baby float, the S.S. Sippycup, with daddy ’s help.

Summer 2007

 Miss C taking swimming lessons at the YMCA while mommy tries to observe casually from the sidelines and take a few photos without crossing the line and becoming one of those obnoxious overzealous scrapbooking mothers.

Speaking of scrapbooking (I occasionally sit down and work on digital scrapbook pages for the girls), guess who didn’t have a camera to record yesterday’s momentous occasion?

Have you read any of the uproar surrounding Heelarious, a new product touted as baby’s first heels?

Well, personally I am sickened by a practice that has been going on for years before tiny zebra-print infant stilettos hit the market.

I am outraged at the Hillbillyfication of babies!

Those disgusting hilarious pacifiers that make your kids look like bucktoothed Bubba inbreds are atrocious and should be outlawed.

This completely sarcastic tirade brought to you by a woman who dressed both her girls like ladybugs for their first Halloween, propped them up, took countless photos and then e-mailed them to friends and family all over the country.

So what do you think about Heelarious baby pumps? Are they hilarious? Are they appalling? Do they sexualize baby girls? Or, are they just plain silly?

I personally would never spend nearly $40 on a novelty item like faux baby heels, but then I’m also not outraged by them. I am assuming that if anyone buys this product for their baby girl that they are surely buying them in jest, and not planning to turn out a little baby Heidi Fleiss on the playground. Two moms came up with the idea behind Heelarious and the website clearly promotes the fact that they are intended as a joke. They come in a cute purse-shaped bag, complete with a little baby bling rhinestone closure. I actually think that’s pretty darn clever.

In the mean time I’m just waiting for Flava Flav to release a line of pimp hats for baby boys or maybe a milk bong or pacifier roach clip. Baby temporary tattoos or a new line of thong Pull Ups could be next.