This Magic Moment

The moment we dreamed about finally arrived last night.

Yesterday was our ninth wedding anniversary. The days of fancy presents and romantic getaways are over (especially since Suze Orman was on Oprah yesterday - economic depression is so depressing! At least Suze's Miamified outfits are cheery and her blindingly white teeth provide an invigorating retinal shock...), but I decided to make a special celebratory dinner.

I picked up ingredients and flowers at a small boutique I found -- Le Costco, and had appetizers laid out when SJ arrived home with the kids. The kids ate dinner and then headed upstairs to be entertained by the electronic babysitter (the TV) while we ate our grownup meal.

That's when the magic happened: my husband and I sat and talked and ate for a whole half hour without interruption. The food was delicious, the birds were literally singing through the open window, and we got to act like grownups in our own home!

I don't want to rush to judgement, but I wonder if maybe we're getting into the parenting sweet spot that we've heard so much about: a time between Pampers and pimples when offspring are occasionally self-sufficient children with whom we can peacefully coexist.

It was truly the best anniversary dinner we've ever had. It was better than before we had kids, since we really do like our children and enjoy their company, and better than the early kid years when someone was always jumping up to console a crying baby, change a diaper, or settle a fight.

Now to figure out how to bottle this feeling. I was secretly relieved when poopy pants and arguments came up at bedtime. That glimpse of bliss was delightful, but I like them little; getting there is half the fun.

A Hooha By Any Other Name...

Some years ago, my two sisters and I formed a singing group. It was nothing fancy, and we never practiced or performed in public. In fact, it was mostly just a name we called ourselves when making fun of singers on the radio.

Our singing group started with the most important element: picking our name. We decided to call ourselves the Heimeldinger Sisters With Good Voices (HSWGV). This was partially inspired by our last name, which wasn't actually Heimeldinger, but something unique and German-sounding enough that SJ's uncle once asked me to "say hi to the Heimeldingers for us!" so we'll work with that.

We were also inspired by the nineties singing group, SWV (Sisters With Voices.) We added the "Good" since we wanted to distinguish ourselves from them, brand ourselves as superior (if they were good, they would have said so), and avoid any legal entanglements.

Time went on, and Melissa moved to Los Angeles, so HSWGV evolved; we went from mostly to entirely non-existant. Kaye and I started an offshoot group in Northern Virginia - the Angry Hoohas. I won't get into the precise etymology of that name; suffice it to say that it had something to do with a urinary tract infection. Get the full story on our forthcoming VH1 Behind the Music special.

The Hoohas haven't really taken off either. It's hard to make traction when you only play together once a year or so, but the potential is there.

Meanwhile I'm focusing on my solo career. My guitar skills have improved, so I've taken my show on the road. So far my gigs have consisted of my kids' preschool and Sunday School classes, plus one ill-advised open mike night where I sang a Sinead O'Connor cover to four unimpressed barflies.

Still, I persist with my craft -- one of the thousands of project managers who pursue their tepid dreams of a singing career once in a while.

This week I put my finger on a serious flaw in my dream of stardom: I had gotten ahead of myself by practicing and performing before picking my stage name.

It's a daunting decision. Should I go authentic? What about just using my first name, like Cher or Beyonce? Should I go for something mainstream and Anglo, like when Chaim Witz became Gene Simmons, or should I pick a more exotic name, like when Arnold Dorsey became Engelbert Humperdinck?

I got my answer when I heard a DJ announce a song by Lady Gaga. As I pondered this name, which is entirely ridiculous, I began to appreciate its beauty.

Stefani Germanotta took the stage name of Lady Gaga when she was a teenager. This chutzpa this reveals is stunning - she demands to be called by a fake name that connotes nobility, street cred, confidence, and makes whoever says her name sound like a total idiot. That takes stones. It's also a critical ingredient in transforming a homely girl into a campy pop star. I love it.

The universe had spoken, and I knew what I had to do. Professionally, I will henceforth be known as Lady Hooha.

If this solo thing blows up (like, if I ever make the elementary school class circuit, which is way more competitive than preschool!), the Angry Hoohas might be billed as "The Angry Hoohas, Featuring Lady Hooha," or "Lady Hoohas and the Other Hooha," or something even more self-promotional; I'll have to Wiki search Diana Ross and see how she did it.

Then again, maybe I should dial it back, I don't want this to have a Dreamgirls kind of ending, though I would love to see SJ sing a power ballad in front of a room-sized, seventies-style picture of me, and see me sister sing a plus-sized, spunky, acoustic version of "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going," but I digress.

I've picked my name. I'll let fate take it from here.

Mother of the Year

I'm not one to brag, but I have to share some great news with you.

I've been awarded a very prestigious award. Here's the link.

Happy Mother's Day to all, and thanks for the nomination, Jen!!!! :)

My Bad

I cannot stand it when drivers give each other the finger. It's totally rude, and it strikes me as particularly mean-spirited. Like, I'm sorry that I accidentally cut you off, but "f^#& me?" Really?

Part of my objection is tactical, since the finger isn't the best weapon when you're really angry. I've found that nothing further infuriates an aggressive driver like giving them the peace sign, which is my standard "finger" alternative.

Thus, it is uncharacteristic of me that I repeatedly, angrily flipped someone off today. (In my defense, it has been 19 months since my last documented case of road rage and I was alone in my car...this time.)

I was waiting at a light behind a Porsche Boxter, waiting to turn onto Pacific Drive after shopping at the Dulles Wegman's. There were only two cars in queue -- the Boxter and me -- so there should have been plenty of time to make the light. Unfortunately Mr. Boxter took his sweet time turning the corner and seemed to drive at a snail's pace purposely to ensure that I wouldn't have time to turn.

I cannot defend what happened next.

Focused on making the light, my reptilian brain seemed to take over. I distantly heard someone -- apparently me -- yelling at Mr. Boxter: "Turn! Come on, turn! YOU are a [beep]! YOU are a [beep]!)

My finger took on a life of its own, punctuating each "YOU" with a raised Tall Man finger pointed at the driver. I probably would have given him the two-hand special, but my other hand was busy honking and driving.

As I said, I really don't condone giving the finger to other drivers, and by the time we were stopped side-by-side at the next light, I remembered why. It wasn't mature, it wasn't the action of a positive, loving person, and I was now deprived of my righteous anger; with my actions I had needlessly abdicated the moral high ground. After all, although I had acted inappropriately, I was still pretty sure the guy was a d-bag.

As we waited for the light to change, he looked over at me and shook his head. I shook mine back at him with a shrug that said, "Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?"

It was a long light, and my remorse grew stronger. I knew that I needed to make amends. I rolled down my passenger window, then honked and hollered to get his attention, but he deliberately ignored me. Why wouldn't he, since he had the upper hand? I was now crazy, rude, shouting minivan lady, and he was merely a cautious driver who wouldn't stoop to my level.

Undeterred, I shouted my apology through his closed window: "In retrospect, I shouldn't have flipped you off, and I AM SORRY!"

To him, shouting a probably undecipherable apology through a glass barrier may not have helped, but I felt a little better. I'd also like to put it in writing, so here is an open apology to the middle aged guy in a gray Porsche Boxter this morning in Ashburn:

Sorry about that. My bad.