Triangle Mamas

Roller Girl Dreams

by Sue

I have this reoccurring dream.

It’s rainy, it’s dark, and the kids and I have been stuck inside all day getting on each other’s nerves.

I have finished the dishes, the laundry, have given the kids their baths and got them ready for bed. With each household chore I accomplish I can feel the tension building in my body.

My husband walks through the door, I give him a kiss and say “Their all yours.”

I skip out the door and feel the freedom on my skin. I arrive at my destination with all the tension in my body still rising, knowing that relief is just a few moments away.

I change my clothes and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I feel a level of tension leave my body. I smile at myself as I walk out under the bright lights.

“Let’s do this.” I whisper to myself.

The rest of the dream proceeds the same every time. I have left my house a tired, overstress stay-at-home mother and wife and morph into this badass motherf*@#!r of a roller derby girl.

I spend the next hour or so rolling away my stress, having fun, bonding with my friends and most importantly, kicking some booty.

Ahhhh…this dream makes me smile. I wish, wish, wish it could become a reality, but let’s face it, I am not that cool. Roller Derby? Hell yeah roller derby!

Have you seen these chicks? They are tough, beautiful, strong, fearless and not afraid to show it.
Roller Derby is my secret fantasy. If I were young/lame enough to go onto MTV’s Made, I would ask to be "made" into a kick-ass roller derby player.

Now to be honest, I don’t know much about roller derby, but this has been a secret fantasy of mine for a while now. I totally fall for all that cheesy girl power crap every time.

I drink out of a Wonder Woman mug every morning for Pete’s sake.

I think it is because it is the polar opposite of how I am on a daily basis. I have my real life where I am a mom and wife first and Sue second.

I miss the days when I was able to work out hard, when I wanted and how I wanted. I used to be immersed in Tae Kwon Do and Kickboxing and not afraid to put myself out there and learn new things.
Now for the first time in my life I feel meek, detached from my new body, the body that motherhood has given. I no longer hold my head up high as I walk and almost feel betrayed by the strength I used to posses.

Could I make this a reality? Maybe? I did however, contact the Carolina Roller Girls to get more information about how try outs work and when and where they occur.

Am I crazy?

Possibly, but I think it would be worth it to at least go see the Carolina Roller Girls in action. If I like what I see and don’t think the girls are too scary, maybe it will motivate me to get my strength back.

Do you have an alter ego you wish you could live out?

For now I will live vicariously through my dreams. Besides, it is fun to come up with what my roller derby name would be.

Didn't you know they sell magic at Target?

It was one of those my baby is so cranky we will both explode if we stay inside kind of days. My son, Oscar has been waking up early from his afternoon naps which results in an earlier bedtime. This of course means we all get up at the crack of dawn and the cycle repeats. So, I thought we would go for a nice long stroll at North Hills. We started at Chick-Fil-A, because 1) Ahem, we live in North Carolina, and 2)They were doing a food drive for free sandwiches. 

I'll trade my cans of Tuna for a chicken sandwich ALL DAY LONG. 

And can I stop right there and talk about how I LOVE that little fake grassy area outside at North Hills? I never understood why they didn't just put real grass there. I mean I guess it is easier to maintain. But it always seemed odd to me that there was astro-turf outside. However, now that I am the mom of a very curious crawler, I thank the Lord for synthetic nature! I can let him crawl and roll around to his heart's content. And crawl he did! It was a beautiful day. 

We walked around the plaza for a bit and headed back down to our parking spot, conveniently located next to Target. OK fine, you're twisting my arm, I'll go inside the store! I grabbed a couple super cheap items for myself off the clearance rack (because nothing in my current wardrobe cost more than $3.74) and headed for the Cheerios. At this point Oscar was starting to get cranky and I realized we were almost an hour past nap time. He had been really good and my plan was working, so we walked toward the checkout. 

Just then, in the home section I heard the loveliest music-box rendition of Jingle Bells and I had to find it. Lo and Behold there was a snow globe with a reindeer inside and the music was playing. I shook it and thought, I bet Oscar would think this is neat. I leaned down and wound it up and shook the globe and there he sat, absolutely entranced. His eyes lit up and he was tracing each little snow flake with his fingers. We looked at a few more, each with their own Christmas Carol and it occurred to me that even though I have known this is his first Christmas, I hadn't really considered what it would be like for HIM. He is the perfect age to really have fun with it and for the first time, I understood why parents get so into the holidays. It's not about the latest greatest toy. It's about the magic! Watching his eyes get wide and excited was just about the best thing in the world. I can't wait to create that magic for him as the holidays draw near. That day, I found magic at Target. And yes, this December Oscar will be unwrapping his very own snow globe.

An original Triangle Mamas post. When Andrea is not getting all mushy in the home goods aisle, she can be found blogging at Lil-Kid-Things or gabbing away on Twitter. 

Book Jackets

This year at the North Carolina State Fair, I wanted to do more than just eat. Which is unusual. I wanted to win something for Little Bird. Knowing full well that we would be paying about 1000% mark up on any stuffed animal we would win for him, I decided on shooting for what I felt like was a sure thing.

We would have a carnie guess Kevin's age.

I thought this was a sure fire way to win something for Bird for only $3. Here we were, a seemingly young couple with a young toddler and a baby on the way. There was no way anyone would guess Kevin was over 40.

Confidant in my husband's stunning good looks and our youthful aura, we stepped up and gave the carnie our $3. He offered to guess my due date, but I wanted to boost my husband's ego with the sure fire guess of 37 or 38 years old. Age guessing it was.

It only took a few seconds for the carnie to scribble down a number on his Post-It pad and after some meaningless banter with the people ignoring him as they passed by, he asked how old Kevin was.I smiled smugly and eyed a little stuffed dog that Bird would love.

The carnie had hit it dead on.

Poor Kevin's ego was bruised instead of stroked. I felt terrible about it, but found it hilarious all at the same time. I started teasing about what else that carnie could have told us like what kind of little sports car Kevin drives or that I stay at home with the kids. I joked that the carnie probably knew it was a second marriage and would probably be able to guess a few things about our ex's as well.

It was funny in a self deprecating kind of way; our favorite kind of way.

On the ride home, we chatted a little bit more seriously though about what people don't know about us. About the misconceptions and assumptions. No one would look at me and guess that I used to play in rock bands. They wouldn't assume that Kevin is a guitar collector, and amazing jazz guitarist, and is building most of our recording gear himself. Someone even told me recently that we looked like the kind of couple who would just want an OB and an epidural rather than an intervention free birth at the Birth Center. 

It's so cliche, judging a book by it's cover. I just hadn't looked at my own cover lately I guess. Who knew that I look like the suburban housewife waiting for medication and possibly a mid labor latte? Who knew that Kevin actually might look his age? Who knew that our covers, while giving some hints about us, would be so far off the mark?

Aside from being amusing, it makes me grateful too, for the people who have opened the book and taken the time to get to know us past the jacket.

To read a few more chapters about Marty, you can check out her personal blog, Don't Take the Repeats. To stick with the liner notes, follow her on Twitter.

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.

The Public's Schools

I have a confession to make: As the mother of a rising kindergartner, there's a tiny part of me that hopes all the "neighborhood schools" candidates get elected to the Wake County Board of Education on Oct. 6. You see, as a mom, I'd really love for my son (and, in a few more years, my daughter) to attend the elementary school in our neighborhood.

What's not to love? We could walk to school in 20 minutes, joining with our friends along the way to form a daily elementary school parade. He would be in school with kids he knows, whose parents I know. He'd be at a "good" school that's safe, familiar, stable and on a traditional calendar. Norman Rockwell himself would probably want to paint a picture of it all.

Even before I became a mom, I couldn't fault the parents who complain about (and then form yet another group to fight) annual reassignments that resulted in instability, uncertainty and sometimes long drives for families around the county. Now that I am a mom, I understand their concerns in a whole new way.

But I know too much. I am more than a mom -- a former teacher, a public education advocate, a citizen, a taxpayer -- and I cannot in good conscience support an approach that will lead to the re-segregation of schools, no matter how lovely my personal scenario might seem through the eyes of motherhood.

As a parent, my job is to do what is in the best interest of my own child. But the teachers, administrators and elected officials in our community? Their job is to do what is in the best interest of ALL children, regardless of what neighborhood they live in or who their parents are.

There are plenty of arguments on all sides of the debate around "supporting diverse schools" or "supporting neighborhood schools" (which aren't mutually exclusive in theory, but generally are opposites in practice). I don't have the time or energy or clarity of thought to wade through them all. But here are few things that, from research and personal experience, I know to be true:

• Schools with high concentrations of poverty have a harder time being successful than schools with fewer low-income students. It's not some kind of hogwash about having poor kids sit next to rich kids so they can learn better. It's simply that students living in poverty, no matter how smart they are, come with additional challenges (like being hungry or not having adequate health care or having a single parent who can't be home much because she's working two jobs) that schools must try to address.
• Schools with high concentrations of poverty tend to have higher rates of teacher turnover because they're tougher places to teach. That usually means more teachers with less experience and a general instability within the school culture, which means that teachers suffer and students suffer. And that's all students in the school, not just the poor ones. Studies suggest that students in poor and minority schools are twice as likely to have an inexperienced teacher and are 61 percent more likely to be assigned an uncertified teacher.
• Advocates for a "neighborhood schools" approach who claim that additional funding will be given to schools in poor neighborhoods to help them overcome their challenges are full of crap. Particularly in today's world of slashed budgets, the money won't be there -- or if it does come, it won't last long. And, unless you're Geoffrey Canada in the Harlem Children's Zone, it won't be enough to make a difference.
• Wake County's diversity policy is imperfect -- and I think the district sometimes does a poor job of implementing the policy, leaving families feeling ignored and snubbed -- but maintaining integrated schools is the right goal. The district is not "out to get" anyone and derives no pleasure from disrupting parents' vision of how school should be. They are simply wrestling with making the best decisions they can in support of the nearly 140,000 students in the district.

As for the election on Oct. 6, unfortunately I don't get to vote because I don't live in one of the districts on this year's ballot. If you are eligible to vote, I certainly don't presume to tell you who to vote for and am not endorsing any candidates. But I hope that, regardless of where you live, you'll consider that, as parents, we have the luxury making decisions based on our own children. Our school districts must consider all the children at once.

* * *

If you'd like more information the role of diversity in maintaining healthy public schools, read Making Choices, a report I co-wrote in 2003 when I worked at Wake Education Partnership, or Striking a Balance, a 2008 report from the same organization. And feel free to comment, argue, debate -- just please be polite about it.

When Cyndi climbs down from her soapbox, she can be found blogging at Junius & Pippi Take the Cake.

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.

Ecdysis

Every now and then I come across blog posts or articles written by mothers who miss who they used to be. They long for their old freedoms and careers. They talk about what they used to look like and the trips they used to take. How they used to be someone else.

I have to admit, I never really related.

I was never so happy than to have my husband suggest that I leave my job when I got pregnant. It's not that I didn't enjoy working. I loved my job, but I was tired and ready to shed that skin.

I was ready to be needed by my family, not 100 different families. I didn't have the ability to distance myself while working in the non-profit sector and ended up self-extending my job description far beyond just providing music lessons for children from low-income families.

That part of my life was rewarding, and while Kevin admits he misses seeing me in a business suit and heels (he says with a "rawr)", we are both happy with me staying at home.

There is another part of my life, however, that didn't end with such a definitive line. It simply has faded away and before I realized what was happening, it was completely gone.

I will never be a rock star.

When I moved to the Triangle 11 years ago, the first thing I did after finding a job was to look for a band. Within six months, I had joined up with three amazing guys who actually wanted to play my songs. I was in heaven. Add that to the weekly open mics at the Berkeley Cafe, and I was honing my chops like never possible in Mississippi.

Over the next several years, I was in and out of different groups, hauling my Fender Rhodes mostly by myself, using a handtruck and a rather ingenious system my ex-husband designed for getting it in and out of our hatchback.

I liked walking into a club or a music store and being treated like a musician and not a groupie girl. I liked the spotlight. I even liked being behind the spotlight, trading my lead singer days for back up vocals and keys in the last group.

Last week, Kevin, Little Bird, and I went into Sam Ash just to see what they still had in stock during this dismal economy. As we walked through, it felt completely foreign to me. Even though I had worked there a decade ago when it was still Mars Music, nothing felt familiar. I realized as we were leaving that it was me who had changed, not the store.

I presented as a pregnant woman with her toddler in tow, following her musician husband through the racks of guitars. There was no reason for them to perceive me as anything but a mother.

I have a confession. Sometimes when I meet new people, either in real life or online, I wish they knew me when I was "cooler." You know, you might have caught me at The Pour House or The Cave, do you remember? Maybe we met at The Berkley? I'm sure we know some of the same people . . .

But that's not who I am. Not anymore. Granted, I still get to perform and record with a musician who holds my utmost respect. We get gigs in theaters where someone else lugs my gear, or better yet, I have a beautiful grand piano to use. We get to play with the North Carolina Symphony. We are home before 3:00 AM and don't smell like stale cigarette smoke. Oh, and we get paid well. There is that very distinctive difference.

Of course the whole rock star thing is tongue in cheek, but the realization that even though I love my new skin, I'm not entirely comfortable in it? That's pretty on the mark, and I guess I relate a little more than I originally thought.

Photo by Gail Anne Photography.

Marty blogs about mothering and music at Don't Take the Repeats and sings only phrases on Twitter.

Confession: I Do Love a Jon Jon

We all have our varying opinions on the jon jon. Before Little Bird was born, I imagined him wearing nothing but jon jons, romping across the playground in his little smocked coveralls. I'm not sure what I was drinking at the time, but his entrance into real life complete with poop, pee, drool, dirt, and general stickiness soon changed my mind on the jon jon.

Now, I reserve the jon jon for church on Sunday morning and other occasions where he needs to be a little more dressed up. We don't wear them to Marbles, and he won't be wearing them to Mother's Morning Out, no matter how many other little boys will.

For some reason though, Bird still has way more jon jons hanging in his closet than I have pride to admit. I blame Kelly for this. Kelly runs Divine Consign in Raleigh. Divine Consign hosts trunk shows of overstocks and consignment sales a few times a year. It's not your average consignment sale. You don't have to dig through to find things that aren't stained or that you could buy just as cheaply if you caught them on clearance. Kelly takes only high end, gently worn children's clothes, saving moms like me who only like to shop in front of a computer screen a lot of time and hassle.

If she hadn't made it easy enough for us, now she has also started a blog. This post on how to shop a consignment sale was incredibly helpful, and I thought worth passing along.The next show is August 31 through September 4 at Stonehenge Shopping Center in Raleigh.

What about you? Do you hit consignment sales for your kids' clothing? What other ones are worth a look? Do you sell at consignment sales? Do you have any additional shopping or selling tips?

Let's help each other continue to dress our children way way better than we dress ourselves. That is until What Not to Wear shows up on my doorstep and rescues me from myself.

An original Triangle Mamas post. This post was not sponsored by Divine Consign in any way. We just happen to like moms in business for themselves, especially when they do it so well. In fact, if you have a mom in business here in the Triangle who you think we should feature, please contact us. We don't do reviews, but we share our positive and negative experiences freely here.

When Marty isn't busy ironing jon jons, she writes about everyday things at Don't Take the Repeats and Deep South Moms. When she has less to say, she hangs out on Twitter.

On the Right Path

I don't want to sleep there, I'm not particularly interested in peeing there, and I certainly don't want to cook there, but I do love the woods. I love the Black Mountains specifically, and I love streams.

I'm not sure why we don't do more hiking. We have the dogs for it. We have the kid for it. We have the love for it. We just don't get around to it.

My husband, Kevin is a doer. There is always a project either in full swing or in planning mode. It is one thing I love about him. He finishes what he starts, and he starts big things. His plans are not lightly made nor are they easy to finish. Right now, he is adding onto the house. Just he and the contractor. When he comes home from work , he works some more. On the weekends, he's building. I'm excited for the new spaces, but I think I am more excited for him to finish so that I have some of his time and attention back.

All this to say, I think this is why we don't hike. We do things together as much as possible, but this is a stage in our life where Kevin is determined to get things in order. I love him for that. I miss him, but I love him.

While we were in the mountains recently, staying in Catawba Falls Preserve, I had him back to myself one day. He wanted to know what I wanted to do, and I chose this hike. We packed a backpack full of snacks, water, and diapers. The dogs got to tag along and tap into their inner hunters. Gibson, our chocolate lab, ran out about 10 feet ahead with his tail pointed straight up. He even helped corral Little Bird when he got too far ahead of us. Our English Setter, Aja, stayed on leash and ignored her bird dogs instincts in favor of reading the mail on the ground.

We missed a turn along the way - rather, I missed a turn, and we ended up about 40 minutes off track. Luckily, we had also packed our Babyhawk, so tired Bird could ride on his daddy's back when he got tired. And after playing nekkid in the creek for awhile?

Bird was really really tired.

It was a great day with my boys, my dogs, and a trail in the mountains.

When she isn't dreaming of her own mountain getaway, Marty blogs at Don't Take the Repeats. When she has less to say, she resorts to quipping on Twitter.

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.