Flashback

My mom, the lovely and gracious Grace McGinn, is a new reader here at Ciao Baby! When she first asked if she could read my blog, it was clear (because she's articulate) that she was apprehensive about the content.

I know folks who blog and hang their virtual dirty laundry out for all to see. It took a little reassuring to convince my mom this wasn't one of those lines. She asked me, "Do you talk about hating your childhood?" Hmmm...I got to thinkin'.

If my upbringing had been shady, I'd have a lot more comedic material to work with. As it is, I can't poke fun at a drunken step-father or a grandma who forgets to wear pants on a regular basis. Nope, no stories about trying to open a Spaghetti-O's can with a hammer while I was unsupervised after school. (Although, while watching Romper-Room, I DID get a finger caught in a can of Hershey's syrup once.) I never had to duct tape my shoes or defend myself on the mean streets. Bummer.

I was raised in a financially comfortable home with every opportunity available to me. My mom surprised me with gifts and clothes laid out on my bed and bought my lie when she found cigarettes in my room. My family traveled. We went to the ballet and out for Japanese food. My dad moved the heavy mats at my dance recitals and grilled burgers on a Weber grill hung over the side of our pontoon boat.

So, there! It's out, Mom! Years of therapy won't undo the normalcy and stability of my childhood. I hope you and Dad are happy with yourselves.

Sheesh.

A Connoisseur of Sorts

I offer you my confession...

For 10 years I've been a parent on the sidelines with very few options in the concession stand department as a non hot dog eater. The theme continues in many eating establishments where the menus have 26 different kinds of burger but almost nada in the meatless division. At this stage of the game, I'll order the nachos just for the sake of comparing the dish to representations from other restaurants.

And may I say that nachos aren't just for dining away from home! No sirree, I make 'em at home with freshly shredded cheddar and hand chopped cilantro. At the grocery store I sift through the junk food section for the gold tortilla chips-restaurant style of course, as they have a corn-like flavor and extra crunchy texture. The ultimate in home nacho eating is to locate a tortilla chip with an air pocket, puffing out the triangle into a crispy pillow.

As a former BUILD-St. Louis board member and co-proprietor of a small, family owned business, I'm embarrassed to say that the premier nachos come from Qdoba. (Yes, from the Jack In The Box chain.) It could be because of the coarse salt on the chips, or the guacamole with actual chunks of identifiable avocado in it. Perhaps the allure is in the perfect amount of jalapeno in the queso sauce. I don't know, but damn it, those are some way bueno nachos.

I make this statement in my defense: If I had to choose between eating food from Jack In The Box and chewing on an old pair of corduroys- well, I'd have to give it some serious thought. And should the success of the human race rely on my intimate relations with the guy who puts the gigantic golf ball on his head and pretends to be Jack, I'd most likely take a pass.

If it were the the REAL Jack I'd consider it, but only if he brought Qdoba nachos.

Who Is Sarah Truckey and Why Does She Hate Me?

It may surprise some of you, but I'm socially impaired. On the rare occasion I attend a party or event, I'm generally uncomfortable enough to plan my departure immmediately upon entry. But, I try.

Last weekend, I struck out to the 52nd City launch and preview party at the Gallery Urbis Orbis with my older daughter. She'd written an article for the magazine and was anxious to attend and of course, I always like to support the fine folks at 52nd City.

Photos cause a lot of anxiety for me but when the esteemed Tom Lampe asked to take a shot of us, I agreed. With some lightning quick angling of the body and a moment to suck in my cheeks-we were off to the races. I didn't hyperventilate or anything and felt fairly confident the picture would embarrass me minimally, should I ever see it.

Imagine my surpise when someone splayed out a copy of a local publication with photos from the event. There was a predictably cute shot of Amanda Doyle, Aaron Belz looking hip, Thomas Crone in a fun pose, Brian Marston in a classic profile shot and some fat broad with dark eye circles and a harried expression. Me, in all my party-going glory with bad hair and an infinity of chins. It was not the aforementioned posed photo, but one taken secretly, clandestinely and with obvious malice.

My original resolutions for 2006 were to be more peaceful and turn off my cell phone after 7:00 PM. Those goals have been replaced by a solemn vow to never leave the house unless absolutely necessary and to find a way to loathe myself slightly less than I do right now.

Happy New Year.