Identity Crisis

Last weekend, our college kid attended a fraternity formal with her boyfriend. They enjoyed a nice dinner and dancing at a winery about half an hour from the university. 

At one point during the night, she bellied up to the bar to order a beverage. A quick scan of the drink list drew her eye to peach sangria, which was listed along with the prices for a glass and a pitcher, thusly:

                            Peach sangria  10/26 

With the unbridled confidence of an underage, hopeful drinker, she asked the bartender for a (and I quote), "Peach sangria ten twenty-six." 

Having obviously worked college functions before, the bartender promptly retorted, "ID, please."

Gentle reader, it was a peach sangria-less night. Alas.

Pancakes...all exciting at first...

Over the weekend, a friend reminded me of a story I shared with her from when my daughter was young:

I've always been a little overprotective, which has manifested in an assortment of ways throughout my daughter's childhood that she can unpack through intensive therapy. It didn't help my neuroses when a friend shared a story about a friend of his - an adult woman who choked to death on cottage cheese when she was home alone several years ago. This horrific story lodged itself in my brain and has haunted me ever since. (Aside: the guy who shared this makes a living as a comedy writer, completely disproving the old adage that tragedy + time = comedy.) 

Hearing that one story made me realize that even though we fully trusted our daughter to be at home by herself from the time she was about 8 years old, I did not trust her to eat when she was there because God Forbid she would choke on something. Thus was the impetus of the "no eating when home alone" rule.

I mean, she was allowed water and clear broth...I'm not a monster. Just nothing that required chewing.

Having become familiar with my nonsense, she rolled her 8-year-old eyes but obliged without too much resistance.  

Until one day when I was at my office and she had just returned home from school and texted me to let me know she was home safely, but was very hungry. I was not focused as I was finishing up a work call and also realized I was about ten minutes late to a meeting with a financial planner my husband had scheduled. So....when my daughter casually asked if she could make pancakes, I distractedly replied, "Sure. Just text me when you're done."

I then finished my work call, hopped on to the financial planner call, and when that was over it occurred to me that about an hour and a half had elapsed since my daughter asked about pancakes and I had not received the promised text from her. 

Slightly concerned, I texted her. She did not reply. I then called her. Also, no reply. I panicked. And continued to try and call her. Nothing. 

This is when the terror set in. I was already processing how the one time I was distracted and let her eat when she was home alone, she had choked on pancakes and was wondering how I'd ever live with myself. This was happening while I was hurriedly shoving my laptop into my backpack and heading to the elevator in my office building while continuing to ring her phone. I raced the four miles home WAY over the speed limit, continuing to call her phone and continuing to receive no response. 

When I finally reached the house, I pulled into the driveway and flew into the house screaming her name at the top of my lungs. I apparently sounded so panicked and looked like such a depraved lunatic that when she finally emerged from the guest room downstairs, wiping sleep from her eyes while trying to figure out what was going on, she burst into tears. 

To be fair:

1) the kid had never taken an afternoon nap before

2) she had also never not replied to a text and ESPECIALLY a phone call

3) I'm a lunatic

Brutalism

P.S. The post title is stolen from comic genius Mitch Hedberg. RIP.

Brutalism Digest

1) I'm in my skin cancer era. 

And while "A Mohs on my Nose" sounds like an adorable Seussian tale, it's not as much fun as one might think. I look forward to a dermatologist visit that does not result in the doctor commenting, "Hmm...I don't like the look of that" but am grateful that most of the time, she just freezes away the problem and I go sunbathe in celebration. 

2) We recently decided to replace the upstairs carpeting with hardwoods, so this week Mr. Brutalism and I are preparing for contractors. Some may view moving all the furniture, contents of every closet, and every piece of artwork hanging on the walls as a bonding experience for you and your spouse - that whole 'working toward a common goal' thing, right?

Yet when my friend texted last night to ask what I was doing, I shared, "Moving furniture with my soon-to-be-ex-husband." 

(ed. Know your audience when making a comment like the one above. I was workshopping it with a woman in my exercise class this morning who I don't know well, and she looked stricken when I said that and I had to explain it was a joke.)

3) We made it three whole weeks before we gave in and visited our first-year college student. (We miss her so much - see "massive home renovation project to keep us occupied" above.) She managed to find time to visit with us in between parties, friends visiting from another school, the football game, and volunteering. I managed to keep my nagging and lectures to a minimum. I had asked her to avoid using the electronic scooters around grounds because they are dangerous. And she has abided by this. Instead, she has driven her roommate ON THE SAME EBIKE AND WITHOUT HELMETS many miles around the city. So, fortunately, there was time for one small lecture. (For those with seniors, note it is called the "Common app" and not the "Common sense app.")

4) Recently went to see The Boss at Nats Stadium with my best friend from elementary school. This is the first time either of us had seen Bruce Springsteen live and the show was everything we heard it would be. He played almost four hours, he and the band sounded great, the weather that night was ideal, and we were so glad we went. (This is the same friend with whom I saw Tom Petty at Forest Hills Stadium in Queens a few months before he died. On the subway on the way to the show, Andrew Shue and his son entered our car and Andrew Shue sat right next to my friend. She claims to have been a fan of Melrose Place but interestingly, did not realize it was Andrew Shue sitting right next to her. Nonetheless, she proceeded to chat him up for the 45-minute train ride from Manhattan to Queens, explaining how we've loved Tom Petty since high school and that Tom looked like a high school friend of ours, blah blah blah. When we got to our seats, I was finally able to share that her new BFF was BILLY!)

5)  And finally, if we can locate our clothing and shoes and are still on speaking terms, Canetto and I are going to see Kumail Nanjiani this weekend. Cannot wait!

Grudge Match

Last year, I was cleaning the marketing closet at my office and came across about 50 perfectly good certificate frames that were taking up valuable space. After my company moved to fully remote work post-COVID, we realized our employees did not want framed certificates to hang in their home offices. Hence, the surplus.

In an attempt to find a use for the frames, I posted the whole lot on the Buy Nothing Facebook site in my area. And almost immediately, I got a taker - someone who could use all of them for a volunteer organization with which she was involved. Perfect! 

She agreed to meet me at 2:00pm to pick them up at my office, which is just a few miles from our neighborhood. As an added service, I told her I'd meet her curbside and help her load the frames into her car. 

She replied, "I'll message you when I'm on my way. That sounds great. We'll head over shortly. My kids can help, too." 

With the help of my daughter who was assisting me in the office that day, we piled the 50 frames onto a cart, rode the elevator down 11 floors, and navigated the unwieldy cart to the loading area in front of the building.

And then, we waited. And waited. At 2:33, I texted the woman again and asked, "Do you know what time you'll be here? We're waiting outside." She replied, "I'm on my way. The kids ended up going to the pool. I'll be there in a few."

At 2:54 pm, I texted her for the third and final time, stating, "I had to get to an appointment and left the frames in front of the building. Please let me know that you got them." Which she did, about ten minutes later. 

So, yes, she KNEW I WAS WAITING OUTSIDE for almost an hour and by way of explanation, told me she had taken her kids to the pool, and she certainly did not apologize. What I should have done was take the frames back upstairs and not answer any subsequent texts from her. However, I did not want her volunteer organization to suffer for her boorishness. 

I shared my frustration with a friend who is part of the same Buy Nothing site. Both she and I occasionally post items on the site and remind each other not to give them to this woman when she shows interest. (Everyone needs a Solidarity Sister.)

Oh, do you think that's petty? 

Well, buckle up, daffodils...

'Frame Boor' emerged again recently, posting items she was giving away on the site in the past few days. (She turns up every now and then to taunt me. I'm already on edge about the election this year and am seemingly ready to rant about the most mundane things. This being the latest of them.) I texted my friend, who replied to me a few moments later with, "Go back and look at her post." My friend had replied very politely to the woman's post asking for very specific, detailed measurements about the items the woman had posted. 

Frame Boor took the time to provide my friend a rather meticulous list of every possible specification for her items. To which my friend sweetly replied, "Sorry, that won't work for me." 

We plan to continue this operation until we have made up the hour the woman cost me last year. It may take a couple of years, but the long game is somehow more satisfying.

(Also? Harris. Obviously.)

Chain Yanking

 Mr. Brutalism seems to think I have the IQ of a piece of toast, based on a recent text exchange:

I mean, who DOESN'T know 
'yabba dabba doo'? I assumed
he was entertaining me...

Took him until "Peter Griffin" to realize I was goading him.  

Ironically, I Feel The Need To Hug It Out

Our lil cul de sac displays luminaries on the evening of January 1st - a tradition that began last year thanks to our neighborhood organizers. In addition to being lovely, it provides a nice way to casually gather with neighbors as we help to set up, light, then clean up the luminaries.

A couple of days ago, as I approached the organizer's house to help fill bags with sand and candles, I saw another neighbor already there. As I leaned over to observe her process for filling the bags, she pulled away quickly and exclaimed, "No hugs! I'm fighting a cold!"

I was NOT going in for a hug, but I'm also not very good about responding to things like this when I'm caught off guard, so I didn't say anything and simply let the awkwardness hang in the air for the rest of the bag assembly period. 

Of course, I texted another neighbor I'm friends with about this later and asked her, "Have I EVER hugged a neighbor? Do I have a reputation as a neighbor-hugger?" She assured me I do not. 

I also let her know that more neighbors showed up after this uncomfortable exchange...and that I hugged none of them. 

Embracing the awkward (<--- see what I did there?),

Brutalism

Welp

We were recently invited to our next door neighbor's holiday cookie swap...and we were very excited to go. They're the third set of neighbors who have lived in the house since we've been in the neighborhood and all have been very good next door neighbors. (The turnover is probably not our fault.)

They're extremely considerate, have an adorable four-year old, and decorate for all holidays, which we admire and enjoy but never seem capable of doing ourselves. 

The cookie swap began at 4:00pm to accommodate little ones' schedules and me, my husband and daughter made the short walk next door a few minutes past, passing a large, inflatable gingerbread lawn decoration in their front yard in the process. 

And we had a blast! Other neighbors were there who are in the midst of a major home reno project which has required them to have a porta potty in their driveway for the construction workers. While they were decorating their house for the holidays, they went ahead and strung some lights on the porta potty, too. (One hopes they will capture the magic of the holiday season by capturing a family photo in front of it.)

After a couple of hours, our daughter left the party to meet some friends. We stayed a little while longer, then packed some cookies in a bag and headed out for the (now, dark) walk next door. About five steps in, my foot got tangled in the cord for the gigantic inflatable gingerbread man and I stumbled, threatening to take us both down. I righted myself, but when I stepped forward again, I again stumbled, and he bent, but did not fall over. I finally extricated myself from the gingerbread man support lines and escaped with at least the decoration intact. (My pride, not so much.)

Later that week, I was setting up the heating pad for my daughter, who had a sore back. After I plugged it in, I almost tripped over the cord, and it reminded me of the gingerbread man incident which I shared with her, laughing. 

To which she proclaimed, "NO WAY! When I left, I did the exact same thing! Except I fell and the cookies and one of my shoes went flying. I stood up, picked up all the cookies, looked around to determine if anyone had witnessed this, and then muttered, "welp" out loud to myself before walking home."

Welp,

Brutalism

"Adulting"

Yesterday, my husband included me on an email reply he sent to some folks at Fidelity.

To acknowledge I had received and processed this information, I had many solid options. I could:

1. Do nothing
2. Thank him in person for handling this when I saw him at home later
3. Reply "received," "acknowledged," or the classic "thanks"
4. Reply, "money money money money MUH-NEE" 

I, of course, went with option 4. He is used to my adorableness, so this wasn't out of the ordinary. 

For him. 

It may have been a little out of the ordinary for the six people at Fidelity I mistakenly included in the missive.

I will never be a grownup. 

Apologies to the O'Jays,

Brutalism

Nash Vegas, The Sequel

For our kiddo's 18th(!!!) birthday this past weekend, we headed to Nashville to celebrate. 

When you see a T-Rex heading to baggage
claim, you know the trip is starting out well.

As we did the countdown to her birthday, we were sure to keep her posted about how many hours she had left to commit a felony before she'd be charged as an adult. (Spoiler alert: She totally squandered this opportunity.)

Our last family visit to this city was in May 2015, at which point it was just beginning to become the all-hours/every day drinkathon it seems to have become. (Seriously. Party buses and drinking start around 9:30am and every single bachelorette party takes place here. On the upside, there is great live music in all of the dozens of honky-tonks on Broadway at any time of day or night, which is pretty amazing.) We returned to The Second Fiddle to recreate a photo we had taken during the first trip:

October 2023

May 2015

Our hotel was about eight blocks to downtown - a nice walk that took us past the Country Music Hall of Fame, National Museum of African American Music, Bridgestone Arena (where Phish was playing for three nights while we were in town), and the historic Ryman Auditorium. In keeping with the theme of all music/all the time, our hotel made available record players and albums to check our during our stay - which of course, we did:

The first night we were in town, we met up with friends who live about an hour outside of Nashville: grandparents and their grandkids we met on a trip to Peru in 2021. They are a cool bunch and we had a blast catching up with them. (The grandparents are close to 80 years old and heading to Bonaire in a couple of weeks for a dive trip, if that gives you any indication...)

October 2023

December 2021

During the weekend, we shopped at several vintage shops, including one that had a lot of rock 'n roll paraphernalia. I had just about convinced my daughter she needed a super cool Sid Vicious t-shirt when she looked at and saw the $200 price tag.

Nashville has also become a lot more fancy.

As we made our way back to our hotel, we stopped to try hot chicken, going with "medium" over "hot" in a last-minute decision. That did not make it in any way palatable. No fans of hot chicken, we.

What evil tastes like. 

One evening, we walked past a karaoke bar and decided to go in. Almost to a person, the people singing karaoke could sign a contract to become recording artists. Our daughter, who is not known to be a singer, really wanted to go on stage, but was understandably apprehensive about getting up there alone. Not to be dissuaded, she found a group of four women singing together and approached them as they came offstage to see if they'd be interested in singing with her and THEY WERE. 

They sang Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne and KILLED IT!  

Also at the karaoke bar, we saw an assistant coach from our daughter's high school football team. At her request, he took a photo with her then made a quick exit, probably wisely surmising that photographic evidence of him with a drink in hand at a bar with a student may not be that well-received.

We headed back to Broadway at midnight, so Ave could be among the party people when she officially reached adulthood: 

Some Phish-goers. 

Our last day in Nashville, we made good on a promise for my daughter to get her inner ear pierced. She claimed it was painless, but the thought of it was unsettling enough for her to pass out cold in the lobby of the piercing studio, which is apparently not great for business as they immediately shuffled her off to a back room where she could lie down.

After regaining consciousness, 
Ave asked hopefully if I had taken a picture of her in 
the passed-out heap. I informed her I did not, as
I was busy pretending to be a concerned parent.
The above is a re-creation of what she looked like.

Once Ave felt stable again, we wandered over to the Country Music Hall of Fame, which was very interesting, had lunch at Pinewood Social, and headed to the airport. When we landed at IAD, she was reminded that due to the time difference, she had one more hour to celebrate her birthday in Virginia. 

More pics from the trip:

Honesty = best policy

Shelby Street Bridge

Broadway

Hard to believe she's an adult.
At least chronologically.

A Very Involved Process

I'm becoming acutely aware of how little time I have left in my current position. 

I'm not referring to my full-time job - that will continue for the foreseeable future. I'm talking about my part-time job - the one where I provide administrative, catering, and emotional support to my kid. I can't even think about it most days, as we have been a lil team of three for more than 18 years and knowing our time with her will be limited in less than a year is a big, fat kick in the gut.

In anticipation of having a lot more time to myself, I've determined I better start filling up my schedule NOW, and have looked into different activities and classes to see what sticks. (Side note: You may recall I was a founding member of the Dilettante Club, so "finding something that sticks" is not really part of my DNA.)

So far, this little venture has gone about as well as anticipated. 

Attempt at Getting involved #1: 

Mr. Brutalism and I went to a recruitment meeting for a local volunteer organization to which we were invited. Deciding this would be a good way to learn more about our community and meet new people, we followed up with the recruitment chair asking if we could join even though we could not make EVERY SINGLE WEEKLY MEETING HELD AT LUNCH TIME DURING THE WORK DAY (capital letters are for purposes of this blog post - I promise we were much more genteel in our correspondence with him). 

Result: No response to our email. (Yes. We were ghosted. For a volunteer position.)

Attempt at Getting Involved #2: 

As a kid, I took fencing lessons through the Virginia Beach Parks and Rec department for a couple of years. I remembered enjoying it and figured I may want to re-visit this as an adult, so I was DELIGHTED to learn that a local fencing academy is only a few miles from my house and has beginning adult classes. I emailed the contact and she replied almost immediately about dates and times that were available for me to try a free introductory class. I was riding in the car when I read this, and started to reply to her email when I realized I'd need to check Google calendar for my availability first, and put my phone down so I could talk to my husband, who was driving.

Result: Apparently, when I put my phone down, I recorded whatever (made up song lyrics, "your mom" jokes, and other ridiculous/typical) conversation Mr. Brutalism and I were having, which went into the body of the email I had opened earlier, and then I somehow SENT THIS TO THE FENCING LADY. I did not realize this until I received a reply from her saying, "Excuse me. What are you talking about?" I still have not read what exactly was included in the talk-to-text because I think it's better for my mental health. I will also not be pursuing fencing until I move to another country. 

Attempt at Getting Involved #3: 

I convinced my friend, Lisa, to take a self-defense class at our local community center and we attended our first session this week. After an initial snafu of the class being scheduled for one room and the instructor being in another, we finally found each other and began the class.

Result: When Lisa asked me what I thought of the class the next day, she said she expected it to be more women-centric, with more practical methods of self-defense, such as screaming "no" and stomping on the attackers' feet. I agreed with her, as it seems like what we were taught had more to do with martial arts and street fighting. I suggested we review the class description from the online catalog and read the following:

Small details that we both seem to have glossed over. But hey - when the next rumble breaks out in Oakton, we'll be ready to go! 

At this point, it may just be easier to adopt a baby,

Brutalism

Hitting Rock Bottom

Not to brag, but last night I cleaned some display shelves in my kitchen that were so dusty they were almost furry. 

Yes, I've noticed they were dusty but usually in that "I should clean those" way that seems to enter and then promptly exit my brain as I'm making a beeline for the coffee. 

But as with many people who finally have that clarifying moment when it is time to make a change - I did it! I grabbed a kitchen chair, stepped upon it, and got to work scrubbing the shelves and every item on them. 

And that's when it occurred to me that perhaps I was subconsciously avoiding this task because it would require me to assess what I felt was display-worthy in the most public room of our house. Which I now feel compelled to share with you.

Let's begin with the top shelf:

This is reasonable. This was the cake topper from our wedding lo, these many years ago. We were married in an art museum featuring a Dale Chihuly art glass display, so my best childhood friend presented us with these, which were made by a glass artist friend of hers. Promising start. Beautiful, meaningful, cool:

I mean, sure, I'm represented a little more
Venus of Willendorf-y than I'd prefer, but it's art,
so it's an interpretation...right?

Next, this shelf:

This is where the seamless melding of functional kitchen items and personal effects begins: GG Allin and Marky Ramone prayer candles next to salt and pepper shakers, two tiny original art pieces from art-o-mat machines (vintage cigarette vending machines re-purposed to dispense tiny, original works of art), a Troll doll given to me as a birthday gift one year, and two small (serendipitously, Troll-sized) pumpkins. 

Shelf three also has some meaning - this is where the mementos from traveling friends find a home:

Fun! A Turkish tile nestled among a New Orleans voodoo doll, a Russian Matryoshka doll, a wooden Japanese Geisha doll, bottles of sand from Jordan and some East Coast beach, a beaded South African doll, a Celtic spiral from Ireland, Moroccan mini-tagine-pot salt and pepper cellars -- all of which are happily ensconced next to a foam Peep and two original phallic art pieces, courtesy of our teen daughter.

And finally:

Again, some functional kitchen items: cream and sugar set, mortar and pestle (for all the herbs I grind), and my silver baby cup that holds the packets of sweetener Mr. Brutalism uses in his coffee. But what's that? An emergency clown nose! A mini charcuterie board art piece! A resin coaster and initials created by the same phallic-artist teen daughter I mentioned earlier...

Perhaps most interesting of all - the "ghost" candle my daughter and I found while sourcing Peeps diorama elements at the local dollar store. We have no idea if that is supposed to be a tongue, a horn, a cigar, or something else, but we knew we had to have it. And even gifted a second one to a friend. (Yes these were created in bulk. Why I didn't create my own art installation with several hundred of these still eludes me.)

Now I've lost my appetite,

Brutalism

Self-Flagellation

Scene: Evening walk in the neighborhood with my friend, Lisa

Lisa: (Spotting marsh plants in a lake we walk by): "I love those plants. What are they called? Pussy willows?"

The plant we were trying to identify.

Me: (Matter of factly): "No. Pussy willows are the smaller ones - the little puffs. Those are called cat o' nine tails." 

Pussy Willow.

Lisa: (Assuredly): "Um...cat o' nine tails are a type of bondage implement, so I doubt that's it." 

[She then suggested we pause to Google the plant and helpfully offered to search "pussy willow" which surprisingly had much tamer search returns than "cat o' nine tails."]

The results showed she was 100% correct due to her vast knowledge of S&M equipment.

Cat o' nine tails. This should bring some new friends
to Brutalism who search that term and determine
a blog named "Brutalism" seems on theme
with their interests...

Anyway, I was close - the marsh plant is a cattail. 

Best part? I've been referring to them as cat o' nine tails my entire life without ever ONCE questioning why the hell they were called that. And all this time, I've assumed people found me outdoorsy and nature-loving when really they've determined I'm into the kinks and enjoy a good flog.

I apparently suffer from the same disease my mother has, which she refers to as "CE" (meaning "close enough.") Examples of this are when she asked my daughter if she was excited for the "One Way" concert (she was going to see One Direction) and if I had seen that great film by Emerald Fennell called, "She's Got Potential" (Promising Young Woman). I always know exactly what she's talking about, even if she's not technically accurate. 

Flog,

Brutalism

College Tour de force

Team Brutalism spent time in Southern California for spring break in an apparent attempt to set a world record for the greatest number of college tours completed in the shortest amount of time. We successfully toured eight colleges in five days, which left about 47 minutes for freestyle fun. 

Which schools, you ask? Every.single.one.of.them.  (Assessments of each, in order of visit: best-looking guys, too shiny, just right, too "cohort," too snooty, love it, no way, too Jesus-y.) It's science, people!

While there, I was reminded of my conflicting feelings about the LA area. I would not be so extreme as to say I have a love/hate relationship - I'd say it's primarily love with a soupçon of head-scratching mild amusement. In the "Oh, LA, don't ever change" category, please enjoy the following:

And as with every trip we ever take, we enjoy exploring and come away with a ton of fun memories. So with that, I offer:

SoCal, the College Tour Trip:

We stayed in a super-cute cottage in Culver City, which was half a mile to Sony Studios, close to downtown, and also close to the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook; and the Ballona Creek bike path which links Culver to Marina Del Rey: 

A little fam bike ride on the Ballona Creek bike path

Another gentleman riding his bike -
to bring his groceries home, via the
bike path. Oh, LA...

Up to the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook

At the top

Our lil neighborhood's proximity to the studio meant we had a Jason Alexander sighting at the adorable and mostly hidden neighborhood deli down the street when I literally ran into him as I was heading outside after purchasing my coffee. I immediately ran up to Canetto who was outside the store and told him he had to go back into the store to confirm it was Costanza, which he happily did as Seinfeld was his favorite show of all time. 

We also had a neighborhood denizen who seemed to be doing some sort of high-energy martial arts whenever we walked through our neighborhood park - he was either aggressively pursuing his sport or high on meth. We'll never know. 

We visited a couple of smaller colleges on the first day of the touring agenda, and after walking about a zillion steps, went to dinner before heading back to our place. I had not eaten that morning and had half a gin & tonic pre-dinner, which was the catalyst for this: 

The near-constant sunshine seems to ensure people are outside enjoying the weather at all times, which is why we came across scenes such as this on every campus:

We had two more tours planned the next day, which put us near Pasadena - where we conveniently had tickets to a recording of "America's Got Talent" at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium. Our daughter had never been to a television recording before, so this was very exciting for her. I have never seen the show, but pickins' were slim for the date we were able to do this and we ended up about five rows back from judges Simon Cowell, Howie Mandell, Heidi Klum, and Sofia Vergara. 

My friend, Jimmy, actually found us in the audience when 
the show aired a few weeks ago. I seem to have a seed caught 
in my tooth. Tim is unamused. Avery is enthusiastic. 

After touring schools the following day, we headed to Hermosa Beach in the evening. We walked on the beach and played our favorite game of "Is that a skunk or is it weed?" It can literally be either there, and we are never sure. (Flashback: when we lived in Hermosa in the summer of 2018, I noticed what I thought was a cat in the next-door neighbor's backyard one day. Investigating further because...CAT!, I realized it was actually a skunk! At the beach! Some research showed there is actually a bit of a skunk problem in the South Bay. How? What? Oh, LA...)

The following day, our daughter visited with an old friend in Newport Beach for a couple of hours. After we dropped her off, Canetto and I wandered into a restaurant called Joey. As we walked past the lineup of Bentleys outside with Tim in shorts and me in ripped jeans, I asked the supermodel/hostess if we were dressed appropriately to have lunch there. She said we were "perfect" and offered us a complimentary glass of bubbly while we waited for our table. We then had a great lunch and the best service, ever. Yay, California casual.  

Another evening, we opted for a tour of Sony Pictures Studios, which was a short walk from our rental. Our tour guide for the evening was Keith Coogan - a character actor you will recognize if you have seen "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead" and "Adventures in Babysitting," He also starred in bunch of national commercials and some other films outside his babysitting oeuvre. Notably, he is the grandson of actor Jackie Coogan (Uncle Fester from the Addams Family) for whom the Coogan Law was named, which is pretty cool. (Cool that he got legislation passed to protect others...sad that he had to.)

                      Canetto doing his best Kramer impression on the Seinfeld set at Sony. 

Jeopardy! is! filmed! there!, too!

Our last night in town, we headed to downtown Culver City, which is home to some cool restaurants, the Culver Hotel, and the bougier cousin of Whole Foods, Erewhon Market. While I appreciate Erewhon's eco-conscious packaging and their vast assortment of sea moss juices (gak!), the pricing on most things certainly makes it a "not for my weekly grocery shopping" kinda place. I considered purchasing a reusable Erewhon shopping bag for my friend as a memento from the trip...until I priced them. And while she is definitely worth it, I would not be able to live with myself if I spent $135 on a CANVAS BAG.  

It was also during this excursion that we visited Salt & Straw - where you go for the black olive brittle and goat cheese ice cream, but stay for the spritz of culinary perfume ("flights" of this are available online so you can experience this in the comfort of your own home - likely after a gummy or two). When my daughter asked the lovely person helping us what exactly culinary perfume was, she replied with a straight face, "ice cream does not have an aroma, so this gives it a bit of an aroma and also a little extra flavor." (See "Oh, LA, don't ever change" above.)

And some other pics from the trip:

Malibu

Venice: where you pay for a $5 million house to overlook algae.
Perhaps this is where Erewhon harvests the sea moss for their juices?

#irony #veniceisgross

Portmanteau-ing the Line

Our local trivia night awards prizes both to the team that answers the most trivia questions correctly and also to the team with the best team name of the night, as determined by the waitstaff.

Of course, the regulars take full advantage of the quizmaster saying the team names aloud each round and in the past have used team names such as "I wish this microphone was a penis" and other gems to get the quizmaster to laugh. There are often references to current events, many puns, and a lot of lewd humor. It's great. And quite honestly, it feels almost as satisfying to win the team name contest as it does to win trivia. (Not-so-humblebrag-notice: I've been on teams that have done both, so I know this firsthand.)

Last night was the first time I went to trivia with my husband and his friend, Mike. And while our trivia showing was respectable-ish (12th out of 27 teams), we WON best team name with this submission: 

"Team Mansplaining (that means...man explaining)"

There is always someone at trivia who annoys me, too. Which is kind of surprising because I'm very tolerant and patient and rarely get indignant about anything. In the past, it has been drunk people who shout out answers, or someone who insists their answer is correct when it obviously is not, or the quizmaster pronouncing "leeward" as "LOU - erd." (No. Never. Stop It.) 

This week, we were treated to a guy screaming "HEY-OH!" every time he got an answer right when the quizmaster was reviewing the answers. He would occasionally mix in a "NAILED IT!" I wanted to throttle him. 

He looked like a normal person but obviously was not. So, I couldn't help but create a narrative that he was on a first date, and the person who accepted the date ran him through the usual screening questions, and was delighted when he invited them to a trivia night. Because: fun and interactive for a first date!

Then, when the answer reveal began, the date would realize that this dude's most current pop culture reference is from the Tonight Show Ed McMahon era - which ENDED in the early 90s. Something they probably never thought to ask in the pre-date get-to-know-you texts or calls.

HEY-OH! 

My Missionary Position

Our daughter has many Mormon friends.

She made one friend this year who is Mormon, and by extension, met and became friends with many more. She goes to Mormon social events, went to the Mormon prom, and is currently on a Mormon camping trip. She comes by this honestly, as part of my youth was characterized by The Mormon Years.

(Disclaimer: I now feel about Mormonism the way I feel about all organized religion.)

And while I did not anticipate this scenario, I will say that her socializing with teenagers who by definition do not drink or do drugs allows me to be slightly less neurotic when she is hanging out with them. (Note: the lack of drinking and drugs does not guarantee the kids are good or safe drivers. One of her Mormon friends managed to get into a car accident on a recent sunny afternoon because he's a dumbass teenage boy and was driving as such. However, he is a sober dumbass teenage boy, so in my mind, it could have been much worse.)

Our daughter attended another camp prior to Mormon camp - one where girls from all over the state convened for a week to learn about the legislative process. When she returned home from the week, she was excitedly telling us all about it and mentioned she met a Mormon there. Curious as to how she identified the girl as Mormon, she said the girl had visited all the floors in the dorm asking if there were other Mormons in attendance.

Of course, when I shared this story with my friend, we came up with an alternate explanation. One where my daughter is able to identify Mormons on sight as she spends so much time with them. Like "gaydar," but with less caffeine. 

As we attempted to determine the correct term for this phenomenon, we came up with "Mordar" but dismissed it right away as sounding too middle earth-y. We remained stumped for a few minutes until she brightly suggested what is obviously the perfect epithet: "Latter-Daydar!" 

Do You Feel Lucky, Punk? (Spoiler Alert: I DO!)

Eight years ago, I was in severe pain. My joints hurt so badly that sleeping through the night was impossible, and carrying my laptop bag into and opening the heavy doors at my office were so excruciating I was often on the verge of tears. My husband and daughter had to help dress me in the morning, as I was not able to accomplish actions as simple as putting on a bra or brushing my hair. (This was pre-COVID, back when those things were considered fairly important.)

And I have a pretty high tolerance for pain – I lived through 80s fashions and a couple of Seth Rogen movies.

As you may imagine, this was pretty fucking depressing. Adding to it, this all started at the same time I joined a new company and had a very stressful job. In an attempt to help, my husband suggested I start working with a personal trainer, because he knew I needed to prioritize my health and also assumed (correctly) this would help manage the stress and (incorrectly) the pain. And although I found the idea intimidating, he signed me up for some training sessions and I agreed to try it.

Thanks to three amazing trainers with whom I worked, I fell in love with training and weightlifting. They worked around my limitations and made the training sessions fun, so it was the one thing I truly looked forward to three days a week. When you are in that much pain, it is very lonely – there was so much I wasn’t able to do and so many times I stayed home feeling sorry for myself, so this also had the added benefit of getting me out and around other people. (This became a habit: I still weight train 3-4 times a week. I love being strong and there have even been times that thanks to training, I am able to see an ab. One. Singular. And fleetingly.)

In an attempt to rule out possible irritants, I also stopped ingesting anything I thought might be contributing to the joint pain, including gluten, alcohol, tomatoes, other nightshade vegetables, and processed foods. As a result, I was very thin. Also as a result, I had more people compliment me on my appearance than any other time in my life. Forget Ozempic, if you want to look svelte, simply have your body attack itself!

I did not share my condition with many people as I don’t think most people find ailments an interesting topic of conversation, which was confirmed when I confided in two friends who were close to me how much pain I was in and how frustrated I was that nothing was helping me feel better. One of them replied, “Sucks getting old,” and the other countered with how another person she knew had it much worse.

Don’t be either of these people.

It took three years to find a diagnosis for what was causing my pain – and I’ve lost count of how many doctors I visited and how many different medications I tried - none of which were the least bit helpful. Thanks to good medical insurance, persistence, and the help of friends like Meredith, who somehow finagled an impossible-to-get appointment with a top specialist in NYC, I eventually found my way to gastroenterologist, Dr. Scudera, after being misdiagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, getting no pain relief, and seeing alarmingly worse bloodwork results.

Dr. Scudera scheduled a liver biopsy to confirm his suspicion of autoimmune hepatitis. (There are only 100,000-200,000 cases of this a year, which explains why it was so hard to diagnose. Particularly because the symptoms can vary widely from person to person.) This-lifesaving-physician-to-whom-I-will-be-forever-indebted prescribed the correct medication, and I was pain-free in about two days and have remained so ever since. The liver biopsy results from that test in September 2017 were a STAGE 2, GRADE 4, as measured on the Batts-Ludwig scale below:

I’m not sure if I was just so relieved to have a diagnosis that I didn’t focus on this too much at the time, but looking back now, I’m a little terrified by how serious it was. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if this had been left untreated, I absolutely could have gone into liver failure and died.

For the past five years, I have gradually decreased the medication dosage as the bloodwork numbers improved, with the ultimate goal of stopping the medication altogether. To ensure I was ready to discontinue the medication, I needed a follow-up liver biopsy. After correcting an initial snafu of the hospital mistakenly scheduling a LUNG biopsy (and my friend, Kath, sending a package of Sharpies so I could draw arrows all over my body pointing to my liver as an added assist to the medical team) I had the biopsy a couple of weeks ago.

I just got the results, and they are exactly what I and my doctor hoped for – I am 100% in remission with the best possible numbers and can discontinue taking medication. That’s a GRADE 0, STAGE 0 on the Batts-Ludwig scale, baby! You know it’s a good day when your doctor is just as giddy as you are when he shares the news. (This doctor is Dr. Scudera's successor. Dr. Scudera retired a couple of years ago, and his successor is also a great doctor who spends a considerable amount of time talking to me and shares my "let's not take medicine if at all possible" philosophy.) I feel exceptionally lucky to have come across these amazing doctors.  

This could come back – one does not “heal from” autoimmune hepatitis. However, I now know what to look for and will still get bloodwork done regularly so if anything looks concerning, I will go back on medication to mitigate it.

*Not a funny post, but probably the one I've most enjoyed writing! 

 

Sometimes Work is Fun

 

Entyrely Confused

A good friend of mine had a very interesting experience while having her car serviced recently.

At the dealership, she saw a desk with a nameplate featuring a name she recognized as that of a woman she was friendly with during high school in Northern Virginia. This name is unusual enough that it caught her attention.

Curious, she inquired of the gentleman assisting her if the woman was in. He replied, “no, she is a representative for a tire company and is onsite only on certain days.” Wanting to confirm whether it was the woman she knew, she asked a few questions about the woman and her family, all of which the man confirmed was accurate. However, he also indicated that it was likely not the same person because the woman is British and speaks with a British accent.

My friend figured this was all too much of a coincidence and did a quick search for her online, where she found a recent photo and showed it to the man who verified that it was, indeed, the same person. The same person who is FROM and GREW UP IN Northern Virginia and is NOT BRITISH nor did she ever speak with a BRITISH ACCENT.

Because my friend and I are both naturally inquisitive types, we had the following questions:

• Are they sure she is the rep. for a tire company and not a “tyre” company?
• She works in the same area where she grew up and went to high school – surely this is not the first time a former classmate has come into this dealership. Wouldn’t you think moving to another area to attempt this ruse would be a better idea?
• And finally – doesn’t it sound tiring to carry on the charade of being something you’re not every single day at work? I mean, I have to pretend I’m competent at my job and it’s exhausting.

Cheerio, Whilst, Bangers and Mash, God Save the Queen,

Brutalism

He's not wrong

Last night, we attended our favorite weekly trivia game with friends.

During the event, the crowd gets a choice as to what the final round should be - and last night, we had the option of voting for "General Knowledge" or "Four-letter Words." Based on applause, Four-letter Words was the runaway favorite. 

And we were killing it in this round by answering the first eight questions very quickly. Then it all fell apart when we had to guess the answer to the following question:

What can you find both on your desktop and in a church?

Group: "That's definitely 'icon'"

Canetto: "Porn"

He totally deserves extra credit.

Fa La La La La La La La Yuck

 Ah...the holidays.

I always get in a funk around the holidays. I've learned the best way to get through is to PLAN A THOUSAND ACTIVITIES SO I'M TOTALLY EXHAUSTED AND THERE IS NOT ONE SECOND OF DOWN TIME. A tired brain is a non-ruminating brain. 

Which is why I agree to anything my family wants to do (see: Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, from which we just returned and for which I will have to write a separate post). To wit:

In our area, there is a small historic building that rents its space to a home decor boutique every year. I went one time and while it is nice and beautifully merchandised and laid out, I do not share the rustic "live - love - laugh" aesthetic - so I assumed the one time I visited would be the only time. 

But this weekend, as I was driving by with my daughter and she saw signs posted for the event, she asked if we could go. I agreed, and we parked and made our way into the building. And right into a wall of stink. I don't know if someone had just used the one restroom in the tiny, historic building, or if there was a plumbing issue, but the entire place smelled like sewage...

...and not in the good way. 

We spent exactly 20 seconds inside - as long as it took to walk in one door and out the other. 

I mean, the place is lousy with holiday-scented candles and potpourri - why wasn't EVERY SINGLE one of these things working overtime? We cannot be the only people who noticed this?

Based on my current mood, I like to imagine this as a metaphor for the holidays,

Brutalism

The Dark Side of Lanolin

Two neighbor friends and I go to local trivia nights as often as our schedules align.

In addition to doing pretty well in trivia, we pride ourselves on choosing a creative moniker, as the trivia game we frequent most often offers a prize for not only trivia prowess, but also best team name.

In the past we've been:

• Team "My Stepbrother is part of a throuple and my family largely ignores this"
• Team "The Twerking Corgis" (for which we won best team name and some Guinness glasses)
• Team "Keep our Team's Name out your effing mouth" (following Will Smith's infamous slap)

Last night, we tried a different trivia night and could simply not think of a name. We racked our brains, tried to think of topical ideas...nothing. In a fit of desperation, my friend, Lisa, suggested using the first two letters of each of our names, so we'd be Team "Kaboli." However, when she typed "Kaboli" into her phone, it erroneously autocorrected to "lanolin." 

Gentle reader: I have an endearing personality trait of finding things like "lanolin" hilariously funny and repeating the word about 800 times while laughing so hard tears stream down my face. And last night was no exception. It got even funnier when Lisa mentioned that lanolin was made of sheep's wool, and I accused her of keeping her in-depth knowledge of lanolin a secret for the entirety of our friendship - particularly because we have walked thousands of miles together while chatting about almost every topic. (Everything but wax secreted by the sebaceous glands of wool-bearing animals, I now realize.)

While I googled to ensure she was correct about its origins, I came upon an article entitled, "The Dark Side of Lanolin," and just like that ... we had a team name.

Team "The Dark Side of Lanolin" settled into the trivia game at a new location for us - a local brew house in a Brutalist work/live development in Northern Virginia. While we wanted to like it, there were many strikes against it: acoustics being so bad in the concrete-heavy, Brutalist building that we could not hear the emcee and heard way too much of fellow competitors sitting around us; being required to read questions and answer on our phones which made us wonder why they even had an emcee and how they could possibly prevent people from googling answers as there was plenty of time to do so between questions; and poorly-worded questions that were ambiguous and caused confusion. Additionally, we had to go to the bar to order food and drinks which is not a big deal usually, but when you are in the midst of a trivia competition, you don't want to take the time away from the game to do so.

Granted, we are also biased as we love our "home" trivia location, where answers must be written and submitted on paper and phones have to be stowed throughout. There are good acoustics and table service, and the emcee is hilarious. And the trivia is exactly the right amount of challenging so the three of us can most often noodle through to the correct answers.

I mean, one time Lisa almost came to blows with an opposing team whose representative WOULD NOT ACCEPT the fact that we were right and he was wrong, but she stood her ground and we were ultimately granted the win. (She may have been slightly scared to walk into the parking lot following the game, but hey, WE GOT THE POINT!) 

The word "sebaceous" is giving me hives,

Brutalism