Kitsch? My Ass

When my in-laws sold their house a couple of years ago, they moved into an extended stay facility while their new house was being completed. Because we live in the same area, they brought some items to store at our house during this time -- things like house plants, some glassware, and (naturally) a concrete dog lawn ornament.

We thought it would be funny to put this in our yard near the front door for a couple of months until my in-laws got settled and took it back -- and were sure that our friends would see it, mock it, and that hilarity would ensue over our attempt at kitschiness.

I guess we just got used to it (and never received any comments on it) because two years went by and we had pretty much forgotten it was out there. (And my in-laws had "forgotten" to claim it.) Occasionally, I'd see it and think, "we really need to get rid of that thing before people think we're serious" and then I'd get involved in something else and forget all about it.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally remembered to ask Canetto to move the thing into the back yard. The next day when I was walking with my friend, Amanda, I asked her, "Did you ever notice that concrete dog by our front door?" and she said, "I always meant to ask you about that...because you're not really dog people."

To which I replied, "I was kinda hoping you'd say that we're not really concrete lawn ornament people."

All-Inclusive

Site stats tell me that two new readers recently became part of the Brutalism family -- one by googling "tap dancing meth addicts" (Brutalism pops up as the first result) and one by googling "Mandrell Sisters."

New tagline: Brutalism -- a little something for everyone.

I aim to please,
Brutalism

Come Hear Uncle John's Band

You know what you get when you are two relatively uptight, white bread parents with no rhythm? You get a kid who feels the music and who must jump into a drum circle in the middle of downtown Asheville because she just has to move. How long do you think we have until she starts with the dreads and the patchouli?

What It All Means

Not that I need another reason to love Urban Dictionary (or Dilettante07), but I do have one.

(See definition #1. The tags are particularly inspired.)

Please make like my doctor and give it an enthusiastic thumbs up.

You're welcome,
Brutalism

Lost In Translation

When I was a single girl, I dated some pretty interesting characters. Like Greg. Who had a hyphenated last name and spent the better part of most years working as a ski instructor. He was a nice enough guy -- it's just that talking to him was like talking to a foreign exchange student and I got tired of having to bring a Righteous/English dictionary along on all of our dates.

Me: "How was your ski trip?"

Him: "The freshies were epic, bra."

Translation: The untouched fresh snow was rather magnificent, my friend.

Me: "Do I look okay in what I'm wearing?"

Him: "You are a buff nugg."

Translation: I find you to be somewhat attractive and that outfit is particularly fetching.

Last I heard, he was living in Southern California.

Translation: He found his homeland.

Epic Hunt

One time in an interview, someone asked me what were the most important things I had learned in business school. I replied, "That it's a great place to meet guys with jobs and that if I ever hear another person use the word "synergy" I shall be forced to throttle them." "How to negotiate effectively and the importance of surrounding myself with smart people."

Those lessons have helped me in many situations throughout the years -- most recently, the Post Hunt 2009 in which I participated yesterday as part of team Velvet Unitard. (After not winning, we amended our team name to Crushed Velvet Unitard, and no, it has not stopped being funny.)

Fellow VUs were Amanda and Leon (who faithful readers of Brutalism may know as Dilettante07 and Dilettard07, respectively). They share a combined IQ of somewhere in the infinity range, a life, and a ridiculous sense of humor. We trained separately by doing many word games and also studying clues from prior Tropic Hunts and last year's Post Hunt. We also drank a lot.

When we met up yesterday at Freedom Plaza in DC just before the Hunt began at noon, we were pretty excited. And not just because Gene Weingarten agreed to take a picture with us, although that was a huge part of it. (Aside: I reflected later that in the past few days I had touched three famous men -- Joe Frazier, Jeffrey Ross and Gene Weingarten. That is a famous-man-touching personal record for me. Well...if my mom is reading this, anyway.) It was total nerdvana.

Our first stop for clues (the human statues) just frustrated us. None of us had any idea what the answer was and we were beginning to wonder what we were doing there. However, we (and by "we", I mean "Amanda") solved the next two puzzles (failed monuments and the congressional debate) in mere moments and then we were addicted. The next couple of puzzles (the watch guy and commodities) were a total group effort -- it was amazing how helpful it was to have different perspectives on these things. Then, Leon came in for the big finish by doing the correct mathematical calculations (my eyes had glazed over at this point) and coming up with the solution to the statues puzzle.

We had the answers to the five puzzles by 2:15, so we took a break for lunch and a beer. At 3:00, we returned to the stage for the final clue and were halfway to solving it when we heard the winner being announced. Next year is ours.

(And you're welcome for the post title, fellow Unitards...)

A Stand-Up Kinda Guy

Last night, we went to see Jeffrey Ross at the Improv in DC. He's the comedian that has done all those celebrity roasts for Hugh Hefner, Shaquille O'Neal, Drew Carey, Donald Trump and Pamela Anderson.

At one point during his set, he asked for volunteers from the audience to come up on stage to be part of an insta-roast, so I raised my hand.

Within moments of sizing me up, he mocked my sweater for looking like a doily in his grandma's house and then asked me if I beadazzled it myself. Then, he made a joke about my dark roots and finished with a few quips about swinging. Beadazzling, blonde jokes and swinging jokes? It's like he's known me all my life...

Rope-A-Dope

My friend, Hillary, got me on the list of her PR firm's anniversary party a few years ago, which means I've received invitations every year since. (I wrote about last year's party here.) She no longer works there, but that has not stopped me (or her) from attending these things. PR people can throw a party.

This year, my friend, Terri (who has also been to a few of these), and I got to the party a little late. We walked in and sat down with our drinks when all of the sudden Smokin' Joe Frazier himself came and sat right next to me. My purse was in his way, so he grabbed it and pretended he was going to steal it, so I said to him, "What? You think you're some kind of tough guy? Let's take this outside." "I wouldn't do that. It doesn't match your outfit." That made him laugh -- he was a really cool and nice guy -- he kidded around with us and let us take pictures with him before the "official" pictures started. (When he put his arm around Terri to take a photo, he asked her if her husband was black. She said "No, but hers is." and pointed to me.) I have no idea what any of that conversation has to do with anything, but Terri, Joe and I all seemed to find it very amusing at the time. I'm sure the beer had very little to do with it.

We network a lot at this thing and do a lot of mingling. Which is pretty hilarious, as we really have no right to be there. Whatevs...we now have friends we've made that we see every year...so I'm actually beginning to consider us trespassing hooligans "inner circle."

Anyway...we're already wondering who the celeb will be for the 13th anniversary next year -- any ideas?

That's A Plate Of Shrimp

During our weekly team meeting today, my boss mentioned that he had remembered me seamlessly weaving a reference to the movie "Repo Man" into a government client meeting a few months back. He said that he thought this was so inappropriate , disturbing amusing that he meant to bring it up in my annual review.

(With apologies to the original...)
Mrs. Maddox: Bring this up in your annual review...you'll enjoy it more.
Otto Maddox: Couldn't enjoy it any more, Mom. Mmm Mmm Mmm

John Wayne was a fag,
Brutalism

Going Against The Grain

Mother's Day weekend was pretty phenomenal. I celebrated the usual way -- an eight-mile walk, a Japanese sword fighting class, and a day at Busch Gardens with my little family.

We had such a great day there - the weather was perfect and we even ran into my friends (and some of my very favorite people), Ira, his wife, Amy, and their kids. You may remember Ira from when I talked about him here and in one of my very first blog posts here.

I have not seen them or some other mutual (and equally hilarious) friends of ours from Virginia Beach in way too long, so Amy shared a story about the other friends because they had all just gone to dinner together. (Mutual friend will remain nameless in case he ever comes across this blog. Let's just say I've also known him since about 4th grade and that he went to a very good school and owns a very successful business. Let's also say that he is married and has two young kids, and that the following is pretty out of character -- because all of this information makes the story even funnier.)

When Ira and Amy met this friend and his wife for dinner, he was not drinking alcohol and they asked him why that was (with our women friends, we always assume pregnancy would be the only reason...with a guy friend...you gotta ask, because there is no good reason). He mentioned that he had been on the wagon after a particularly bad episode on Halloween...

The story goes that he had begun the evening with some grain alcohol (re-living your youth, nameless longtime friend?) and ended the evening by getting worried that he had drunk too much, and calling 911 on himself to report an over-imbibing emergency. You can imagine his wife's surprise when the police and an ambulance arrived at their door (you see, she was not privy to the fact that her drunken mess of a husband had called the authorities on himself) and she had to get up to speed on the situation while a) not having a heart attack and b) refraining from throttling him on the spot.

Said friend did go to the hospital where they found...(wait for it)...absolutely nothing wrong. I guess the utter humiliation of the episode (which, because he is awesome, does not prevent him from sharing the story) caused him to re-think his intake for several months.

(As an addendum to this story, Amy noted that when they went to dinner, they were instrumental in getting our friend back off the wagon, something that not even a recent class reunion was able to do.)

We need to get to Virginia Beach much more often.

Managing Expectations

Yesterday we read those two words that no parent ever wants to see on their kid's daily report from school. (No...not "developmentally challenged"...or "class biter"...or even "future Republican"...it was way worse than that....>cue creepy horror movie music<...under "nap time" the report stated simply, "relaxed quietly."

See, those two words determine the kind of evening we are going to have. "Slept well" means an evening full of fun and frivolity. "Relaxed quietly" means that a kid will find some kind of manic energy deep in her reserves that makes you want to disobey all traffic laws while speeding to the nearest urgent care center to have your ovaries removed.

She was on her turbo setting all night....getting into everything including a stick of butter that she proceeded to wipe all over her hands and legs in order to achieve the proper level of lubrication to begin touching things all over the house. Then, she put all the couch cushions and coasters on the floor and jumped back and forth on them like they were lily pads and she was a crack-addled frog.

Suddenly, her foot came down on one of the coasters and I heard a big ccrrraaccckk. I picked it up and saw that it had shattered. Exasperated, I asked her, "How many more things are you going to get into or break tonight?" She looked at me, then back at Canetto and then innocently (and honestly) held up two fingers.

What The World Needs Now...Is Love, Sweet Love (Apparently)...

Shout out to a new friend in New Delhi, India, who found my blog by googling "I want faqing."

(I feel dirty again.)

Reflections On A Beta Test

All day today, we were evaluating an exercise we developed for (undisclosed government client) with a beta test for about 40 participants.

During the day, I could not have possibly heard the words "stool sample" or "bloody diarrhea" any more times.

Consequently, I could not have possibly enjoyed my working lunch any less.

Hopeless Romantic

At an engagement party last night, we were talking to several friends who were at our wedding ten years ago.

One of them told me a story I had shared with her when Canetto and I were planning our wedding (and that I had completely forgotten about).

Back when I was shopping for a wedding dress with my mom, we had different opinions on the style of dress I should get. She liked me in one dress that I just didn't care for, and tried to convince me that it should be a contender by saying, "but it is so feminine and so romantic..."

To which I replied, "Mom. There is no place for romance at my wedding."

Hogwash

As I was leaving the restroom at my office yesterday, I saw that someone had printed a sign and taped it to the inside of the door which read, "Please wash your hands before leaving the bathroom!!!" Which begs the following:

Aren't we all getting a little cuckoo about this whole swine flu thing?

and much, much more importantly:

Who do I work with that needs a reminder to do this after using the bathroom?

I Feel So Dirty

Like everyone, I remember all of my significant "firsts" -- first love, first time riding a bike, first felony charge (okay, not really, but that makes me seem all exciting and dangerous, doesn't it?), and first time realizing that based on your upbringing, there might not be enough alcohol in the world...

Back Story : One December, my sister and I had come home from college for Christmas break. We rented a movie and went into the family room to play it, when we discovered that the VCR had (mysteriously) been moved into my parents' bedroom while we were away. So we went into their bedroom to watch it. My sister tried to put the video into the player and it wouldn't go in...so she pressed the eject button and out popped Talk Dirty to Me...part 3. While I was trying to shove the movie back in the VCR and get the hell out of there, my sister screamed, "Hey, mom, was this better than Talk Dirty to Me parts 1 and 2?"

In her absolute refusal to take any responsibility for such a thing, my mom blamed it all on my father -- claiming that he was the one who bought the video and wanted to watch it. And to support her assertion that he was the deviant, she also shared with us the story about their naked car wash (which also occurred while we were away at college. My college activities sure seemed tame in comparison).

Family lore has it that one night my dad figured it would be a thrill to drive to the car wash about a mile away from their house and go through it with no clothes on (please do not look to me for explanation) and somehow almost convinced my mom to do the same. At the very last minute, my mother decided that she'd wear her robe, but he was completely naked. They drove to the car wash, put the coin in the slot (not a euphemism) and drove into the car wash booth. The car wash started (with all those sexy lights and sensual streams of water...seriously, dad?)...then abruptly stopped. It simply broke down. And a light came on that said "Wait for Attendant." And an attendant was beginning to walk toward them. And because they were caught in a situation that might not have been that easy to explain to the car wash attendant, my father did the only thing he could do. He stepped on the gas, drove over the metal frame surrounding the car (apparently creating quite a commotion as he did it) and sped out of the car wash as fast as he could.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got my therapist on speed dial...

Commercial Success

Well played, Minute Maid:

Why I Distrust Organized Religion

When I was a kid, my parents tried out several different religions. (This is yet another of those things that seemed perfectly normal to me as a kid and when I grew up (ha) I realized it was something that not everyone did...like keeping butter in our cupboard rather than the refrigerator (it's a dairy product!)...and my parents going through a car wash naked.) (NOTE TO SELF: How have I not yet written about my parents going through a car wash naked?)

In our Goldilocks-esque approach to finding the perfect religion, we auditioned the Presbyterians, Protestants, Mormons, Lutherans, Methodists, Episcopals ("Catholic Lite" -- same religion...half the guilt), and even went to The Rock Church in Virginia Beach for a few services that involved people speaking in tongues and dancing in the aisles.

At one point we found ourselves attending Sunday services at the chapel on the Norfolk Naval base. Father Rich led the weekly sermon and was extremely dynamic and entertaining. He would incorporate puppets, elaborate costumes and music into his services to capture attention and make his messages relatable. (Apparently, it was a congregation made up exclusively of drag queens, three-year-olds and hallucinogenic drug abusers...)

My parents felt this place was a good fit (of course) and they were all like, "Ooh, Father Rich...he's young and his sermons are contemporary and he really relates to everyone." (Like people who like to go through car washes WITHOUT THEIR CLOTHES ON, for instance?)

Now, at this point in my young life, I was going through the tweener-unbelievably- self-conscious phase and what I wanted more than anything was to go unnoticed and draw as little attention to myself as possible. Having to go out in public traumatized me enough, without the added pressure of having to do the freaking meet-n-greet at the end of whichever church service we were attending. Every Sunday, I'd begin dreading the meet-n-greet about midway through church...enough so that I would almost hyperventilate thinking about it.

And although my goal in life was to blend into the background, I'm not quite sure how I hoped to achieve that in the inspired ensemble I had coordinated one particular Sunday, when I decided to wear hot pink chinos, a Hawaiian print shirt and black Candies heels -- pulled together with my preppy clasp belt (because the accessories make the outfit!). The Candies were new -- and they were my first real high heels. I was feeling about as good as I could about myself at the time and I do remember thinking that the heels made me look pretty hot.

After church, as we were lining up with the rest of the acrobats, meth addicts and bearded ladies to shake hands with Father Rich, I started panicking. I kept thinking about what I was going to say and how stupid I was going to sound and the fact that I probably had to make eye contact. WITH A PERSON. As the midget ahead of me finished shaking hands and it was my turn, I went to shake Father Rich's hand, misstepped in my new Candies, and tumbled down the stairs in front of the chapel. Yes, really. It was only a few steps so I was unhurt physically. But I looked up from my heap of haute couture to see several parishioners AND Father Rich...laughing so hard, I was sure he was going to wet his vestments. Et tu, man of the cloth?

God works in strange and mysterious ways. My early experiences did open my mind and ultimately lead me to my current religion...the one where I worship the Washington Post and a good cup of coffee on Sunday mornings.

Who ARE These People?

Yesterday, Avery and I participated in a one-mile fun run. (It was fun, though not quite as fun as this.)

She was a champ and ran (not jogged) almost the entire one-mile course. (What she did not run, she walked, and what she did not walk, she sat on the curb and played with sticks and bugs...we opted for the scenic route.)

The end of the race was the real puzzler. Just as we reached the finish line, Avery said to me, "I don't want all of these people clapping for me" and walked around the inflatable arch that marked the finish line instead of through it. At that moment, I wondered if perhaps I had taken the wrong child home from the hospital. Have I taught her nothing? Isn't the purpose of doing anything the glory? Whether in the form of applause, a medal, a mention in the paper...isn't some sort of tangible validation for your effort the reason for participating? Didn't the satisfaction of accomplishment or knowing that it was a job well done go the way of personal responsibility and the pet rock?

This morning, as Canetto was getting ready for work, he casually mentioned to me that he needed to get to work early as there was an awards ceremony and that he was receiving an award. He must have known about this for weeks, but just told me in passing as he was headed out the door.

...I guess I took the right child home from the hospital.

Cosmetic Stuff

We just spent about a bazillion dollars (give or take) to have our house trim "wrapped" and to get new gutters. This was one of those projects that I probably could have put off forever, while whatever woodland creature it was that was gnawing away our garage door surround chewed into our house, created a loving home for its offspring and I was living like Little Edie at Grey Gardens.

Captain Spreadsheet, on the other hand, seems to possess the pro-active gene that makes us take care of these things before they become major issues and cost us more money in the long run. (I keep trying to convince him that plastic surgery should be regarded in much the same way. No luck. The irony? One little Botox injection and he'd never realize just how disappointed his refusal makes me. Curse you, elusive Stepford countenance...)

I do have to admit...the house looks so much better. The guys working on it were total craftsmen and I will probably see the value of spending our tax return on this in retrospect. Right? RIGHT? (...Little Edie did look like she had some good times...)