Harshing My Mallow

Some celebrate Easter by reflecting upon the resurrection of Jesus. Some celebrate with Easter egg hunts and lots of sugary treats. Still others celebrate by going to a special brunch in DC that provides entertainment in the form of men dressed in drag lip-syncing pop hits (Best. Easter. Ever.)

Me? I am a bit of a traditionalist and celebrate by crafting dioramas out of marshmallow peeps with my Jewish friend, Hillary.

For the past few years, The Washington Post has sponsored a Peeps diorama contest and for the past few years, the dioramas that Hillary and I have created have been ignored like the women at the above-mentioned drag brunch. (See how the Post ruined Easter for us last year and the year before, too.)

This year, were were so hopeful...what with our "Blue Peep Group" diorama on which we had worked so tirelessly...

 ...and yet, once again, we did not even make the finals. I think this year is when we finally make good on our threat of leaving a flaming bag of peep on the judges' doorsteps.

Resurrect THIS,
Brutalism

O'Noyoudi-int

My Irish co-worker just walked by trying to sell some extra tickets she has to the Celtic Women concert tonight.

As part of her marketing ploy, she said, "It's St. Patrick's Day...what could be more Irish than seeing the Celtic Women in concert?"

And I said, "I don't know. Drinking fourteen pints of Guinness and urinating on yourself while seeing the Celtic Women in concert?"

Your Goodwill Ambassador to the UN,
Brutalism

Laser? I Just Met Her.

It was a weird weekend. And not just because I spent part of it sitting in a room full of strangers wearing Saran Wrap underpants.

Or as I like to call it...Saturday.

Perhaps I should explain...

For a few years now, I've been thinking about getting laser hair removal for my most intimate of areas........my armpits. (Stop judging and let me know what your most intimate area is after 11 years of marriage. You have to get creative.)

Haters.

[Due to the sensitive nature of what I am sharing, the overuse of "air quotes" begins below. "Thanks."]

I'm actually referring to my "bikini area." I have been thinking about getting this lasered for a few years now and finally decided to go for it...in the blissfully ignorant way that I make most decisions that cost a lot of money and have the potential for extreme humiliation.

Turns out, this is no simple procedure...it is a process of six treatments over the course of a year. After filling out more paperwork than I had to complete at my house closing, I made an appointment for my first treatment. 

Based on the suggestion of the "medspa" where I'm having this done, I arrived an hour early to go into a room and apply numbing cream to my "area" and then wrap the entire area in plastic wrap and sit in a lounge they call the "Sanctuary" while the numbing cream took effect. (This "medspa" offers a variety of services that you'd never want anyone to know you're having...such as Botox and laser liposuction. It conveniently shares a lobby with the Little Gym...so every time I go, there is a good chance I will see the parents of one of my daughter's playmates who can speculate on which narcissistic/insane treatment I'm electing to have.)

I entered the "Sanctuary" which really consisted of three hard-backed chairs in a 6'x6' room (though it was dim and did have some spa music playing) and tried to position myself in a way that the other ladies in the room would not see my plastic underpants and also so that I did not shift and lose the underpants. On a relaxation scale, I would equate this to having your father-in-law read something you wrote about vaginas on the chalkboard in your kitchen or wetting your pants at work.

One interesting thing I noticed while sitting there was that the room in which I applied my numbing cream was right next door, and through the paper-thin walls, you could clearly hear any conversation between the numbing cream applicatee and the technician. As I tend to be overly chatty when I am uncomfortable or nervous, I recalled that when I was in there, I had asked the technician to repeat the procedure for creating Saran Wrap underpants and had also remarked, "Oh...so just like I do at home?" (I suppose they also heard the crickets chirping in the "Sanctuary.")

It felt like I was in the "Sanctuary" forever. And after a few women had cycled in and out, I finally turned on my cell phone to check the time and discovered that it was HALF AN HOUR after my appointment was to have taken place. I poked my head out of the "Sanctuary" door to look for someone and saw no one. So, in my robe, while holding up my Saran Wrap underpants and with a completely numb crotchal region, I began wandering the halls in search of anyone who could help, and found myself in the shared lobby. (And permanently off the play date list...)

They got me into a treatment room ASAP, which is when they really let me know who's boss, by TAKING A PICTURE of the "area to be treated" as a "before" photo. Honestly, this clinician had access to more than my husband did in our first five years of marriage.

The treatment itself took about ten minutes and was pretty painless. Or as painless as it could be while I was naked in a spread-eagle position on the table while wearing dark glasses to protect my eyes from the laser. 

I'm sexy.

So, every two months for the next year, I have this to look forward to.

I wonder if they make a cream to numb the shame?

Damn It, Janet

Many people think the of the DC area as somewhat stodgy and conservative.

I know I did when I first moved here in the 90s. A move I made to assert my independence and advance my career in one of the most exciting areas in the world because my boyfriend lived here.

This was a boyfriend I'd met while spending a semester abroad in London. Theatre was a big part of the experience during that semester so we saw many, many plays. We saw a ton of Shakespeare, got to experience Dame Judi Dench and Timothy Dalton acting in smaller productions, and, as a treat, got to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show on stage.

It was one of the more memorable performances for me because it involved a transvestite and a lot of people in their underpants. (It is these kinds of takeaways that explain why I am not a great playwright and instead write dirty jokes on my little blog.) It was also memorable because out of the entire audience, our group of 30 American students were the only people that did not dress up like the characters in the play or bring props to throw at designated times. There we were, wearing our college sweatshirts amid a crowd of Brad, Janet and Frank-N-Furter lookalikes with their stacks of toast and water guns. We probably should have just stood up and sung our national anthem swaddled in a giant U.S. flag while eating aersol cheese to further underline what a massive group of American tourists we were...though it probably would have just felt redundant. As great as the show was, we totally felt like Octomom at Planned Parenthood...completely out of place.

So you can imagine that when I moved to DC a year later and had the opportunity to again see Rocky Horror on stage with the same boyfriend and two other friends from our London group, we jumped at the chance to do it and do it right. We bought tickets to a ten o'clock Saturday night performance in the District and spent a few days coming up with just the right costumes and getting all of our props together.

We were very enthusiastic (...and very hott, though that really goes without saying):

And we were so delighted with ourselves that we spent a lot of time taking pictures and subsequently got to the theatre a little late. James (in glasses) had worn just tighty whities in the car, but right before we walked in, he decided that he would put on his pants until he was seated and the show started. As we made our way down the aisle to find our seats in the dimmed theatre, my eyes began to adjust and it slowly became apparent that I was surrounded by a sea of suit jackets and nice dresses.

You got it. In buttoned-up Washington, we were the only people who had dressed in costume. I have never been happier to be wearing a blazer in my entire life (a blazer that I immediately buttoned up to my neck). And I don't think James has ever even considered wearing only tighty whities to the theatre again. At least that's what he tells his legal clients...

We did not do the Time Warp again,
Brutalism

That's No Lady...

Usually when I pick my daughter up from preschool in the afternoon, she spends a few minutes walking around her classroom showing me any new artwork she created that day.

Which was the case recently after the teacher had hung up all of the Valentine art made by the paste-eating set.

The school and classroom walls were plastered with red and pink heart-shaped crafts. There were flowers made from hearts, happy, smiling faces drawn onto hearts, heart collages...

She asked me excitedly, "Want to see the ladybug I made?" and of course, I said, "Yes," because I just love how anything she creates reflects the sweet innocence of a child's perspective. How for just a few moments, looking at her art transports me and allows me to see the world through her eyes...

As a matter of fact, I was lost in these thoughts when my little Mapplethorpe-in-training pointed proudly to this:

 

Ain't love grand?

Brutalism

Happy Bud Light Commercial Day!

For Valentine's Day, we treated ourselves to a little getaway at a nice hotel. Which would be very romantic, were it not for the fact that our four-year-old Valentine was also traveling with us.What it lacked in romance, it made up for in family fun, and by that I mean we spent an ungodly amount of time in the cesspool of bacterial funk hotel swimming pool.

In all of the years I traveled for work and spent half of my life in hotels, I don't know that I ever even saw a hotel swimming pool. Since I've had a kid? That is the first amenity we look for when booking a room, as we love her and want her to have a good time it helps with a little something we like to call "Operation Wear Her Out."

After two days of having the pool to ourselves, we were surprised when a group of people walked into the pool area. And even more surprised to discover that it was a women's college volleyball team.

Each of the women was approximately nine feet tall, looked amazing in her (tiny) bikini, and spent the next  hour frolicking in the hot tub and pool with all of the other nine foot tall, perfect-body volleyball players.

And then...they took off their tops and started making out. (Okay, not really. But still a pretty great Valentine's gift for Canetto that I totally took credit for.)

Two days later, I realized that this was, in fact, the gift that just keeps giving, as I discovered that I had ringworm behind my knee. (Calm down...it's NOT a worm, it's just an athletes-foot-type fungus.)  (Pause to dry heave...)

I did do a little research to find out what causes this...and guess what does? Right. Public pools. Full of bikini-clad college girls, I'm guessing.

Next year, I'm totally buying him chocolates.

A Snippet

Some good friends of ours just had their second son. Which means that we get to attend a bris this coming weekend. (Note to self: Vienna sausages are funny in theory but wrong on a couple of different levels when offered as a hostess gift at a bris.)

The bris for their older son was the first I'd ever attended. It was so emotional and the mohel was hilarious (who knew Jews were so funny???), and with the exception of my husband actually turning green while anticipating the inevitable, it was by far the nicest ceremonial rite I have attended that ends with someone getting a body part hacked off over bagels and lox. Or at least one of the nicest.

I'll be the shiksa screaming "Fore!"
Brutalism

Just Beat It

Yesterday, I again unsuspectingly stepped into the minefield of filth that is children's literature.

Well...at least Sally is honest, right?

Snowtorious

As mentioned in my last post, we have a lot of snow in the DC area. A LOT lot. Like, more than we have ever had in recorded history. It is at the same time breathtakingly beautiful and a tremendous pain in the ass (not unlike Megan Fox, from what I hear.) What it also is, apparently, is an excuse for otherwise respected journalists and reporters to coin new terms and phrases such as:

SNOWMAGEDDON!

SNOWPOCALYPSE!

SNOWMONGOUS WINTER!

SnOMG!

(Clearly, I don't approve of this practice at all.)

I was just hanging out with some neighbors in our cul de sac and one of them was mentioning that the local weatherman is thrilled with the storm and the round-the-clock coverage. He said, "the guy probably heard we were getting several more inches and got a huge erection."

To which I replied, "Don't you mean a huge SNOWRECTION?"

It is all I can take and I can't take snow more,
Brutalism

All Work And Snow Play

Here in the DC area, we have been buried in snow for the past three days. Since we, as an area, do not deal with this amount of snow well, I still cannot get out of my cul de sac to any main road. Because I am someone who requires quite a bit of alone time, I am about twelve minutes away from turning into Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Rather than being frightened by this, my husband instead views this as some sort of invitation to test my limits of patience:

Canetto: "You know, you have a short fuse."

Me: "I don't think so. I am just getting cabin fever."

Canetto: (while poking me repeatedly): "Short fuse. Short fuse. Short fuse. Short fuse. Short fuse."

Me: "Oh. My. God. STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!"

Canetto: (calmly and matter of factly) "See? Short fuse."

Writing redrum on the mirror,
Brutalism

Valley Girl

I just spent the past four days in Harrisonburg, Virginia -- a lovely area in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley where I went to college -- JMU, but only because Eastern Mennonite University would not have me. Something about my sinful love of patterns or something... ("I am totally going to hell" aside: There was a Mennonite girl who went to my high school. Because we were totally accepting of people from all different backgrounds, we referred to her all through high school as "Girl With Thing On Head" and even used a shorthand of "GWTOH" to reference her...which we did...often.)

Right now, GWTOH is somewhere looking at this:

and thinking, "Right. And you called *ME* Girl With Thing on Head?" (And by the way, she could have totally referred to me during high school as FTOG -- or "Fat Tub Of Goo," the fat being a reflection of my spiritual life...the one where I worshipped at the altar of Little Debbie...)

Harrisonburg and the surrounding areas are notable for not only the gorgeous mountain views and institutions of higher learning, but also for the (astonishing) number of "Git R Done" and "I'm only speeding because I have to poop" bumper stickers we spotted in our four days in town.

We spent most of our time at a local ski resort, and a little time in town. And it seemed like wherever we went, we were confronted with those vending machines in which you put a quarter and in return, receive a grimy handful of three-year-old Mike and Ikes . I don't know what it is about these things that attracts a young child faster than Roman Polanski's hot tub, but we were being pestered for quarters constantly by our daughter. To divert her attention, we found a toy vending machine and gave her some money...which is when she became the proud owner of the cheapest possible knock-off version of Billy Bob teeth.

She played with these all night and all the next morning. When we went to breakfast at a local place, she put the teeth in and smiled at the waitress...a waitress who smiled back with the EXACT SAME TEETH.

Gittin' R Done,
Brutalism

An Honest Question

Yesterday, my friend, Stacey, reminded me of a conversation we had while working together at an ad agency:

Her:  "Would you eat a plate of poop if it meant you would be skinny the rest of your life?"

Me: "Whose poop?"

Which we followed up with lunch at Chicken Out. (Our preferred lunch spot over "Repressed, Closeted Chicken.")

Speaking of jobs, I have always had this fantasy of starting a new job and at the first function that included guests,  I'd bring my husband and make sure he met and talked to as many people as possible. Then, at the next function, I'd bring someone who is his complete physical opposite (Gary Coleman, perhaps) and say to my new co-workers, "You remember my husband, right?"  I'd repeat this scenario with a woman, an albino, Siamese twins...or until I got fired.

"Working" for a living,
Brutalism

Powerless Over It

E-mail to my oldest and dearest friend this morning:

This is kind of a hard e-mail to write.

I'm sure you may have noticed over the years that I have a bit of a problem. Even though I knew it was not good for me, I was a slave to my addiction.

It started because I liked the taste. Gradually, a taste was not enough and before I knew it, I'd be adding a healthy splash -- even to my morning coffee. I was one of those "functioning" types --  I'd hide it in my insulated cup and take it to work...and for years, none of my co-workers was the wiser. For chrissakes...I don't even want to think about the number of times I drove under the influence.

It soon became a daily thing, and the shame of my secret was becoming almost unbearable. It got to a point where I'd start hiding bottles when friends came over. (It hurt most when you, my oldest friend, made a comment during your last visit about how unhealthy this was. I knew then that I needed to make a change.)

I considered seeking the help of a professional or 12-step program, but then decided that I could muster the inner strength to fight the demon.

I know that the majority of the battle is ahead of me and I will just have to take it a day at a time, but I think that I am ready to finally tame this beast. The beast that is...artificially flavored coffee creamer.

A (now) proud and loyal organic half and half drinker,
Brutalism

You Wanna Make Sumthin' Of It?

Unlike the rest of the universe, it seems, I have not watched one episode of "The Jersey Shore." (Trust me when I tell you that I am not mentioning this as I feel superior in some way. Quite the contrary. I'd watch one episode and be sucked in forever, much like the midsection of every Spanx-wearing middle-aged woman.)

Knowing nothing about the show does not, however, prevent me from taking time away from my very important work to play with the Jersey Shore Nickname Generator: which translated the following names for me:

Me:  The Position (So true. And I'm guessing that would have been plural when I was single.)

My daughter:  The Good Time (Fingers in ears singing "la la la la la la la".)

Canetto: Tan Jovi  (Right era/wrong look. Hai Karate Kid would be more apt for the Ralph Macchio lookalike who stole my heart.)

And just for kicks, I went ahead and entered my blog name:

Brutalism: The Back End

Can't argue with science,
Brutalism

Finding Balance...Sheets

This morning, I did one of those things I would never do if I was not married. (Yes, Mom,...have sex.)

I was actually referring to going to a financial planner. You see, before I began cohabitating with Captain Spreadsheet, I never once thought about investing strategies. Why I ever went to business school is a riot, because the mere mention of finances and ROI and M&E and margins causes my eyes to glaze over....and not in the good way. So, during our meeting this morning, I likely bet it all on red, invested in Enron, or put Canetto's second wife in a good position to be a lady who lunches. (We celebrated increasing our life insurance coverage by planning a nice little hunting trip -- that Canetto thinks of everything!)

This meeting today got me thinking of other things I have done over the past ten (married) years that I never would have done had I spent those years as a single lady. 

I would not have been propositioned by the swingers at my friend's wedding.

I would not have had to worry when my friend noted casually, "Isn't that Tim over there chatting up Halle Berry?"

I would not have had the pressure of keeping my husband's horrible secrets. 

and

I would not have laughed myself silly over an episode or two involving Canetto at the doctor's office that I am not allowed to write about EVER...or else. (See "nice little hunting trip" above).

So I occasionally have to suffer through sex a financial planning session. I'd say it's worth it. This blog ain't gonna write itself.

Dirt Boxing

A new friend from Ireland found Brutalism recently by googling, "story feels so dirty in my ass."

Which first made me think, "Well, that is not the most pristine place to keep a story, Seamus." But it also made me think of the old game that everyone plays while reading the slips of paper in fortune cookies. You know, the one where you add "in bed" to the end of every fortune as you read it out loud. Like, "you'll have a great year" (pause for delivery of tired old joke) "in bed." Or "you will have much success at work" (wait for it, wait for it...) "in bed."

I'd like to propose that from now on, we change the ending to any statement (fortune cookie-wise or just in general) to "in my ass." (Example: "I am so happy with our new pool boy....." or "The priest offered me Holy Communion....." or...well, you get the idea.)

Help me start the movement (heh) by leaving a comment in the form of an unrelated statement followed by an "in my ass."

I cannot wait to see how creative you get...
Brutalism

Playhouse Forum

Yesterday on Facebook, someone (kiddingly ha ha isn't that funny not at all even close to the truth) commented that I show my child pornography. (Dear FBI...I apologize in advance that the previous sentence required me to put those two words together. And that my site is called Brutalism. And that I honestly thought your acronym stood for "Female Body Inspector" until just recently...)

You know, we kid around a lot here at Brutalism headquarters, but please know that I would never, ever show my child anything that was not specifically geared toward children. Which means, I guess, that we will not be reading Shel Silverstein anymore:

"Piece", "Big O", "roll by yourself" -- really, Larry Flynt Shel Silverstein?

But that was not enough for you, was it, disturbing combination of John Wayne Gacy and Ron Jeremy Shel?:

Curled up in a fetal position,

Brutalism

Happy 10th Anniversary Of Guy Who Flipped Over The Banister Day

The title of this post is a text message I received over the weekend from my friend, Meredith. It took me a few moments to decipher and then I remembered -- the Milennium New Year's Eve that we spent in New York City...

(wavy lines and "DO..do.do.do" music here signifying the trip in the wayback machine)

Meredith had some sweet deal when she first moved to NYC. She lived rent-free with a couple that had a sick apartment in exchange for cleaning the house wearing nothing but fishing waders and nipple clamps helping out when they entertained, which was often. Over the years, this couple had purchased four adjacent apartments and combined them...which made for a huge, two-story, roof balcony-wrapping-around-the-entire-apartment place on the Upper West Side. They were out of town for the holidays that year, so Meredith decided she would take that opportunity to throw a major party.

She did act responsibly as she was holding this party in someone else's gorgeous home. And by that, I mean she went to the Meatloaf concert at Madison Square Garden for the first half of the evening, while about a hundred people descended upon the apartment. (Including the drunken, jackass cousin of one of our friends.)

(Great aside: On the way into the Meatloaf concert, someone who worked for the show was assessing the crowd in search of someone who would go on stage with Meatloaf during the song, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" and who wouldn't mind kissing someone while they were up there. Because Meredith's life is a series of bizarro incidents that sound made up but are not, she was selected from the crowd of thousands. While she was on stage, her now-husband John saw her, and never having met her before, turned to a friend he was with and said, "I'm going to marry that woman." The friend also knew Meredith, so John ended up being invited back to the party later that night.

By the time Mer and John made it back to the apartment, the evening had already gotten a little out of hand. One friend of theirs (a comedian) spent a good part of the night screaming suggestive ideas to the guys on the roof of the drug rehab place across the street, and the aforementioned drunken jackass cousin was at one point sitting on the upstairs banister when he lost his balance and fell backwards down to the first floor, landing on his (thankfully, fairly soft) head. The following conversation actually took place during this incident:

Drunken onlooker (in a panic): "Is anyone here a doctor?"
Our friend Sanjay (stepping forward, helpfully): "I am"
Drunken onlooker (quizzically): "A medical doctor?"
Our friend Sanjay (patiently, yet sarcastically): "No. A doctor of poetry."

Fortunately, the kid was okay. It took just a few stanzas of Walt Whitman to make him feel better.

Hope you all had Happy 10th Anniversaries of Guy who flipped over the banister days, too.

Notes To Self (Holiday Edition)

Thanks to the recent blizzard and lazy holidays there has been a lot more movie and television watching in our house than normal. In addition to killing off the brain cells that the egg nog missed, it bumped us up to the top of the CPS list gave us some insight into just how influential the media is on little minds.  

To wit:

1. I should not let my child watch 'A Christmas Story' as it prompted the following:

• her to turn to me and ask, "That's crap. Right, mom?" when the dad in the movie opened up the crate and pulled out the leg lamp (perceptive little potty mouth, isn't she?)
  
• her playing "mommy's little piggy" during lunch at the local Thai place recently (how does one say "Yes, she *was* raised in a barn" in Thai?)
  

2. I should not let my child watch 'Best of SNL Christmas skits' as it prompted the following:

• her to exclaim, "my vagina's in a box" in the middle of a crowded restaurant (rendered speechless here)
  

3. In an attempt to steer my daughter clear of references to genitalia in boxes, I should not then let my child watch the food network. The seemingly innocuous segment featuring a donut maker dipping a donut into a big bowl of gloppy white glaze prompted the following:

• "Mom, that looks like throw up" (so much for visions of sugarplums)

Hey, it's cheaper than a babysitter,
Brutalism

Publicity Whore

Jeff Cockey stopped by while in town for the holidays.

My kid, who takes forever to warm up to anyone and has only met this guy a couple of times, led him up to see her bedroom within moments of his arrival with the promise of showing him her "pink tree." As she walked through the kitchen, she attempted to grab the bottle of Ketel One he brought us as a gift along the way. Ignoring all of the "apple does not fall far" comparisons, it was actually kind of cute how quickly she took to him until I realized that at four, she is about three years away from the dateable range in his world. (Not okay, Jeff Polanski Cockey...not okay at all.)

We also learned that Canetto and Cockey have a mutual friend in a relatively successful actor out in la la land...Canetto from his GMU days, Cockey from his actor days. They live near each other in Brentwood and have become friends. (Interesting aside: Cockey is partially responsible for this guy's first foray into sex in the no-no place.) (Though not with Cockey.) (Or so he says.)

While he was visiting, Cockey was telling us about another couple with whom he is friends. The husband is a doctor at Stanford and the wife is a biochemist. They have a daughter the same age as ours who is currently studying Mandarin. As he was saying this, our child walked by with a conical party hat pressed against her forehead, repeatedly grunting "UNICORN". Too bad they live in California, or we'd totally be besties.

Another year, another unannounced visit from Jeff. Nothing like a little Cockey to make the holiday complete.

That's what she said,
Brutalism