Full Moon

I'm hoping that by now, you have all seen the infamous YouTube video of the Virginia Beach guy mooning the camera during Hurricane Irene.

As a Virginia Beach native, I have nothing but (heh) respect for this glimpse of my hometown brethren.

Or for the nonchalance the rest of my family showed in the eye of danger.

Read about it in this week's Oakton Patch Column: Crisis Mismanagement.  (Includes a link to the video of the guy mooning the camera. You're welcome.)

Old School

I don't talk about college much, because it happened a zillion years ago other than the semester I spent in London, it was not the happiest, most positive time of my life. I'm mortified by the things I do remember and therefore, am thankful that there are so many things I don't (e.g. sophomore year, most of my classes, and every Friday after about 5:00pm).

One bright spot, even though I was large-and-in-charge, continually inebriated and had a GPA hovering around the 1.4 mark (fat, drunk and stupid obviously was a way to go through life), was getting a bid to a pretty fun sorority. I know, I know...people have their opinions about this and trust me, my roommate and I got a lot of mileage out of doing things like mentioning our secret song in public whenever the sorority president was within earshot and threatening to sell our secret handshake to the Zetas. We figured that the silly secrets and rituals were a small price to pay for all of the parties, living in the sorority house (with the constant pillow fights and make out sessions, it was just much more convenient) and making a statement by ordering our sorority sweatshirts in black (rather than the official purple color) to demonstrate what non-conformists we were.

It was also nice to share experiences and responsibilities, like co-editing the sorority newsletter.

One especially humiliating thing required of all sororities (and fraternities) at my school was participation in an annual event called "Greek Sing." Each organization was required to sing a medley of themed songs as their entry into this contest, and would be fined if they did not. Many of the sororities (including mine) really got into it -- we even made matching glitter shirts and choreographed hand motions to go along with our song medley. We rehearsed and got stressed out and really put a lot of effort into it. Unlike the stoner fraternity, who basically gave a middle finger to the Panhellenic council for requiring this by dubbing the theme of their performance, "Songs with Os in them" and then standing there and singing "Good Love" and "Moondance" in their mismatched shirts along with a CD.

My heroes.

Anyway, now that I'm older and can reflect on my past with experience and perspective, I realize that a lot of the angst I had at the time had to do with my lack of confidence, self-esteem and the tremendous amount of self-loathing that defined who I was. In retrospect, I think that perhaps my college experience was actually kind of enjoyable. A photo from one of my sorority formals that I found recently confirmed this:

Me, seemingly happy, with my pledge class at the Sigma Sigma Sigma Violet Formal.  (Click to enlarge.)

And then I flipped the page in my scrapbook:

Me about 43 seconds later. (Click to think long and hard about writing that tuition check...)

CSI: Barcelona with Detectives Membrillo & Manchego

Let me just start out by saying that it pays to enunciate when you tell your husband that you are going to a "tapas" class with your attractive neighbor and that while you are gone, he should watch the episode of  "Pawn Stars" that you saved for him.

I hate to see a grown man cry.

This class was my first solo outing with our new-ish next door neighbor -- all of our other outings have included drinking our faces off at each other's summer barbecues. It was also my first time going to our local cooking school, which is only about ten minutes from home. A couple of months ago, we signed up for the tapas class, which promised three hours of cooking instruction, dinner and wine.

What was not promised, but what we did receive, was being partnered up with Dave (aka "Senor Crankypants"). Dave was humorless, pushy, and took over cooking all of the dishes that we were most interested in making. At first it was totally annoying, then it just got funny. Even our very assertive and straightforward requests to get involved with the more interesting dishes were summarily dismissed by Dave, who would just shove ahead of us and do what he wanted. Making up for Dave was Stephanie, the hilarious instructor and Doug, the 20-something assistant who was adorable and flirted with us good-naturedly tolerated our flirting with him. Liz (my neighbor) mentioned that he would be the perfect kind of guy for her stepdaughter...(she is a planner, as her stepdaughter is eight.) She then asked me, "Do you think I should ask him how he feels about eight year olds?" (Meaning, would he wait several years for the right woman.) Although, that is a pretty good litmus test for any guy you'd want to introduce to your daughter.

Or any guy in your life, really.

My favorite dish we made, Membrillo & Manchego, sounds like the name of a Spanish crime drama, but is really a delicious cheese and quince paste concoction that I will be making the next time I need to bring an appetizer to a gathering. It is gorgeous and delicious and requires two ingredients and about ten minutes to construct, which pretty much meets all the necessary criteria to be included in my repertoire.
Other dishes we made were Tortilla a la Espanola, Meatballs in Almond Sauce, Roasted Red & Yellow Bell Peppers with Capers & Anchovies and Flan.

At the end of the three-hour class, we did get to sit down and have a glass of wine while we enjoyed the meal we (and by "we" I mean "Dave") made. We learned at that point that we could take all leftovers but the meatballs and that we could only have one glass of wine. All because of potential liability.

Damn lawyers. (Except you, of course, Liz...)



I've Never Known Greater Comfort

Check out my other blog, Dilettante Club - We'll Try Anything Once. This month, our activity was a 12-mile run.

(Our very pregnant third Dilettante was excused...)

Also...don't hate me because I'm beautiful red, sweaty and psychotic-looking...

I Will Not Be Censored*

A "hard eight" in Oakton is a lot more fun.

There. I said it.

If you want to know what I'm talking about -- read this.

*unless the publication that is paying me asks me to remove something potentially offensive from a column. Then I'm okay with it.

We're Number One! (+ 35)...

Lovely Oakton, Virginia was just listed as Number 36 in Money Magazine's Top 100 places to live in the United States.

This is in spite of our poor past showing in terms of use of porn in this oak-filled burg, and in spite of my psychotic neighbors.

Though Oakton did earn some points by having a local Patch site that hired me to write a weekly column and actually pays me to come up with 27 penis euphemisms.

It was nice of Money magazine to acknowledge a city that I have come to love in the past ten years that I've lived here. And we are definitely prepared to take over the duties of "Best Place to Live" if the other 35 are unable to fulfill their duties for any reason.


 

TFSMIF*

This week's Oakton Patch column discusses Dolly Parton, the Kentucky Junior Miss pageant and a Magic 8-Ball -- and not one of those things is used euphemistically.

It has been the longest week of my life. A week that has included me napping at lunch time not once but twice. (And I'm only Spanish by association, so the siesta is not ingrained...)

This weekend includes a little local getaway...and a nine mile run. FML.

*Thank Flying Spaghetti Monster It's Friday

...and I, I, I....will always love booze...

This weekend, my mom and her husband, Jack, were in town to celebrate my mom's birthday. (It was two weeks ago, but we invited them this weekend because we wanted to take them to see Dolly Parton in concert as her gift.) During the weekend, we also threw a party for her and hosted a brunch.

Mom and Jack with another birthday gift we gave my mom.
She and Jack call their beach house the Love Shack.
And you wonder why I drink.

Here are the events as they unfolded last night at the concert. If you ever get a chance to see Dolly Parton live (especially if you have a chance to see her with my mom and Jack) I highly recommend it:

Canetto and Jack leave for sold-out concert an hour early, supplied with chips and salsa and a six pack of beer, so they can claim a territory on the lawn for us to picnic and watch the show.

Drive to Wolf Trap with Mom and Avery in tow, park car, struggle with 30-pound cooler in which I have packed dinner for five people. Mom offers no help in lugging heavy cooler or wrangling small child, nor does she express any appreciation for my efforts.

Find Canetto and Jack on the lawn, sit down, mom and Jack dive thirstily into first bottle of wine.

Canetto tries to get comfortable on blanket, which he finds difficult due to the two bee stings he got on his butt the evening before.

Note that our lawn seats are fairly close to the stage, though partially obstructed. Fortunately, Canetto has staked claim on another seating option for us in case anyone wants to move (in a smaller group) to an area of the lawn with a better view. We decide to stick together, so Canetto offers secondary seating option with better view of stage to couple in front of us, one half of which is noticeably pregnant. (The girl half.)

Me (in head): He is so sweet. (And possibly trying to avoid another Boobapalooza.)

Notice that Dolly Parton has a lot of gay male fans. Wonder why I have never known this.

Enjoy the energy, talent and self-deprecation that is Dolly Parton.

Take a tired Avery to get a $6.50 ice cream at the concession stand. Calculate how many more years I must work to keep child supplied with Wolf Trap ice cream.

Watch as mom and Jack crack open second bottle of wine. Realize that I will not be having wine as I am now the only one who can safely drive home. Patiently listen as mom turns around at least 63 times to ask me, "Isn't she amazing? She's amazing. Isn't she amazing?"

Agree that she is amazing.

Me (in head): WTF?

Canetto takes tired kid and bee-stung butt home around 9:30. After a short intermission in which I am asked again how amazing Dolly is, mom and husband finish second bottle of wine, which leads to Jack lying on back on the picnic blanket belting out "9 to 5" and "Here you come again" along with Dolly.

During encore, mom and Jack stand up, put arms around each other and sway while singing loudly along to "I will always love you" and staring at each other.

Pack up to leave and Jack carries empty cooler to car. Mom repeatedly asks, "Isn't he wonderful for carrying that? He is wonderful for carrying that. Can I help carry that?"

Me (in head): WTF?

See couple walk by, one half of which is dressed like Dolly Parton (the boy half) -- (well, one of the boy halves).

Me (out loud): That is fantastic.

Get home at about 11:40pm, which is when mom and Jack crack open a third bottle of wine. I head upstairs and read up on Dolly Parton on the Internet and note that she has come out publicly in support of gay rights. Immediately understand why she has so many gay fans and also forgive her all the God stuff she tossed into her concert commentary.

Note that Dolly herself once lost a Dolly Parton lookalike contest.

Me (in e-mail to mother): "Dolly Parton lost a Dolly Parton lookalike contest. Therefore, you are more awesome than Dolly Parton." (My mother once came in third in a Dolly Parton lookalike contest.)

After a fun and exhausting evening taking care of the kids, head to bed.

This morning, while getting coffee before work, notice empty wine bottle on counter.

Me (in head): My mother makes me feel old.

I Think I Deserve Extra Credit

Yesterday, I was hard at work playing games at Sporcle and came upon this quiz:

Can you name the words that end in 'cle'?

That included the following questions:

1) It gets in the way of success - (to which I correctly replied "obstacle")

2) Item in the news, or just 'the' - (to which I correctly replied "article")

3) Mr. Peanut has one - (to which I correctly replied "monocle")

4) Lance Armstrong has one - (to which I INCORRECTLY, according to Sporcle, replied - "testicle")

Sporcle automatically filled in the answer "bicycle" for me.

I liked my answer better,
Brutalism

What A Pain In The Ass

Today's Oakton Patch column is worth reading. And I'm not just saying that because I wrote it.

(Yes I am.)

It is worth reading because I go off on a bit of a tangent, which is really not like me. And also because I discuss the serial butt stabber who is terrorizing teens and twenty-somethings at a local mall here.

Life in the suburbs is fascinating,
Brutalism

As Far As Atheist, Australian, Ginger-Haired, Musician/Comedians Go -- He's Pretty Good

Last night, we went with our friends, Pete and Amy, to see Tim Minchin at the Warner Theater.

("My favorite atheist, Australian, ginger-haired musician/comedian!" as Amy describes him.)

I'm not so sure...though I have narrowed it down to just a few atheist, Australian, ginger-haired musician/comedians and he is definitely in the top three.

Amy turned me on to Tim Minchin a couple of years ago when she gave me one of his CDs as a Christmas gift. He would appreciate that irony.

Someone who appreciates irony. Just ask his skinny jeans.

The show was fantastic -- hilarious, thought-provoking, inspirational, and a lot of fun. Particularly the parts where Tim talks about adopting children from impoverished countries ("I'm not raising someone else's skanky kids.") and love ("Love without evidence is stalking.)

The show also marked the first time I was recognized in public because of my blog and Oakton Patch column. A fellow humor columnist (of whom I'm a big fan) walked up to our seats at the show (second row -- thanks, Amy) and asked, "Kathleen?" and then introduced herself. I don't know if I was more excited to meet her (she's a great writer) or to be recognized (I'm a great narcissist).

Praying for humility,
Brutalism

Angst. So Much Angst.

I've shared some of my 5-year-old daughter's art pieces and installations before.

So far, I've convinced myself that this is what all 5-year-olds do. (I also assume all 5-year-olds call their moms "Sir" as she has begun doing of late. As in, "How much longer before we get to school, Sir?")

This, following a conversation we had in the car a few weeks ago. After more than a month of not drinking alcohol, I had one beer with dinner -- a 50th anniversary celebration for my in-laws. In the car on the way home, my child said to me, "I thought you weren't drinking beer." I responded, "I just had one...it was a celebration. Is that okay?

And she replied (while looking out the car window, with no small amount of disdain): "Well, I guess if you're okay with it."

But I digress. We recently purchased an iPad, which means that I rock at Fruit Ninja my daughter now has the ability to create and send many more art pieces, which she does...a lot. Every morning when I get to work, I find at least five new creations waiting for me in my in box. Including this one, that I will consider a little testament to the fine job of parenting I am doing:

I'm A Lucky Pierre

I know I kid a lot about swinging.

I kid because I love.

To swing.

I'm kidding, of course. Although I do share my bed with two men.

Every night.

No wonder I'm exhausted.

Making it all seem so much more exciting than it is,
Brutalism

Kickin' It Old School

Check out the latest post on my other blog, Dilettante Club - We'll Try Everything Once.

Last weekend, we learned DJing from a professional hip-hop DJ in Baltimore.

We also thought we were going to die, wore Minotaur heads, and urinated with an audience.

Or as we like to call it, "the usual."

Delusion Is The New Black

Lately, I've had a lot of people not a single person ask me, "Brutalism? How DO you do it all? You maintain two blogs, participate in Dilettante activities, write a weekly column, work full time and have (thus far) raised a non-convict.

And I must say, it is all about balance and doing no actual work at work meth.

Another thing that motivates me and is slightly more legal....medals. Read about it on last week's Oakton Patch column.

Also check out this week's Oakton Patch column. The one that discusses my meth Groupon addiction.

Now, if only there was a meth Groupon,
Brutalism

It's The Pits

I've shared before the horror that was bikini area laser hair removal treatments and as a result, swore that I would never again subject myself to something like that. My principles go as far as my pocketbook, however, and I changed my stance when Groupon recently offered 90% off hair removal. My husband saw this deal and forwarded it to me with the following message:

"You should get your pits done. I say this with all my love...."

Pardon me while I swoon.

He was right, though. I had talked about getting laser hair removal so I could eliminate the torturous and time-consuming chore that is shaving my armpits. I'm now about two Groupon deals away from becoming completely useless. I bought the deal, figuring that arm pit laser treatments would be nothing compared to the humiliation and pain of the bikini area.

Spoiler alert: I'm a moron.

This morning was my first treatment. There was no numbing cream (or Saran Wrap undergarments) required for this area (I specifically asked) and I only had to take my shirt off, so I was already feeling way less vulnerable than I had for the bikini area. Until the technician started the procedure and it was all I could do to not jump off the table and slap her in the face. I said, "Wow. That really hurts!" (I delivered this with as much authority as I could, while wearing bright yellow tanning salon goggles to protect my eyes from the laser.)

Lady Gaga cannot relate.

She asked, "Is it the feeling of being poked by needles that bothers you?" and I replied, "Honestly, over the searing heat that feels like Lucifer himself is shoving a branding iron in my arm pit, I cannot even feel any needles."

I begged for a numbing cream prescription as she continued with the treatment. Then, as we were almost done, something happened that obviously startled her. I asked what was wrong and the rest of the exchange went as follows:

Technician (Somewhat confusedly): "There is a window washer just outside the window."
Me (Calmly):  "Surely you have some sort of film on the windows so he can't see in, as this is a medical office."
Technician (Matter of factly): "No."
Me (Helpfully) : "Well, can you just lower the blinds?"
Technician (Matter of factly): "They are broken and don't go down all the way."

>crickets<

Me (Resignedly): "How about I just hide over here in the corner as I put my shirt on?"

And once again, I find myself facing five more of these treatments over the next year.

Thank you, sir, may I have another?
Brutalism

Painfully Obvious

Saturday, our Dilettante Activity was DJing.

The experience was completely random (as in, we each feared for our life and/or hygiene for at least a moment or two during the activity and we ended the session by taking a photo wearing Minotaur heads). 

And I'm not even drinking.

My favorite part of the activity (other than living to see another day and not having to de-louse when I got home) was meeting the cat that lived at the house where we took the lesson. His name was Hubert and he was the biggest, fattest load of a cat I have ever seen. I love fat, orange cats anyway, and he was so completely lovable that I fell instantly in love. (The fact that the bone structure in his face was a little reminiscent of Barbra Streisand is just a tad bit worrisome as to what I am inclined to fall in love with, although millions of gays cannot be wrong...)

Anyway, ol' Hubert and I were fast friends and if I called his name, he would thunder the few feet across the room toward me and then just fall over on his massive rolls of fat, ready to be petted. Once when he did this, I noticed that he was wearing a heart-shaped name tag on his collar, The tag stated simply, "I AM FAT."

So not good for his self-esteem. Though definitely accurate.

I posted this picture on Facebook yesterday because every time I thought about it, it killed me.  And a friend of mine from elementary school then sent a picture of her cat in response...the anti-Hubert:


Hubert's "After" photo, when he finally realizes that food is not love. 

The whole "announcing exactly what you are" was rather appealing to me and I chatted with the other Dilettantes about how we could capitalize on this and start our own t-shirt line. (This began with my friend, Amanda, promising that during my wake, she would put an "I AM DEAD" t-shirt on my lifeless body in the casket.) None of us Dilettantes work in hospice care. I know you may find that shocking.

Anyway, we came up with the following additional slogan ideas for our new OBVIOUSO (patent pending) line of casual wear:

• SHORT TIMER (for those with dire prognoses or those well along in their years)
• MY BREATH SMELLS LIKE A COMBINATION OF BAD COFFEE AND STALE CIGARETTES
• I AM A ONE-UPPER
• I'M A IDIOT
• I LOOK LIKE I WOKE UP IN THE HAMPER
• I LOVE THE SOUND OF MY OWN VOICE 

Happy to take your suggestions on slogans, too. Although,

I AM GOING TO KEEP ALL THE PROFITS,
Brutalism

Chew On This

I've mentioned before that I'm a good friend.

And it becomes glaringly apparent at certain times.

Like yesterday, when my friend, Amanda, sent this photo from the plane on her way to Chile. It is a picture of the snow-capped Andes:

I replied, "Lovely. Or at least it will be until you crash and have to eat the other passengers to survive."

She volleyed back, "Hey, it's better than airline food."

Speaking of food (awesome segue -- pats own back) please check out this week's humor column at the Oakton Patch, where I discuss why my daughter transitioning to kindergarten has been so difficult for us. (Wow, that does sound humorous.)

Almost as funny as cannibalism.

Brutalism

I Said "Klatch"

For the past week, I've been actively involved in my favorite hobby -- denial.

I've avoided my to-do list, my site statistics, and getting organized at work with a vigor I normally reserve for avoiding talking on the telephone.

And now, there is so much on which we need to catch up:

1. This week's column at the Oakton Patch is all about mascots. And once again, I will proclaim my love for Oakton Patch editor, Nicole, for this update e-mail she sent about trying to get the rights to use a photo of a Milwaukee Brewers sausage race from the Milwaukee Brewers organization:

Still no photo. I'm going to take a shower ('cause nope, that still hasn't happened yet ...) and if it doesn't happen by the time I get out ('cause yep, I'm that attached to the idea of running a photo of a sausage race on my home page...) I'll have to just run it without.

2. I have now been dairy-free, processed-food free, and alcohol free for about three weeks. I have also been working out harder than I have in a long time with runs, bike rides and power walks.

In related news, I am also no longer fun.

This is all in preparation for a half marathon on Labor Day weekend. However, after my long run on Saturday morning with my new running group, I sat in my car and cried because I am so far from where I was three years ago when I was really into running and I am completely discouraged. In an effort to snap out of it and lift my spirits (and because my friend Amanda reminded me that "there is no crying in distance running") I went to get evaluated for new running shoes today at a running store. Bonus -- the guy waiting on me was a college student and totally adorable. Non-bonus -- I had to run in front of him on a treadmill to see if I pronated. We then got to watch my backside together on a computer screen so he could show me what my stride looked like. Fortunately, his campus is right down the street, so he can go look at college-aged butts for a while to get that visual out of his head.

3. I was invited to a coffee klatch with the ladies in my neighborhood last night (and by coffee klatch, I mean booze klatch), and one of my neighbors shared a fantastic story. Turns out, she recently read "Still Alice" for a book club - a true story about a woman with early-onset Alzheimer's that is utterly heart-wrenching. She had just finished the book, crying through a lot of it, when she realized she needed to feed her three kids dinner before heading off to the meeting to discuss the book. As she was throwing dinner together, she realized that she needed to provide the kids with some sort of vegetable to balance their dinners. She meant to offer them carrots, but instead asked them, "Do you guys want Good & Plenty with that?" She said they had no idea what to make of her question...either that she was the coolest mom ever, for offering up candy in place of a vegetable, or that she had maybe contracted early-onset Alzheimer's via power of suggestion. She feared the latter. (Ed. - I frankly think feeding a child Good & Plenty is akin to child abuse. That is the worst excuse for a candy ever.)

4. Our daughter recently cut off her bangs and is now sporting a look we like to call "mental patient." She was so proud of herself when she did it, that I managed to stifle my laughter and applaud her efforts. And in true kid form, she managed to do this two weeks before we are scheduled to take a formal family portrait with Canetto's entire family for his parents' 50th wedding anniversary.

My little mental patient totally pulls it off, though, right?

Finally, RIP Ryan Dunn. You made putting a car toy up your ass an art form and the world becomes a place that takes itself a little too seriously without people like you in it.

Backhanded Compliments



Me



My Husband

This week's column that explains what all of this means.