Cannot Get The Christopher Cross Song Out Of My Head

Check out the latest from the Dilettantes on my other blog, the Dilettante Club.

We went sailing. And learned about the Poop Deck. And winches.

Then we had lunch at a place called "Pusser's". I am not making any of this up.

Continuing to make a hobby of innuendo,
Brutalism

A Little Local Flavor

Through the years, I've found that when I push myself to do things out of my comfort zone, it usually ends up in an arrest helping me grow as a person.

This weekend's attempt to hang out at a biker bar was an exception.

Read about it in this week's Oakton Patch column.

Totally in a box,
Brutalism

Is We All Really?

I went for a run last night. This was my first run of more than a mile since my knee injury three years ago, so it was something of a feat - both physically and psychologically. My former running partner (and fellow Dilettante) Amanda was nice enough to run with me. And we did 6 miles (4 running, 2 walking) at pretty close to my old pace. (Though slower than little miss "My dad owns a running store in Colorado and it's in my blood"'s pace...)

I was scared to attempt this -- and it became even more frightening as we ran along the trail and passed a spray-painted message that read:

     I is lamp.

About 20 feet down the path, we came upon a second spray-painted message. This one read:

     U R lamp.

And a few more feet beyond that, the third message:

     We all is lamp.

That was a bit of a head scratcher. The final message a little further down though, was pretty clear. It stated simply:

      Eff your Mother

Poetry, really.

In preparation for the run on such a humid night, Amanda had drunk a ton of water prior to meeting me at the trail. She really needed to urinate, but there was nowhere to go, so she said to me, "Let's talk about dry things."

So as though she had requested I do this in the form of Jeopardy! answers, I provided the following:

• What is the Gobi Desert?
• What is Steven Wright's sense of humor?
• What is the kind of cake that my mother-in-law does not like (This being an inside joke about me offering to bake my mother-in-law a cake one year on her birthday and asking her what kind of cake she liked, to which she had replied, "moist.")

Amanda said, "Excellent run of the category," and I replied, "Dry things for eight hundred, Alex."

Today...I actually feel okay. I kinda wish I had not worn high heeled sandals to work, but other than that...not in a lot of pain.

In other words:

     I is fine.

Psychotic Acts Make Good Neighbors

Lately, in addition to nine gazillion stink bugs and spiders (and swingers) we've been finding in our house, we have also had a couple of casualties in the yard. This week alone, we found a dead frog and a dead snake (and the dead snake was on the front sidewalk, as if to taunt me).

These gruesome discoveries prompted me to post the following on Facebook:

I received the following comments on that post:

(It also prompted me to re-visit my 6th grade science textbook as I could have sworn that "amphibian" and "reptile" meant the same thing...)

The next day, a neighbor up the street posted the following on Facebook, to which I commented:

And then, just yesterday, as I was retrieving the mail from my mailbox, I opened it and found this:

I love my neighbors.

Even With Two Lives, I Can't Come Up With 100 Things

A lot of us bloggers lead double lives -- our real life and our blog life. My take on this duality (and my own Arnold-like admission) is detailed in this week's At Home with Brutalism column at the Oakton Patch.

Also, here is a link to last week's At Home with Brutalism column, in which I attempt to create a list of "100 things I want to do before I die" (and make it all the way to number 31). I'm an achiever.

Making you feel better by comparison since 2004,
Brutalism

She Loves Me Not

UPDATE: DC Blogs linked to this post today. I'm hoping one of the readers is a family therapist...or a casting director...

-----------------------------------------------

My daughter and I had a little disagreement last night. I drew a picture of what her hair looked like when she was a baby (sticking up all over the place) and apparently, it upset her. (Like it's my fault she had crazy hair when she was a baby.) (Actually, since she drew from my gene pool, it actually is my fault she had crazy hair.) (Dammit. This parenting thing is hard.)

I knew this upset her, because after I drew that, she drew a picture of me with crazy hair...

...and a beard.

This is the picture. I had to go over the white crayon with ink so it would show up.
At least she drew me smiling before drawing all over my face and giving me a beard.

I'm guessing that my laughter over the beard picture is not the response she was going for, because she then took another sheet of paper and wrote, I LOVE MOMMY in huge capital letters. Then, she marched over to where I was sitting, and very deliberately drew a circle around the sentiment and then a diagonal line through it:

Which made me think the following:

a) This would be an awesome album name and cover art

b) She is five. I am not kidding you when I say I am alternately terrified and intrigued by how dramatic some of our disagreements may become in about ten years.

c) I am sometimes glad I had a child later in life, as I may be in full dementia by the time that point arrives.

d) That would also be an awesomely disturbing tattoo

e) I love that little piece of work.

Leaving Us Hung Out To Dry

Not mine. And I'm a little sad it means I'm getting older since when I saw
this in the parking lot of my local 7-11 recently, I did not for one minute
worry that it might be.

Although, my dirty laundry is becoming more and more public thanks to my increasingly frequent trips to the local laundromat.

Hey, a girl has to socialize somewhere.

Actually, our horrible, terrible, loud, worthless, ridiculous, awful, almost-brand-new-supposed-to-be-awesome-frontloading washing machine has been an utter piece of crap since we bought it. We have had five (read it: FIVE) service calls (one of which involved the repairman doing something so unseemly in our downstairs bathroom that we have promised, for our own sanity, to never speak of it again) and the effing thing still is not fixed.

Because we don't have a reliable washing machine right now, we just go as long as we can before it gets to the point where we're in danger of having nothing but formal gowns (Canetto) and overalls (me) to wear to work, and then we pack up the car and head to the laundromat. (Which, by the way, my daughter thinks is about the most fun anyone can have and will sit and stare at the washing machines for the duration of the wash cycle.)

Note to self: Put 529 plan contributions toward something that might have a better chance of paying off. Like betamax.

This new washing machine came highly recommended by Consumer Reports and replaced a 35-year-old Kenmore that was still working. But it was old, and our dryer had just died, so we figured it was a good time to replace them both.

I think that just because something is older it does mean that it has lost its value and sometimes the newer version of something, while shiny and pretty on the surface, is not necessarily better. I feel like there is an analogy here, but I'm not quite sure what it is. (Donald Trump...)

The washer repairman and his digestive issues are scheduled to come again this Wednesday to finally resolve the problem. Looks like I'll be wearing my Flashdance sweatshirt and MC Hammer pants to a client meeting tomorrow.



The Barn Isn't The Only Thing They're Raising

My friend, Jon, posted a link on Facebook to an Amish online dating service.

As a public service to my Amish brethren, I'm happy to provide the following list of Amish pick-up lines to help them navigate the devil's playground that is online dating:

10. Is that one of Satan's reflective devices in thouest's pocket? Because I can see myself in thouest's lace-up woollen trousers.
9. Got any Pennsylvania Dutch in thou? Want some?
8. My name is Jebediah. Remember that...thou will be screaming it later.
7. What dost thou sayest I plow thou's fields?
6. What's your hex sign?
5. What has 148 teeth and holds back the Incredible Hulk? Not my zipper, as those are the work of the devil.
4. If I told thou that thou had a great body, would thouest bear eleven of my children?
3. Churn here often?
2. Let's take this courtin' buggy straight to Intercourse (Pennsylvania)

and the #1 Amish pick up line:

1. I would love some of thou's whoopie pie, if thou knowest what I mean...

Kathleen 2.0

I saw a few minutes of Tosh.0 the other night, and it featured a clip of a gymnast whose ankle broke and therefore, left his foot at a very unnatural angle from his leg. I cannot get that image out of my head. I will never forgive you, Tosh.0.

Although, the new and improved version of me might find it in her heart to do so. I explain in this week's Oakton Patch column.

Thankful for my intact talus,
Brutalism

I Wore Paunts In Staunton

Note: Staunton, Virginia, is pronounced how a northerner-by-birth (like me) pronounces "aunt" -- as "ant" and not as "awnt" like the Southerners who I grew up with in Virginia Beach pronounced it. As such, I already approved of the place before we got there.

We were in Staunton this weekend for no good reason. Other than the fact that this is the home of the Statler Brothers and we are Statler Brothers groupies. (That is not true. Although, my father did love the Statler Brothers and I could probably name more Statler Brothers songs and albums than I would ever care to admit. Same with my mom and Neil Sedaka. With this kind of musical influence, there was really never any danger of me joining a rock band.)

Staunton is three hours from Northern Virginia on Amtrak and we read that once we got there we would not need a car -- which is something we love. We also love to go away for the weekend often. I do not know why...as we live in a very exciting area. Probably so I can immediately decide that I want to move anywhere we visit and that is not at all annoying for Canetto.



This is us at the Amtrak station in Manassas. Our photo was taken by a man who looked
like a child molester and whose hands were shaking so badly that he immediately dropped the camera after
taking this photo. I have no idea what is going on with my boobs here.



Canetto found a place for us to stay that was a huge loft apartment on top of a couple of shops. It was decorated beautifully and is the type of place I envision myself living. I forget sometimes continually that I am not young, urban and fabulous.

Seriously, check this out:

The owner of the loft left a huge bunch of fresh flowers in the pottery vase on the table and a cake plate in the fridge stocked with fresh baked goods:

Immediately asked if we could come back here. We had been in town about 25 minutes.

We did a bunch of fun stuff in this sleepy little artsy town: walked to a park and fed ducks, watched a glass-blowing demonstration at a glass studio, went to a farmer's market, toured the Mary Baldwin campus, rode the trolley, went to dinner at restaurants that served locally-grown foods, shopped at funky little stores...

Today, I'm back to reality. Living in my decidedly suburban '70s split level house, working at my corporate job and missing Staunton.

Staunton -- I'm entraunced,
Brutalism