Bittersweet

As will often happen during an impromptu cookout with friends, last weekend's gathering resulted in discussions about bath salts, "safe" words, mocking Marlee Matlin, and some inappropriate comments about Yeti's ass (verdict: he could go up against David Beckham any day of the week).

One of the guests was Jeff Cockey, who brought over five movie-theater-sized boxes of candy for my daughter, continuing his tradition of always bringing gifts for her. (Note: By "movie-theater-sized" I mean the size of the boxes sold at the movie theater concession stand, not that the boxes of candy are the size of a movie theater. Actually, that is exactly the same thing.) I thought this was very sweet until I received a text from my next-door neighbor (who had met Jeff Cockey for the first time during the cookout) a few days later inquiring, "why is your Hollywood friend at my son's little league game?" So I texted Creepy Creeperson to determine whether or not I needed to worry about him buying gifts for my young daughter and it turns out his best friend is a coach for another team so Cockey was there to support him. (Though we are still unsure about why he drove there in a windowless van with "Uncle Funtimes" painted on the side...)

My daughter totally appreciated the gift of assorted candy and like the hostess that the is, placed each type of candy in it's own dish and served it up to her friends. And they all went through the motions of pretending to eat their dinners so they could scarf down about a pound of pure sugar each. Which made for a very relaxing evening for the rest of us. Much like the one my husband experienced in New York City earlier this year, after I had spent a day on Long Island, leaving Avery in the capable(?) hands of her father, hanging out in Manhattan for the day. At one point during the day, I listened to a voice mail they had left me (before losing my phone like the responsible wife/parent I am), and it sounded for all the world like my daughter was on meth. And she was. Kid meth. Otherwise known as the jumbo pixie stick. This was the message, which was parlayed with not a single breath taken between words:

HI-MOM-TODAY-ME-AND-DAD-WENT-TO-TOYS-R-US-ON-THE-WAY-TO-THE-BOWLING-ALLEY-AND-GUESS-WHAT-I-GOT?- I-GOT-A-HUMONGOUS-PIXIE-STICK-IT-WAS-LIKE-THREE-UM-TWO-FEET-TALL-AND-IT-WAS-SO-GOOD-I-EVEN-PUT-SOME-ON-MY-FOOD-WHEN-WE-ATE-AT-THE-BOWLING-ALLEY-AND-I-GOT-TWO-STRIKES. (Then she is prompted by Canetto to say something and she comes back on) "...AND-WE-MISS-YOU.-BYE-MOM." 

Which took me back to my own childhood memory when a relative (Uncle Funtimes?) had given me a jumbo pixie stick, which my parents put NEXT TO MY BED IN MY BEDROOM and then told me I'd have to wait until the next day to eat. (Come on! Of course, I woke up in the middle of the night, ingested the entire thing (probably by doing lines, I wanted it so desperately) and then got in so much trouble the next day for not waiting as instructed.

Worth it? Totally. Especially at this moment when putting this post through spell check and having the checker highlight the words Cockey, Creeperson, Funtimes and meth.

Sweet!
Brutalism

What's Not To Like?

A while back, some friends of mine were hosting the friend-of-a-friend in their home for the weekend. I asked what he was like and my friend said, "He is Native American, gay, a manny, a Mummer, and in town for a tap dancing convention and also to bottle dance at someone's bar mitzvah."

Which is exactly why I always accuse her of making things up.

Hot Cross Bunions

Friday night, we went to the Queen Extravaganza at the 9:30 Club with some friends. Yes, this was a tribute band, and yes, that is kind of inherently un-cool, but I have to say -- this is one of the best shows I have ever seen. There were four great singers rotating through Freddie Mercury's oeuvre (not a euphemism) and the show was totally high energy and fun. Which was fortunate, because it kept our attention focused on the stage and not on the others in the crowd.

Unlike before the show began when my friend who was at the show with me and standing about eight inches to my left sent me a text message saying, "Hideous bunions behind you."

I spun around, looked down, saw the hideous bunions of which he spoke and sent him the following text in response, "I may vomit. P.S. Have you ever seen attractive bunions?"

We were able to put this out of our minds during the show (for the most part), but of course, had to re-visit the topic while heading out of the venue when the show ended.

And blah, blah, blah -- I know that nobody is perfect and that we all have physical imperfections. And this is exactly why they make CLOSED TOED SHOES, for the love of God. (And, thankfully, shirt tails to camouflage vestigial tails...)

Perhaps I've said too much.

My friend and I wondered if maybe we were being a bit narrow about this and he casually suggested that we might be in the minority and even suggested that there may be a bunion fetish web site. To which I said, "Well, there's one way to find out" and pulled out my iPhone. (Note to self: clear browsing history stat!)

(Ed. BunionFetish.com is a registered domain, but it is currently parked and not in use. I don't know whether to be relieved, or wonder if the domain holder is currently engaged in a bidding war with the masses of people who want to have this as their own.)

Now looking for concerts that attract a younger demographic,

Brutalism

UPDATE: DC Blogs linked to this post today. I love DC Blogs.

Old Friends

I originally posted the following on February 4, 2011. I'm re-posting it today because I learned through Facebook last night that Devin (my prom date below) just passed away. He was one of a kind and everyone who knew him loved him. The world is a little less colorful now.
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You know how you look back through old school photos and remember a time of innocence? A time of all-American wholesomeness?

Yeah, I don't either.

Recently, I was looking through pictures taken of milestone events in my young life -- you know, ring dance, graduation, and that very special night that holds so much promise, requires so much planning and is the subject of all too many teen romcoms -- the night you use your fake ID for the first time at the Jewish Mother when you're on a date and order a carafe of red wine and then complain to the waiter because it is (and I quote) "warm."

Actually, I'm talking about prom.

Back in high school, I was such a wannabe thrift-store-clothes-wearing, punk rock-loving, weird-guy dating chick. Instead, I was the irregular-Levi's-wearing, new wave-loving, normal-guy dating chick.

Fortunately, I was friends with some of the people I wanted to be like, so I figured I would prove just how "punk" I was by inviting one of these friends to the Bayside prom as my date. (Fun fact: I really did go to Bayside High School. Just like those mischievous imps on Saved by the Bell.)

This, gentle readers, is my prom photo from that night:

I guess this was just a rebellious phase. I'm not really sure what I was rebelling against, but that was kind of beside the point. I was a rebel! And I proved it by attending a school-sanctioned dance wearing the same Gunne Sax Jessica McClintock dress that no fewer than four other girls in my class were wearing.

Talk about sticking it to the man.

My parents did not really understand, and my mother suggested that one day I would regret this choice.

And guess what? She was totally wrong. It may have been a little unorthodox, but at least I had a completely memorable prom experience that is still fun to reflect upon. As a matter of fact, during the discussion in a book club I was in several years ago, our chat turned to first loves due to a theme in the book we were reading. A woman in the group was talking about how she had dated the same guy all through high school and how they had gone to prom and how it was such a quintessential high school romance.

And to that, I got to reply: "Really? Because I went to prom with a bisexual Robert Smith lookalike."

So all these years later, I don't regret a thing. Except perhaps looking my prom date up on Facebook recently:

(And only because he looks wwwwaaaayyyyy better than I do.)

Lip syncing for my life,

Brutalism