Mexican S'mores

This past weekend my friend, Amy, hosted a Dilettante dinner party at her house, and provided a delicious Mexican menu.

And as it often will with the Dilettantes and their spouses, dinner conversation turned to what the middle guy in a gay threesome is called. Friends Leon and Amanda claimed he is a "Quimby" which I deemed ridiculous, as everyone knows he is a "Lucky Pierre." In the midst of this heated discussion, someone asked our hostess what was being served for dessert and she said (during a brief lull in our debate), "Mexican S'mores." Which, obviously, made us continue our discourse about what the two guys in the middle of a multicultural gay foursome (a "Mexican S'more," if you will) are called.

P.S. Urban Dictionary confirmed that "Lucky Pierre" is indeed the preferred term. (So much for all your fancy private school education, Leon and Amanda...)

P.P.S. Urban Dictionary offers t-shirts, mugs and magnets with the Lucky Pierre definition on them. Perfect for when Grandma visits!

P.P.P.S. A dessert Mexican S'more is much like a regular one, but uses cinnamon graham crackers and good dark chocolate. It is quite delicious. I have no first-hand intel on the other type of Mexican S'more.

P.P.P.P.S. Nor do I want any.

Gut Reaction

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I woke up feeling as though I had gone a few rounds in the ultimate fighting octagon. My body ached, my head throbbed, I was nauseated...kind of what I imagine being in a relationship with Chris Brown must feel like. (Still too soon?)

First, I thought this was caused by some yogurt sauce I had eaten after spending all morning at the zoo in the hot sun. Gak. Then, I found out a few others from a dinner party I attended on Friday night had the same symptoms, so we tried to trace it back to anything we could have eaten or drunk that night. We had no luck, though the hostess did promise to never again let her dog lick the cilantro clean. (Not a euphemism.)

We're pretty sure it was just a stomach bug that is going around. I do have to say, that when the mere thought of food was making me sick and I was feeling horrible, my friends were so supportive and caring. Like Lisa...who offered to make me a nice curry and yogurt sauce casserole, topped with warm mayonnaise and a slab of cod.

Still eating bland food because I am a terrible cook just to be safe,
Brutalism

Looking A Gift Horse In The Underpants

My only child is now 4 ½, and has therefore been sleeping through the night for some time. This does not, however, mean that I have forgotten the years of sleep deprivation. Looking back, it is both funny and terrifying how many things I did with no sleep. Like drive a motor vehicle. And perform brain surgery. And forget that I am not a brain surgeon.

I still remember trying my hardest to focus on something and being so tired that the synapses were just not firing correctly. For instance, once I was reading about developmental milestones in a baby book that noted a baby should be able to flip over “both ways” at a certain age. Rather than reading this in the rational way (stomach-to-back and back-to-stomach), the only scenario I could envision in my exhausted-beyond-comprehension head was stomach-to-back and then head-over-heels (like a somersault). I read that passage again and again trying to make sense of it and wondering why my baby was so developmentally stunted that she had not yet figured out how to do a somersault at two months of age.

Also in the sleep deprivation hall of fame were the incident where Tim told me that he wanted to take care of the business end of the nanny and the time we received a bunch of hand me down clothes and baby gear from some exceptionally generous friends. Among the things they gave us was a portable crib. One day, while our infant was napping, my husband and I set this thing up. As we opened it, a white piece of material with elastic on the sides flew out. Again, since we hadn't slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch, we were absolutely certain that these were some large granny panties. Please realize that NOT FOR ONE SECOND did we question what underpants would be doing in a pack ‘n play that our friends has given us.

But it gets better.

My husband actually went to the garage, got some grill tongs, and picked up the offending panties at arms length, which he promptly flung into the outside garbage can.

We never spoke of it again.

Until, of course, we went on vacation and had to buy a crib sheet for the pack ‘n play...a white crib sheet with elastic on the sides…

Glamour Don't (Plus Infinity)

When I was a kid, my parents did not spend much money on my clothes. Granted, they did not have much money...but I'll gloss over that fact as it makes it harder to feel put-upon and somehow cheated.

On the rare occasions that I was allowed to buy clothes -- it  was always the cheaper, knockoff version of every popular style. (Go ahead and laugh...I bet you didn't go to school wearing "Ducksiders" at the height of the preppy era.)

For a couple of years, I owned only about five shirts and two pairs of "designer" jeans that I rotated through every week and then finished the outfit with my red, white and blue leather-like "Nykes." In Virginia Beach where I grew up, there was a store called Goofs that sold nothing but irregular Levi's, and that was the only place I was allowed to buy Levi's (the only acceptable pants at the time), as the price was right. Which is why all of my Levi's were rust-colored, lacked pocket stitching and were tremendous bell-bottoms in an era where straight-legged pants ruled. Also, when OP shorts became all the rage, I got two pair -- in the weird sale-rack colors of peach and mint green. And these were but a mere sampling of the fashion missteps I (involuntarily) made. Put another way: 

Young Brutalism :  fashion sense : :  Keith Richards : a glass of wine with dinner        

Because I had so few clothes, I can actually still picture key items from my wardrobe back in those days...items like a light blue Izod polo shirt and a light blue t-shirt with a glittery "Native New Yorker" iron-on decal on the front. I wore both of these until the armpits got discolored (adolescence was not good to me), and then continued to wear them, while making a mental note to keep my arms down at my sides all day long. (On the downside...this kept me from dating. On the upside...it also kept me out of the Hitler youth...)

As with anything I had to suffer through in my childhood, my mother insisted that it "built character."

A character in irregular pants,
Brutalism

A League To Bemoan

There are many "not so proud' moments in my life.

There was the time when I went into a stall in my college dorm bathroom with an entire sheet cake (an action preceded by one or two thousand cocktails, if memory serves). My college roommate found me the next morning, on the floor half in and half out of the stall, surrounded by a dead-body-type-chalk-outline of chocolate cake crumbs.

I didn't date much.

Then there was the time that I took my Brownie uniform off for Timmy -- a boy who lived across the street from me in Syracuse, New York. I know, I know...a lot of people think this is perfectly normal and that sometimes little kids will do this when they learn that there are differences between boys and girls. I'm sure my parents would have handled it better if Timmy was not 37. Or my uncle.

But maybe my least proud moment of all was the few months I spent as part of the Junior League of Northern Virginia. (Tagline: We're like the Nazis. But less fun.)

As part of an effort to "get involved!" and "make a difference!" and "give back to the community!" a few years back, I signed on to become a member. (Which, not unlike a sorority, gave me a "pledge" status until I had been with the organization for six months and had accumulated a number of points. No...I'm not kidding.)

I joined this organization at the same time as my friend, Amy. Amy, who arrived late to a meeting one evening and was asked for the super-secret password at the secure door. She remembered that the password was the name of the cookbook that the Junior League published as an annual fundraiser, but could not remember the exact name. She said to the person on the other end of the intercom, "I know it is the name of the cookbook -- is it "What's for Dinner"? or "Can I Bring Something"? and guessed a few more titles that she thought might be correct. Instead of getting partial credit for knowing the origin of the password, she got denied entry. TO AN ORGANIZATION FOR WHICH SHE WAS VOLUNTEERING.

The cookbook title, incidentally?  "What Can I Bring?" (Though to be fair,  no members of the Taliban have thus far infiltrated any Junior League of Northern Virginia meetings -- so perhaps I should not poke fun at their security measures.)

The organization was structured in a way that the members were required to attend a large general monthly meeting and also monthly small group meetings. The small groups were configured based on geography, with the hope that you would meet other women who lived close to you. My small group leader suggested that we all meet for coffee to get to know each other. I guess she wanted to let us all know that her husband had just bought her some roses, because she opened the meeting by announcing that. And then by asking each of us what our husbands did for us that was romantic.

I learned that day that not everyone considers a "Tony Danza" a romantic gesture.

As you likely surmised, I never made it past my pledge period. Which is probably just as well. The rumors about showing up at initiation wearing just my underwear were freaking me out anyway.

What Can I Bring? It's Already Broughten,
Brutalism

Yes, "Phuket" Also Makes Me Giggle...

Moooooog's hilarious posts about the notes his wife receives from the parents of her students made me remember a great story of my aunt's from when she worked in the Arlington, Virginia, school system.

For many years, my aunt worked for a high school where there were something like 40 different languages and dialects spoken and many kids and their parents spoke English as a second language. It was a wonderfully diverse school, yet with the diversity came some communication challenges.

Like the one day when a person who spoke English as a second language called the school secretary and said urgently:

"No fuck today."

And of course, because she was the employee at a high school and therefore, no stranger to prank phone calls, she simply hung up the phone and went about her business.

The phone rang again. It was the same voice...yet this time, it had a slightly more urgent tone:

"No fuck today!"

And again, the secretary hung up. This time, grumbling about the prank caller.

The phone rang a third time. This time, the voice screamed,

"No Phuc today. He sick."

Dirty Money

My restroom at work is a real goldmine. And by "goldmine," I mean "not a goldmine by any stretch of the imagination." (Then again, I'm not sure what one would hope to find in a public restroom that would constitute a goldmine. Perhaps the absence of Larry Craig alone makes it one...) But I digress.

Just yesterday, as I stopped in the first floor restroom, I saw this propped against the mirror behind the sink:

After I asked the clerk at 7-11 if I could get my change in thousands and millions flipped this over, I realized that it was not money at all, but religious literature. Religious literature asking me if I was going to heaven when I died (doubtful) or used God's name in vain (almost exclusively) or looked at a woman to lust for her (not really, but I tell my husband I do every year on his birthday)...

And frankly, all of the questions I was being asked made me want to ask some questions of my own. Namely:

1) Are the people you want to recruit into your fold those who actually believe that there is such a thing as a trillion dollar bill?

2) Do you realize (as I did, sadly, after the fact) that most people will likely reach for this PRIOR TO washing their hands?

3) Do you think that the government realizes that all they need to do is visit a few public restrooms to erase the federal deficit?

4) Is it wrong to save this and add it to an offering plate the next time I am presented with one?

Still embarrassed about my early crush on Kirk Cameron,
Brutalism

Hey...Nice Cask

At a surprise 40th birthday party for our good friend, Leon, last week, we were seated at a table with a lovely woman named Laura. (Let me clarify...the party was the surprise...Leon knew he was turning 40 so that part was expected.) Also a surprise? The fact that Leon wore a Bavarian hat AND a tiara (together) all night. You think you know someone...

I liked Laura a lot...especially when she shared a story about a fellow attorney in her law firm. The story goes that this female attorney went to a pole dancing class (Dilettante wannabe) and then came into work the next day, gathered her co-workers 'round, and proceeded to show them the moves she had learned. Somehow, this involved her writhing suggestively in one of the conference room chairs. Laura said that no one looked at each other while this was going on, and when this woman's demonstration was over, everyone slunk silently back into their offices and closed their doors...needing some quiet time alone to process what they had just witnessed. To this day, they have set that conference room chair aside as some sort of shrine to skankification...

Leon's birthday party was held at a fantastic Belgian restaurant in DC, where we had a four-course meal and each course was paired with a beer that complemented the food. When the toasts began, most of Leon's friends were feeling pretty good...and consequently, many of the toasts were about days of yore spent over imbibing, vomiting and perhaps performing some other bodily functions.

Of course, I felt right at home.

Laura, on the other hand, has a bit of weaker stomach and as each speaker took their turn, she went from disbelief to head shaking to almost reverting to putting her fingers in her ears.

I was one of the last people of the evening to get up and give my toast. After repeatedly assuring Laura that I was not going to talk about bodily functions, I began speaking. My toast referred to a beer tasting my husband and I once attended with Leon and his wife, Amanda. A tasting where I learned a lot about beer -- that is it made with malt, yeast, hops and water; that it can really bring out the taste of food better than wine; and that the hole in a cask used to fill or empty it is called a "bunghole."

Yup. A bunghole. I felt a little bad after promising Laura I would not go there, but not bad enough to not say "bunghole" in a room full of people. I mean, other than funerals and the occasional State dinner, how often do you have that opportunity?

Klassy with a K,
Brutalism

A Little Jumpy

When I was a kid living in Syracuse, New York, my parents bought a small home in a new subdivision. We were one of the first families in the neighborhood, so there were still several vacant home lots and fields and dirt lawns to explore as we waited for the neighborhood to develop and for the grass to grow in.

My sister and I would go outside in the morning and play in mud puddles and stomp around in the dirt and catch toads and throw dirt at each other and get in huge fights and then repeat the entire process throughout the day. It was awesome.

At some point, we really got into the toads...and began to think of them as our pets, and created little ecosystems for them in the window wells that surrounded our basement windows. We'd create whole toad colonies in there and check up on them and feed them and at some point probably threw them at each other, got in huge fights and repeated the entire process throughout the day. I'm kidding...although our track record with pets up to that point was not a good one.

There was the time we played hide-and-seek with our pet guinea pig (my sister hid him in the fridge...and he was thankfully okay and munching on some lettuce when I thought to look in there to find him.) There was another time that we played "lion in a cage" by lifting the floor register for our furnace and putting our pet kitten inside. The kitten was also okay...and I'm sure enjoyed the new home our parents found for it immensely. So it was not completely out of character for us to bring the "pet" toads into the house, play with them, and in moving them back outside, completely lose track of one of them.

Hey...it happens.

Not wanting to be in trouble for losing a toad in the house, we decided that the best course of action would be not mentioning this to my mom. And we considered ourselves extra-lucky that my dad was out of town on a business trip. So we went to bed that night thinking that we would totally wake up early and find the toad and get him outside before our mom even knew.

The one part of our plan that we did not count on, however, was that our mom was going to spend the night watching a horror movie on television. In our sparsely-populated neighborhood and with my dad out of town and us asleep in bed, she settled in and began watching the 1972 classic horror movie, Frogs (Tagline: "When nature strikes back!"). You read that right. The 70s found people bravely wearing mint-green leisure suits while dancing the funky chicken and swinging with their neighbors, but seemingly terrified by small and innocuous amphibians. (There must have been something in those jell-o molds.)

I guess that as "nature was in the process of striking back" during the movie that night, our pet toad hopped out from underneath the couch in the family room and almost gave my mother a heart attack. Or at least caused her to wet her polyester bell bottoms.

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

Different Day

Often, when I read the daily report from Avery’s preschool listing all of the fun activities, nap time and snacks, I think, “I want to go there.”

And then there are the days when it feels like I do.

Like earlier this week, when the phantom pooper in our office struck again.

We are all (chronologically) adults here and I feel that there really is no reason to leave bodily yuck anywhere in the shared bathroom at work. Apparently, I am alone in this radical thought in the world of female government consulting professionals.

Unsuspectingly, as I walked into the restroom a few mornings ago, I pushed open a stall door and was greeted by the sight of a huge smear of poop on the toilet seat. (To frame this properly, please envision your favorite horror movie…the ominous music that begins to play as the hapless victim is about to come upon something horrific. Then, the music leads to a crescendo as the door slowly opens and the victim begins to process the nightmare that they are seeing.)

I ran out of there so fast, you’d have thought someone told me that Leonardo DiCaprio had finally tired of twenty-something supermodels and was waiting for me in my office.

I spent the rest of the day suppressing my gag reflex and going down three floors when I needed to use the restroom. Until late in the day, when I had put it out of my mind and thoughtlessly walked back into the restroom on our floor. Where I was again greeted by something I did not expect: an angry (all caps! exclamation points!) sign on the offending stall door that read, “CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF! THIS IS DISGUSTING AND NOT ACCEPTABLE!”

It’s not that I don’t completely agree with the message (I do.). It’s just that the furious sign writer had taken the time to add the flourish of a clip-art toilet on their sign. In my opinion, this is not only redundant but also takes some of the “zing” out of the strong wording.

Such a waste,

Brutalism

In The Spirits

Some good friends of ours have THE BEST holiday party every year. They hire a bartender who makes specialty holiday cocktails, and a pianist (tee hee) who plays Christmas songs on their baby grand piano and invite about a zillion fun people, which makes for a great evening to which we look forward all year. And because we are such good friends, we and another couple take care of updating the hosts’ calendar while we are there.

This began a few years back after one thousand too many elf martinis. As the hosts had thoughtfully left a white board marker right next to the calendar with their schedules, we thought we'd make a few of their appointments a little more colorful…and add in some of the ones they’d carelessly forgotten.

For instance, "Kelly's party" was easily transformed into "Sniff Kelly's panties", and "Father's Day" was celebrated by a NAMBLA Father/"Son" dinner dance. They were very busy one year, what with all the KKK rallies, Swingers parties and various medical appointments (lets just say that one year saw more than its fair share of boil lancings). Also, for liberal Democrats, they have an astounding number of Mitt Romney fundraisers and NRA Life Member events to attend.

Last year, we had even more fun by re-arranging their Christmas décor, which found many of the reindeer and (backdoor) Santa figurines in compromising positions.

The hosts love to wake up the day after their party and read about all of the fun events they have to look forward to in the following year. (Hiking the Appalachian Trail with Governor Sanford!) Or so we tell ourselves, anyway. Thus far, we continue to be invited back.

So you can probably understand why we felt completely comfortable wearing the following to their party a couple of weeks ago:

We were totally on the list,
Brutalism

Leave The Gun. Take The Cannolis.

My daughter has a large stuffed horse that was given to her by her grandmother last Christmas. She loves this thing, and was "riding" it all over the house last night.

As Canetto was over at a neighbor's watching football, I let her climb into bed with me to try and get her to fall asleep. (The child requires NO sleep. None. I usually tuck her in by saying, "I love you and you exhaust me.") So, she climbed up into my bed with the large stuffed horse and we all fell asleep there. When Canetto came home a couple of hours later, he moved her into her own room, then could not sleep himself, so he went to the guest room so as not to disturb me.

Which means that when I woke up this morning at 5:00am, I looked over and saw a horse head on the pillow next to me.

Definitely better than sleeping with the fishes,
Brutalism

It's A Gift, Really

Once again, I find myself in the holiday spirit, just like I was last year and in other years past. The spirit that takes me back to simpler times, times when I spread joy so effortlessly to everyone around me...

Like the one Christmas several years ago when my mother and I were visiting my sister in South Florida and we went to the mall so my sister's young son could sit on Santa's lap. It was only a few days before Christmas, so the line to visit with Santa was about as long as Tiger Woods' texting bill. (Oooh, snap!)

We figured it would be better if Grandma ran around the mall with my sister's son while my sister and I held a place in line. So, we stood and waited and chatted as we slowly moved closer to Santa, surrounded by legions of small children who were so excited by the promise of a small candy cane handed to them by a cranky alcoholic (Santa, not me) they could almost not contain themselves.

As my sister and I talked, we reminisced about Christmases past. Like the one where I walked on the linoleum kitchen floor in my new ice skates (yelled at), the one where I used my brand new hair yarn to create pom-pom animals (smacked), and the one where I received the roller skates I wanted so desperately, yet instead of the beautiful bright-white skates of my dreams, they were blue with racing stripes (disillusioned).

I believe it was at that moment that I asked her (loudly), "...and do you remember when we found out that Santa Claus wasn't real?"

And I believe it was in the excruciating moments that followed that dozens of sets of weepy toddler and glaring parent eyes all turned toward me in unison to see who it was that was ruining the magc of Christmas.

Happy Holidays, Everyone!
Brutalism

Muy Caliente

This morning, I came across a headline indicating that a former Miss Argentina had died during a cosmetic procedure. Which cosmetic procedure, you ask? Well, she was undergoing plastic surgery to get a butt implant. [Note to Brutalism readers: If you read my obituary one day and it names the manner of my death as "natural causes", rest assured that it was a butt implant gone awry and my PR people are protecting my (sadly, flat-assed) memory.]

It gets better. I did a google search to find the story and the web site I landed on installed some spyware on my (work) computer. The IT Department tried many things to remove this, and ultimately took my computer into their parents' basement special IT diagnostic lab, which is when they discovered that in addition to the spyware, my processor had overheated, which warped the laptop.

Looking forward to my annual review,
Brutalism

Danke Schoen

I am David Hasselhoff. And not because I was videotaped lying in a drunken heap on the floor scarfing cheeseburgers. (Well, not just because...)

According to my site statistics of late -- I am huge in Germany.

Perhaps the fact that I'm wearing a dirndl in my profile picture has finally paid off. Perhaps my German readers appreciate that I host a big Oktoberfest party every year. Perhaps my love of wieners is blatantly obvious.

Thank you, Germany. With apologies to the great JFK, "I am a (not worthy) donut."

Breast Man

One Thanksgiving, I drove to Virginia Beach to have Thanksgiving Dinner with my parents. It was just going to be the three of us that year...having a small, quiet, family Thanksgiving.

Until my dad was (characteristically) inspired to do something really nice. He found out that an artist he worked with had nowhere to go for the holiday, so he invited the guy to share the day with us, too.

The man was a freakishly talented painter and a raging alcoholic. The guy didn't drive, so my father offered to pick him up and drive him to our house, with the stipulation that the invitation was contigent on the guy not having anything to drink that day.  (Let's be honest here...telling an alcoholic they cannot have booze on a holiday is like telling Lindsay Lohan that she should not wear leggings as pants -- even though they know the results will be disastrous, the allure is just too great.)

I'm pretty sure you can guess how this played out. The guy was tanked when my dad got to his house. My dad, not wanting the guy to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving (showing of hands, please...how many of you would LOVE to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving?), loaded the guy into the car and brought him over. He poured this guy into his chair at the dinner table and the guy proceeded to say the most foul, obscene and lecherous things to and about my mother and I all during dinner.

I could see my father's face getting redder as he tried to contain this guy's outbursts as much as possible and scolded him after each new rude remark. It was really, really uncomfortable. Until it got really, really funny. After a while, we all realized that this guy was so out of it that he had no idea what he was saying and each inappropriate comment became more hilarious. (Especially when we'd toss in asides like, "I bet this is just like the first Thanksgiving" and "Pass the stuffing, Sugar Tits.")

Dinner seemed to last an eternity, then my dad did the "driving home of drunken artist friend" that is so steeped in Thanksgiving tradition.

Hoping yours is memorable too,
Brutalism

Eek! A Mouse

Late last night, we got back from our trip to Disney World. In the past five days, my child was made over princess style at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique (I threw up a little in my mouth as I was typing that), dined with Cinderella at her castle, ate breakfast with Minnie, Donald and Goofy, and observed giraffes, zebras and other animals from the balcony of our hotel room at the Animal Kingdom Lodge. (Envision Canetto and I looking pathetic while pulling out pocket linings here.)

I have lots to discuss from this trip including, but not limited to, the vast scooter brigade, the all-Christian-all-the-time programming on the hotel television (except for the Miley Cyrus channel), and the area of Fantasyland called "Pooh's Playful Spot." You read that right. Chewing gum is the devil, but they name a children's playground after a pantsless bear's privates.

Back in realityland,
Brutalism

Ass-ault On My Sense Of Justice

Did any of you see this a few weeks ago?

Man who threw feces in CA courtroom gets 31 years.

(Take a moment to peruse, then continue on to the commentary and discussion questions below...)

1) Please do not let it be lost on you that the Judge's name is Judge Brown.

2) I appreciate the clarification that it was "his" feces. Did they analyze it? Did they ask?  Is it any more or less gross or does it add anything to the story by specifically designating them (it?) as "his" feces? (As my friend, Simon, noted, "I can see him in the interview room: "Of course it was my own feces; what kind of weirdo do you take me for?")

3) How quickly do you think the juror dumped (pun intended) the computer case?

4) How does one sneak a bag of feces into a courtroom under their clothes? (This is a rhetorical question. RHETORICAL!)

5) If a feces-flinging robber heads north at 65 mph and passes an unsuspecting lawyer heading south going 45 mph, at what point does the lawyer decide that he might just want a nice data entry job?

Hoping they cannot find a jury of his peers,
Brutalism

It's Real...And It's Spectacular

Yesterday, while spending several hours fostering my delusions of grandeur by adding snooty-toot titles in front of my name, I was at work, I received my first invitation to attend an event as a "key influencer."

And not just any event, an event at Radio City Music Hall for "bloggers and other key influencers" to celebrate The Christmas Spectacular in New York City. Which is only something I have wanted to see since I was a kid, having heard nothing but fantastic things about this for as long as I can remember. (It really is one of the quintessential New York City experiences...along with being urinated on and getting yelled at by a deli owner when you don't understand that a "regular" coffee is one that comes with milk and sugar.)

Assignment: In ten words or less, please let me know how I have influenced you, gentle Brutalism reader. Extra points if your comment is in the form of haiku, references fecal matter or is sent from a correctional facility.

The exclusive (If you wondered how much I loved typing that the party I was invited to is “exclusive” and thought “I bet she loved it a lot,”....you would be right.) party celebrates the 2009 Radio City Christmas Spectacular and would have me mingling with the world-famous Radio City Rockettes, Santa Claus, and other bloggers from the area. (Which, honestly, has been a fantasy of mine since forever. Except that in my version, the Rockettes are naked except for dirty argyle socks, Santa is a Siamese twin, and we are all eating Kentucky hot browns.) (I know. A rather pedestrian fantasy for someone who calls herself "Brutalism.")

So kill me. As awesome as that sounds, I have an awesome conflict and cannot go. This, my friends, is what is known as "bittersweet."

Make me feel better by going to see this fabulous show and by following the (aptly-named) Spectacular on Twitter and Facebook: www.twitter.com/rockettes and www.facebook.com/radiocitychristmas. And by sending me beer.

Most Excellent

Canetto suggested we purchase a membership to Wolf Trap because we want to get our Chris Isaak and Mamma Mia! tickets a day earlier than the people in steerage are major supporters of the arts.

Because I have to do everything, he made me complete the transaction (not a euphemism). And I have just this to say: Wolf Trap...your "title" section of the Membership form is an immature woman's playground.

The drop-down menu included the following:

Mr.
Mrs.
Ms.
Miss
Dr.
Drs.
Admiral
Ambassador
Attorney General
Baroness
Brigadier General
Brother
Capt.
Chairman
Cmdr.
Col.
Col. (R)
Colonel
Congressman
Congresswoman
Delegate
Father
General
Governor
Her Excellency
His Excellency
His Royal Highness
Judge
Lady
Lieutenant Governor
Lord
Lt.
Lt. Col.
Lt. Gen.
Lt. Gen. (R)
LTC
Madam
Major
Major General
Master
Mayor
President
Prince
Prof.
Professor
Rabbi
Rear Admiral
Representative
Reverend
Secretary
Senator
Sir
Sir/Madam
Sister
Supervisor
The Honorable
Vice Admiral

Moments ago, I received the following confirmation e-mail from Wolf Trap:

Dear Her Excellency Canedo:

We have charged your American Express $65.00 for your new Friend membership.

Let them eat cake,
Brutalism

Addenda:
1) Second runner up was going to be "Baroness and Rabbi Canedo"
2) Wolf Trap would probably be none the wiser had I not gone with the cheapest Membership option

Coming Soon To A Theatre Near You

Often, I e-mail myself with (riotously funny) blog post ideas because if I don't, they immediately leave my booze-addled brain and I will be staring at a blank computer screen into the wee hours of the morning trying to remember the story that was finally going to put Brutalism on the map.

This also serves to provide the "full e-mail inbox" validation that I crave, and if that must be achieved by sending e-mail to myself, then so what? (Though I do wish I would stop sending myself performance enhancment product solicitations.)

I just came across one of these "e-mails to self" that I sent to me a few weeks ago. It includes the following suggested topics:

• Disappearing after Children of the Corn late show with Erle
• Simon -- G.G. Allin documentary, convincing me for years that I broke wind when I fell asleep in a room full of people (I didn't), threesome in New Orleans
• Kath -- walking across broken glass a la Loni Anderson, Circus of the Stars

Much like movie trailers, I'm thinking these stories may be more compelling in the abbreviated format above. I ask you, gentle readers, do you want the whole story(ies) or is it more fun to let your minds wander?

The Curse Of The Minibar

(Originally posted 12/17/04 -- but deserves another run...)

Have I mentioned that I worked for THE ORGANIZATION THAT DOES NOT HATE FREEDOM for more than five years? One of the best jobs I ever had (and I've had a bunch of 'em). I worked with some of the most fun people during those five years, and I'm sure it had very little to do with the fact that I was single, in my 20s and drinking heavily.

I did a lot of things for NRA and one year I got put on a special project -- the Charlton Heston Celebrity Shoot out in Dana Point, California. Glamour! Excitement! "Celebrities!"

While there, I had a bet with a consultant as to which of us could get our picture taken with the funniest celebrity (funny in a B-list way, not in a "ha ha" way). I ended up winning -- finding and taking a picture with Jerry Mathers. The photo became my Christmas card that year with the greeting, "Merry Christmas. Love, Kathleen and the Beav." I gave one to a friend of mine in grad school who later became my husband. He still likes to joke that the reason he fell for me was that I so freely gave out my "beaver shot."

My Beaver shot.

Earlier in the evening, I was hanging out with Nat from the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210. Seriously, at that time, he was my Brad Pitt -- I so loved 90210. I talked to Nat (still cannot remember his real name) in the bar for an hour or so -- don't remember a lot of it. About a week after I got back from the shoot, however, my sister (who lives in Florida) and I each received autographed head shots of Nat. Apparently, at some point in the evening, I wrote down both addresses and gushed enough to prompt the head shot sending.

But the best story......
One night, I stayed out til four in the morning, partying with some of the celebs at a party that only the cool kids were invited to. Now, because I worked for a non-profit, I was sharing a room with a co-worker on this particular trip. She had gone to bed around 10:00 that night and was fast asleep by the time I found my way back to the room. At this point, the minibar was just screaming to me, so I opened it, found a huge Hershey's chocolate bar and that's the last I remember -- UNTIL....at about 6:00am, I woke up to my roommate standing over my bed and yelling like a maniac. She was practically hysterical...pointing at me and screaming. I jumped up and also started screaming and ran to the bathroom to see what she was pointing at.

Apparently, in the dim light of the hotel room that morning, the choclate bar that I had fallen asleep with had smeared all over my face and bed, looking a lot like blood. She thought someone had come into the room and blugeoned me to death while she slept.

I was still clutching what remained of the chocolate bar -- apparently only willing to give it up once it was pried from my cold, dead hands.

Me and Robert Stack's daughter. She's handsy. Read comment thread.

I Want Candy

Ahhh, Halloween...

Some of my favorite Halloween memories involve dressing up for costume parties when I was in my 20s and first living on my own as an adult. Every costume I ever wore (punk rocker, biker chick, Miss America) always somehow included one common accessory -- handcuffs. I guess I used to be a lot bolder, because I distinctly remember cuffing guys to me during parties. I wouldn't even speak to them...I'd just go up to one I thought was cute and wordlessly cuff him. (Let's all say it together: It is a really good thing I met Canetto when I did.)

There's a great Halloween story that involves my dad, back when we lived in an apartment complex in Syracuse, New York. My sister and I had gone out trick-or-treating dressed as Frankenstein (her) and an angel (me). We were probably 4 and 5 at the time.To make my costume, my mom had dressed me in an old white nightgown of hers and had made fantastic cardboard wings that she covered with aluminum foil --giving me a wingspan of a good three and a half to four feet across. She also made me a halo out of a shaped wire coat hanger -- also covered with aluminum foil. My sister and I trick-or-treated for a couple of hours and then came home to immediately begin gorging on candy. (Okay, fine...I was the one who was apparently intent on upping my risk factor for diabetes. She was one of those annoying able-to-delay-gratification types who would be pulling out her treat bag the following summer to sift through the treats and then select a single piece of candy to savor. And of course, I was convinced she did this simply to torture me.)

With our trick-or-treating done, my father decided that he and a friend should enjoy some trick-or-treating themselves. So, he put my costume on over a pair of jeans, and headed out with a beer stein. Since we lived in an apartment complex, he manged to get his stein filled up very quickly with whatever beer or hard liquor our neighbors had on hand...all of them thinking this was very funny, of course.

He was gone for a while on this mission and when he returned home, he tried to walk through the front door into our apartment, but could not. He tried again -- no luck. Confused as to why he could not walk through the doorway, he tried again. Still -- stuck on the front porch. My (sober, and therefore unamused) mother intervened at this point and managed to get his drunk self focused long enough to understand that he simply needed to turn sideways to fit his giant angel wings through the door.

The Devil is in the details,
Brutalism

Batter, Batter, Batter....

So a bunch of employees in upstate New York were refusing to work this past weekend because a Swinger's Convention was being held in their (sold out) hotel.

Being the curious, investigative type that I am...I (naturally) have some questions:

1) When you think of locations in which to engage in deviant sexual escapades, do you really think Buffalo, New York? Who is this convention planner?

2) As long as your job is not sheet-changer or hot tub cleaner-outer, why would you not beg to work that weekend?

3) If you worked that weekend and saw that your former fourth grade English teacher was a conference attendee (not a stretch, based on what we know about the lifestyle), would you ever be able to use the word "conjugate" again without wincing?

4) How often do you use the word "conjugate" now?

5) Do you think that if they called the event a "swap meet", the employees would have been none the wiser?

"Entice the Falls" my ass,
Brutalism

Just Like Heaven

Somehow, this photo, taken by Kathyconnolly, perfectly sums up what I was feeling the night of the wedding. I twisted with Jack, did the Molly Ringwald '80s dance with several partners (it's the swinger in me) and bounded all over the dance floor. (I have missed working out the past two days as my calves recover.) I promise a wedding recap post soon.

Bend Over, I'll Drive

Subtitle: F&#K you, Margaret Zuidema*.

This weekend, my mom married Jack, and invited some of my close friends and some of my sister, Patti's, to the wedding and reception. My sister and I were a year apart in school and had different groups of friends, but of course some of them knew (or at least recognized) each other. At one point during the reception, I brought my friend, Kathyconnolly over to Patti's table to talk to some of her friends that I thought Kath might have known...including Margaret Zuidema. They politely said "Hello" to each other, but there was not much recognition on either's part and Kathyconnolly went back to her table while I chatted with Margaret for a few more minutes.

Margaret casually mentioned to me, "You know, the last time Patti and I got together, we were talking about that day we dropped you off at driver's ed." A lightbulb went off in my head as I remembered just how she and Kathyconnolly knew each other. I ran over, grabbed Kathyconnolly and screamed, "You know Margaret because she and Patti are the ones who got us blackballed from behind-the-wheel." Kathyconnolly ran over, screamed, "F&#K you, Margaret Zuidema" (In a friendly, kidding way, of course), and within moments all of the teen angst came rushing back...

Back in the day, Kathyconnolly and I were taking a summer class for driving instruction so we could then get our learner's permits. Each morning for a week or two, we would meet in a high school parking lot, assemble on a bus where a tight-shorts-wearing-angry-that-he-was-teaching-this-god-forsaken-class-during-the-summer-just-to-earn-a-few-extra-bucks P.E. teacher would provide some instruction, and then we'd leave the bus to get into some cars in the parking lot to practice what we had learned.

And, since my sister and Margaret already had their driver's licenses, they were sometimes (unhappily) tasked with hauling us around...especially when we had to go somewhere legit (like behind-the-wheel classes).

Because they were forced to drive us, Margaret decided they should at least make it interesting one day when she was driving (my sister was in the passenger seat and Kathyconnolly and I were in back). As we neared the high school, Margaret drove about a million miles an hour into the parking lot, did a loud, squealing donut around the instruction bus and then came to a screeching halt right next to the open bus door. Kathyconnolly and I slunk out of the back seat and up the bus steps. As Margaret and Patti sped away without a care in the world to go buy Slurpees (or whatever it was they did with all of their drivers-license-having freedom), Kathyconnolly and I were forced to stand at the front of the bus and be made an example of for the benefit of all our behind-the-wheel classmates. Angry P.E. teacher screamed for twenty minutes about how that was a prime example of how NOT to drive a car and how we should always be concerned about safety and how irresponsible we were. (Please keep in mind that WE were not driving, had no control over how Margaret drove and wanted to crawl under the bus and die.)

We did manage to get through it and ran home and told my mom maturely dealt with the situation. We naively believed we had reached a detente as Patti drove us to behind-the-wheel the next day. She pulled into the parking lot slowly and carefully...and continued driving slowly and carefully as she deliberately ran over each and every orange pylon set up for our class.

*Margaret thought this was hilarious...so please don't think I am in any way disrespecting (or "dissing" as the kids say) her.

The Birthday Post

First of all, Happy Birthday today to loyal and hilarious Brutalism reader, Dilettante07! She was reading and commenting on this blog back when it was just a baby (and actually...so was she.) Little whippersnapper. Tante was one of the first people I met when I moved to DC in the early 90s. We have many ridiculous shared adventures including (of course) Dilettante Club, being co-flower girls in our friends' wedding in Santa Barbara, Oktoberfest, cocktail parties, a half marathon, smashing cake in each other's faces at our weddings, and more karaoke on video than I want to admit to.

Second of all, Happy Birthday to Avery, who turned four on October 9th. We celebrated with a princess tea party at our house for her and five friends. (At this age, all of the princesses come accompanied by one or both parents, so we had a decent crowd there. Which also included grandparents and our friend, Amy, who wore a dirndl and acted as a handmaiden, serving tea goodies to the girls.)

Before any party at our house, I update the quote board with a new quote. In an attempt to be topical, I wrote one by Stephen Wright that said, "I would kill for a Nobel Peace Prize." It made me chuckle...until it began a not-so-comfortable discussion among the adults about whether or not Obama was deserving of the prize at this point in his presidency. As party host, I was trying to remain neutral, while also trying to end the discussion. So I said, "Enough about that. How do you all feel about abortion?"

Apologies in advance to Avery for all of the play dates and birthday parties from which she will now be banned. She does make a beautiful princess, doesn't she?

The Paparazzi Will Just NOT Leave Me Alone

The Dilettante Club is being featured today in Washingtonian magazine.

Be more jealous that I get to hang out with these cool chicks every month.

We always have to look up how to spell "Dilettante," too,
Brutalism

Patrick Swayze -- A Delinquent Tribute

In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I lived in an apartment in Charlottesville with my sister. She had just graduated from UVA and was working at CVS because she was an English major wasn't ready to enter the real world yet.

I was working a minimum wage job and taking a statistics class, hoping to get a "C" so that it would transfer without being figured into my (already horrific) GPA at JMU.

What does this have to do with Patrick Swayze, you ask? Just everything. My sister had a bunch of friends that she had met while working at the radio station at UVA. And to a person, they were (and are) the funniest bunch of people I have ever met. That summer, we'd just hang out at the apartment, drinking whatever beer our minimum wage salaries would afford us, and talk and laugh for hours. One of the things we laughed about? The defacement of albums at the radio station.

At the time, the Dirty Dancing sound track was huge, and much to everyone's chagrin, the Program Manager had put it in the rotation to play every hour. In retaliation, one of the crew had taken a little creative license with the Dirty Dancing album cover at the station. Immediately after the song title, "She's like the wind," for instance, he had penciled in "from my ass." And on the front of the album, where Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey were embracing, someone had artistically added a thought bubble from his head with the words, "that is not my finger" and a thought bubble from her head with the words, "that is not my belly button."

Also, on the Billy Ocean 12 inch single album (where he was wearing a long white leather coat and looking totally pimped out), our friend, Sean, simply added a period and a comma to make the album title, "Billy Ocean. 12 inch, single." Which, if guys were smart, would be the title of their Match.com profiles.

All of this to say: RIP, Patrick Swayze. I'm really glad it wasn't her belly button.

Pirou-wet

In a failed attempt to make me more graceful and more social when I was a little girl, my parents enrolled me in a ballet class.

I was so unbelievably shy that even though my older sister was in the class with me, I was scared to talk to any of the other little girls and was especially terrified of the teacher, Mr. Jack. Mr. Jack was what one might now refer to as a "frustrated-and-closeted-homosexual." Back then, I believe we just called him "artistic."

He scared me so much that one day while we were practicing in the gym after school and I had to urinate, I simply could not raise my hand and ask him if I could be excused to use the restroom. I held it as long as I could and then, inevitably, wet my leotard in the middle of class. (My logic here is admittedly a little flawed. In my pea-sized brain, it was less scary and attention-drawing to have a potty accident in his class than ask to use the restroom.) Many of the little girls in my class (including my sister -- always the loyal team player) pointed at me and laughed. After he realized what was going on, Mr. Jack bellowed, "Young Lady! Do you need to use the restroom?" (Which, to this day, strikes me as an odd question. I really wanted to say, "Um...no. I just emptied my bladder on the floor. I really wish you had asked me that five minutes ago, though.")

I was relegated to the back row from that point forward -- during class and for the recital. This marked the end of my (short and humiliating) ballet career.

(Any member of my family would now play straight guy and ask, "how old were you when this happened?" and I would reply "25" and then we'd all laugh heartily. It really never gets old. We're a fairly simple people.)

I Wouldn't Want To Paint It

It's a small world. (I just coined that phrase. Catchy, huh? I see
t-shirts...merchandising...getting Disney involved in some capacity...)

Supposedly over Labor Day weekend, I was sent a text message by Jeff Cockey. (He says he sent one, but I did not receive one. Either he did not send it or -- a more likely scenario -- he sent it and due to my complete lack of texting ability, I deleted it by mistake.) (Aside: Once, when I was due to pick Cockey up from Dulles airport, he texted to let me know he arrived so I could come get him. I wanted to let him know that I was on my way, but had no idea how to text back, so I pressed "reply" and then something like "QYR98621."  He wasn't sure if I had been abducted, was drunk, or if I was just completely technologically retarded.) He (correctly) went with option "C". (Although "Both B and C above" would also have been an acceptable answer.)

The Labor Day text was to let me know that he was at a party in Hermosa Beach, California, with none other than one of my ex-boyfriends (who lives on the East Coast and was out there visiting). Somewhere in between guzzling bad beer and ogling girls on the beach, they put it together that they both knew me.

Jeff Cockey -- he's the new Kevin Bacon.

Memory Lane

Remember your favorite storybooks from childhood? When you'd nestle into your parent's arm and listen to tales of familiar characters that you'd begin to think of as your friends? And how that opened up your world? Like the story about Babar, the sweet little elephant, gigolo?

Mon dieux!
Brutalism

Your Gubmint At Work

I am developing a style guide for the documents we create at my company. In doing this, I and another Project Manager who is working on this with me are following some of the Government Printing Office (GPO) guidelines to incorporate into our manual.

Today, we discovered that the GPO style guide helpfully indicates that the word "werewolf" is one word. Which, as always, raises some questions in my mind:

1) What kind of grammar idiot has ever written that as two words?
2) How come I've never been staffed on a werewolf contract?
3) How many of my tax dollars went into researching whether or not that was hyphenated?
4) Really?

Howling at the lunacy,
Brutalism

I'm Betting That A Phillip Hart, By Any Other Name, Would Not Smell As Sweet

Yesterday at work, I received an e-mail from a vendor. The naming convention for his corporate e-mail account was (like many) the first letter of his first name and then his last name. So, the e-mail I got from Scott Loth was Sloth@company.com.

Things like this amuse me probably more than they should. Although when I mentioned it in my weekly team meeting, my boss shared an even better one -- his wife had once worked with a Phillip Hart, whose company also used that type of naming convention.
Another friend said she once worked with a Richard Ebel, who was anything but.

How about you guys? Seen any e-mail addresses that were particularly (and unintentionally) funny?