If I can ever make a segue about a Segway, my life will be complete

Recently, I used the most horrible verbal transition of my life. During a business call, I discovered that the owner of one of our customer companies had died. I was very empathetic with the Office Manager who was conveying the news to me and told her how sorry we were to hear that and that I could call back as this was obviously not a good time to discuss promotions. She then said, "No, now is okay." So I said solemnly, "Again, I'm really sorry." And since I didn't know where to go from there, I followed it one nanosecond later with a cheery, "Now, let's talk marketing!!!"

As I have a lot to catch you up on, this post will be in blurbs, introduced by the most awkward or disjointed segues I can think of in honor of what a total rube I am.

1) Canetto's mom had surgery yesterday. She was vague about details, letting us know only that it involved her "lady parts." And, trust me, we did not want to probe further.

SEGUE: Speaking of probing my mother-in-law's private parts...

2) I spent last weekend in Manhattan with Canetto and Avery. Highlights included: my cousin's wedding on Long Island, Mary Poppins on Broadway, walking the length of High Line park, taking the ferry to Staten Island, going to the American Girl doll store, bowling with Canetto's friend from high school, and randomly meeting up with a friend I've known since we were seven and discovered we were staying a few blocks from each other in NYC thanks to Facebook. I love social media. So much, it's almost like a disease.

SEGUE: Speaking of social diseases...

3) While coming back to Manhattan on the Long Island Railroad, I left my iPhone on the train when disembarking at the terminal.

SEGUE: Speaking of getting off at Penn Station...

4) I have been invited by a local charitable organization to be a featured speaker at an upcoming event. This alternately thrills me and terrifies me. It is one thing to hide behind the computer to write about unsavory topics...it is another thing entirely to stand in front of a group who is paying to be there listen to you talk about poop and swinging.

SEGUE: Speaking of last Saturday...

5) The owner of a local kids' clothing boutique in Oakton asked me recently if Avery would be interested in modeling Easter dresses. My child, while a fashionista, is completely shy. So I didn't think she'd go for it. But once she realized that she could try on any clothing she wanted and feel like a princess in a fairy tale, she conceded.

SEGUE: Speaking of happy endings... 

I'm out,

SEGUE: That's what he said

Brutalism

Happy Endings

In an uncharacteristically sappy (read: beer-fueled) moment tonight, I turned to Canetto and said, "You know, I appreciate what a great Dad you are. The fact that you are so involved with our daughter will mean more than anything both to her and to the person she becomes..."

To which he replied: "Thanks. Now can you go read to her so I can surf some porn?"

McDeathbreath

Right now, I'm walking around the house like I'm 80 thanks to the 8 miles I ran this morning with my friend, Amanda. Because I'm a mental patient, I don't like her to tell me the pace at which we're running, as I tend to slow myself down if I know I'm going fast, even if I feel okay. Then, it's like a big, fun, reveal at the end when she can disclose just how fast we ran. (Well, "fast" being relative. She kindly goes much slower than she could when running with me.) 

This is all part of my training regimen for the Cherry Blossom 10-miler on April 1st: an intense regimen that has included very little running and drinking several Guinness stouts and smoking a cigar (?) last night. (All very Irish, as it was a MACanudo.)

It really is shocking I'm not a professional athlete. (Then again, John Daly is, and he shares a similar training regimen.)

If there's anything I'm as good at as training, it is parenting. My friend, Jeannine, posted this to my Facebook wall this morning saying it reminded her of me. And frankly, I cannot disagree:

Yup. Pretty much captures my parenting philosophy.



Hope you all had great St. Patty's Days and celebrated accordingly. I swear I'm not a crazy cat lady posed my cat for a photo in honor of the holiday:

This is my big, fat, hunk o' love, Seamus. God, I love this cat.
And his tremendous belly.

I'm off for more Aleve. And more mouthwash...

Brutalism



Cannot Outrun My Past

Conversation with the Dilettantes during our Falconry class today (post to come on Dilettante Club site):

Me: "You know. I just could not like that instructor, because he reminded me of a guy named Smelly Dave that I used to date."

Amy (incredulously): "You dated someone called Smelly Dave?"

Me (apologetically): "It was during a low point in my life."

Amanda (helpfully): "Is this the same guy that ate french fries out of the trash can?"

Me (also apologetically): "No. That was Rob. And come to think of it, I dated him during a high point in my life..."

Thanks to Canetto for saving me from myself,
Brutalism

Ham

For the record, I was never a nose-picker or scab eater, although I was (am?) pretty prolific in my pants-wetting.

Which is interesting, really, as I was a painfully shy kid. (And when I say, "painfully", I mean ridiculously, paralyzingly so.) As such, I was terrified to ask teachers, instructors and other grown ups if I could use the bathroom when I needed to, which led to many, many public urination episodes.  (And yes, it has not escaped me how I somehow found wetting my pants in front of my peers less embarrassing than asking a grown up to use the restroom.)

I'm not that bright.

Then again, I'm sure lots of people from grade school remember me because of it -- it was my signature move. Read about other signature moves in this week's Patch column (the one that is accompanied by a photo of a ham).

In other news, a conversation with a co-worker/friend this morning went as follows:

Her (breathlessly): "I was so late this morning, because every single thing that could have gone wrong this morning...did!"

Me: "Oh my God! Like what?"

Her: "Well, my hair dryer broke, so it took forever to dry my hair. And I meant to paint my nails last night but ran out of time, so I had to do that this morning. And I had to use my tooth whiteners..."

Me: "Well those invisible children in Uganda have nothing on  you."

If there's anything worse than a pants-wetter, it is an unsympathetic one,
Brutalism

Too Good Not To Share

A friend of mine works for a government contractor and therefore, has a number of government customers -- one of whom has not paid its bill in several months. The hilarious part? (Really, what's not hilarious about someone not paying their bills?) The customer is the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.

When I shared this fact with my good friend, Dilettante07, she totally gave me a Tosh.0 "20 Seconds on the Clock" list of comments in response. To wit:

• Maybe they ran out of toner?
• Do they know your friend's company accepts cash?
• Maybe they want to pay with those bags of shredded money, and it's just taking a while?
• Perhaps they don't realize they actually have a license to print money?
• No wonder there's a budget deficit...we literally do not know how to make money

This has just made me think that I want to work at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing...as I could then say, honestly, "I make millions of dollars at my job."

Rolling in the dough,
Brutalism

Stye-mied

This past weekend, I had a bit of a meltdown because I'm feeling overwhelmed. (And because I had a stye the size of a watermelon in my eye.)

You totally want me.

My husband was very understanding because he was recently juggling getting all of our financial information together to refinance our house, scheduling life insurance physicals, researching, test-driving and negotiating for a new car, and doing our taxes.

I'm overwhelmed because of a Peeps diorama and a trapeze class:

One of the nine thousand ridiculous things that is consuming my time lately. But this was so fun.
Read all about it here.

It's not the events that overwhelm me...it is the lack of time to sit, do nothing and recharge. Even though I love doing things and being around people, I also love being by myself and not having to be anywhere. (Particularly when I look like the Elephant Man thanks to my stye-the-size-of-North-America). 

Whatever. When I don't have things to do, I get bored in about an hour. So even though I complain, I like having commitments. Like writing a weekly column and then shilling it for all I am worth: (Last week's was about how we roll around naked in piles of money here in Fairfax County, Virginia. This week's? A Lent vent.)

Maybe I should re-think that stance on Lent and give up whining for a while?

Nonsense In All Forms Of Communication

A reader of my Oakton Patch column contacted me this week to see if I spoke to groups.

Of course I responded "yes" then immediately contacted social media goddess/presenter extraordinaire (and my friend), Stacey, to ask her advice. (Because my offer to speak at a small gathering at a garden club is totally on par with her speaking engagement in Poland for a billion dollar restaurant company in Central Europe that hired her to speak to all of their managers.)

Whatever. She did give me some really good advice, including:

• find out what the agenda is....what is the goal of the conference or meeting where you are speaking (ed., swinging, generally)
• find out the basic demographics of the group....first rule of comedy is knowing your audience (ed., swingers, mostly. Oh, and your mom.)
• record all speaking engagements both so I can improve and also for marketing purposes (ed., no one wants to see that)

and finally, her most sage bit of wisdom:

• do not poop in your pants during the Q&As (ed., no problem, that is generally a pre-show move for me)

Anyway, I am now apparently going to pursue speaking opportunities. Please check out the new tab on this site -- the one titled, "Is This Thing On?" -- that announces this fact.

Dude.

Recommend this Column

I totally stole the title of today's column from Abbie Hoffman. Then again, he promoted people stealing things from him, so I guess it's okay.

(Yes, Abbie Hoffman. My cultural references are very contemporary. Try to keep up.)

Off to burn my bra,
Brutalism

Totally Brutal

Sweet Jesus. Was January the longest month in history? I suppose not drinking will make it seem that way, particularly when the month includes a night out at an Irish bar with friends, my company's holiday party, the most stressful month at work in a loooong time, my birthday and some major challenges for close friends. (Also, what do the Dilettantes really have in common besides a love of the drink?)

It was also a long month because I was not eating sugar, processed food, dairy, or wheat. (Which, frankly, is why you have not heard from me here. I was barely conscious and not at all lucid.)

Which explains why I forgot to share my last few columns with you. Please to enjoy the one where I make lots of thinly-veiled sexual jokes, the one where I mock incorrect word usage (even though I use words incorrectly all the time and my punctuation would make my high school English teacher weep), and today's column about losing weight in a weight-loss challenge. (It was for charity. Do I get a medal?)

I'm going to keep not drinking until April. Because I want to lose all my friends. And I have forgotten my mantra that "nothing funny comes out of moderate drinking." (Even less funny with teetotalling.)

By the way, after our weigh-in last night, the other Dilettantes headed out to Dogfish Head Brewery for celebratory beers and food. I could not go because I had to head home and finish my column. But I didn't miss much, because THEY TEXTED ME PICTURES OF EVERY SINGLE BEER AND DELICIOUS FOOD ITEM THEY ORDERED AND CONSUMED while I ate a Larabar in front of the computer. Beeyoches.
Brutalism

Isn't It Ironic?

Last night I received notification of a $50 fine I had to pay for going through a red light. (I saw the camera light flash when this happened, but was hoping it was for the person in back of me.) Oy.

The delicious irony? This happened as I was driving away from the Fairfax County Courthouse after serving on jury duty, an experience you can read about here. (It was kind of a high profile case here in Fairfax because it involved a former Redskin.)

Perhaps I have another resolution to add my list.

So, I'm breaking laws and breaking resolutions, but at least I haven't lost any weight yet on my DietBet challenge.

I'm eating really well, not drinking alcohol and the weight is not budging. I obviously need to step up the exercise. I've asked the hilariously funny and motivational Shut Up and Run to provide me some Biggest Loser-esque advice/motivation from afar (she is in Colorado). Bring it, SUAR!

Hoping to be a three-time loser,
Brutalism

My 2012 Resolution - More Gambling!

You read that right. I'm kicking off 2012 by making a bet with myself, The Dilettantes and several other bloggers invited to participate in this challenge. DietBet is offering winners (those who lose at least 4% of their body weight in four weeks) the chance to split a $5000 pot between themselves and the charity they've selected . (In our case, DC Central Kitchen.)

Intrigued? So were we, when we heard about DietBet - a web site that lets you bet your friends (with real money, as studies prove that people lose weight faster when competing against others) to achieve your weight loss goals. For competitive people like us, this is a great way to kick off our New Year's resolutions.

The press release announcing the contest was issued today -- a release that mentions I was in the Guinness book of world records for tap dancing and identifies me as a Mommy Blogger.

(No wonder my parents have always been prouder of my Attorney sister...)

Follow my journey (and ultimate success, of course) here on Brutalism. I'll also post before, during and after photos as soon as I get past the trauma of the number I saw on the scale this evening.

Spreading the Cheer

In addition to Brutalism, it seems that I am writing everywhere else these days. (What a tramp.)

On the Oakton Patch this week, I write about why Santa hates the poor.

At Dilettante Club, I write about our last two adventures: Power stilts and constructing a holiday-themed Peeps diorama (we did Festivus). You can vote for us to win here. (Not to name drop, but I'm totally name-dropping -- Dale McGowan at Parenting Beyond Belief voted for our diorama. And surprisingly, not the nativity scene...)

Hope everyone has had a great holiday -- based on the fact that I have turned into a tub of goo, I'd say I've enjoyed myself a lot.

Happy 2012!

All I want for Christmas is...AAAAHhhhh! Not that!

I've been methodically unsubscribing myself from gazillions of e-mail lists this holiday season after receiving a mailbox-clogging amount of offers and specials from every retailer on the planet.

And even though Groupon inundates me, I cannot bring myself to unsubscribe from that site, because I love a good deal.

Especially good deals on completely random products and services. To wit:

And, again, as the naturally inquisitive type  that I am, I have some questions:

1) Colonics? Wasn't this a "thing" for about six minutes in 2001? They still do this?

2) This was promoted as a "holiday deal" and they suggested you could not only buy one for yourself, but several others as gifts. ("Merry Christmas, Honey -- this holiday season you are so full of love and joy -- not to mention a metric ton of digested food -- so I figured this gift would be perfect...")

3) Skateboarding Cheeseburgers? How good is the stuff they're smoking at New Creation Therapy?

4) Does everyone else agree that the folks at New Creation Therapy may be enjoying their colon-flushing job a little too much? This is text from their site: The therapeutic center recommends eating a normal meal three–four hours before the treatment and using the time in between to become fluent in a new language.

5) It is things like this that make me want to actively work on my drug addiction.

Happy Holidays and best wishes for a squeaky clean colon,
Brutalism

UPDATE: Seriously, what the hell is a skateboarding cheeseburger? I figured a quick search of Urban Dictionary would answer that and it did not. (Yet it did lead me to several thousand entries under "skateboarding" -- most of which are angry rants against people who don't get skateboarding. I grew up in a beach town where skateboarding was mandatory...are there really places that give kids a hard time for doing it?)

TIs the Season to be a Complete Narcissist - fa la la la la la look at me!

If you think this is obnoxious....please note that this is not even actual size.

Forget keeping Christ in Christmas -- I'm campaigning to keep the Christmas letter in Christmas.

And now, apparently, wall mural sized pictures of my family, to boot. Read about it here:

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Ahhh...the magic of the holidays. A time for dinner dates with Herman Cain, sartorial rants and plenty of elf martinis.

And that's just the first party of the season...

With apologies to Counting Crows, it appears that it will be a long December...

Soccer? I Barely Know Her.

Last weekend, I went to my daughter's age 6-and-under soccer game. She had a whole bevy of fans there -- her grandparents, her aunt and uncle, and friends Amanda and Leon.

They play three on three (I'm referring to the girls soccer teams -- not the grandparents, aunt and uncle and Amanda and Leon -- although this really does fall into the "don't ask, don't tell" arena) so all of the girls have the opportunity to play the entire game.

My daughter did pretty well. If they kept score (WHICH THEY DON'T, BECAUSE IF THEY DID IT WOULD CAUSE IRREPARABLE HARM TO THEIR DELICATE PSYCHES), Avery would have scored all three goals on her team. And we would have been proud.

And not to put too fine a point on it, but the game was actually more like three on two, as one of the girls on my daughter's team not only did not seem to understand or be interested in soccer, but I'm not even sure she realized she was standing on a soccer field. She is one of those kids that I totally adore -- in her own world, daydreaming, seeming completely shocked whenever the ball came her way. And the one time she did kick the ball...it was into her own team's goal, something that did not not seem to register with her.

Of course, because we are such a supportive group, we spent most of the game heckling the assistant coach (Canetto) from the sidelines and then discussing what award the daydreamer may be presented with at the end-of-season soccer banquet following the game. We suggested the following:

MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED

at something else

MOST VALUABLE PLAYER

for the other team

MOST ATHLETIC

looking father

BEST ALL AROUND

obstacle to winning

MOST DISPENSABLE

Of course, the coaches had to be all "good sports" and "encouraging" so they ignored our suggestions and presented her with a trophy just like the other girls on the team received.

Communists.


[P.S. Check out my weekly Patch column (I love how dirty that sounds) here.]

Princess Poopypants

Dramatis personae: Me, Canetto, Avery

Setting: Avery's play room, last night, playing her new "Pretty, Pretty Princess" game

Act I

Me (looking at Canetto and dying as he is decked out in earrings, a bracelet, and a crown): "You are a vision. You make a very lovely princess."

Canetto: "Oh, yeah? Would a lovely princess do this?" (lifts leg, farts)

Avery (screeching and laughing): "You are the worst princess, EVER!"

And....scene.

She works with an adequate amount of effort for the money...so adequate amount of effort for it, honey...

The title of this post is of course referencing my day job. The one I'm going to keep until I become a breakout country star. (My friend, Amanda, and I decided this was our true calling after seeing each other with these hairdos recently:

...and coming up with the lyrics to our first hit single "Bernanner Split" over a few hundred Bintangs one evening.)

Until then...it's business as usual, which you can read about in today's Oakton Patch Column.

I gave her a ring and she gave me the finger,
Brutalism

Oh, and here's the front view...conveniently in a sepia tone to further convey how 1953-country-singer this is. (I got a facial the day after this as I believe the 'do made me look about 20 years older. I'm still not over it...)

Sweet Jesus.

Running On Fumes

While driving my friend, Terri, home from a book signing* yesterday, we were chatting about work, people we both know and our families.

I confided in her that someone I knew and did not particularly care for had recently died. I was having mixed feelings about this and did not know if that made me a horrible person.

I could feel her looking over at me, and then she replied, "Sweetie, you're almost empty."

To which I said, resignedly, "God. I know. I have a tiny, black heart and am almost completely soulless."

And she said, "No, I mean your gas tank. Your light just came on."

*********************************************************************************
***SHAMELESS PLUG*** The book signing was for Bye for Now - a Wisher's Story written by my college friend, Kathleen Churchyard. It is a young adult book (written for ages 8-12, enjoyed by people of all ages -- I just finished it and highly recommend it). Makes a great holiday gift!

Terima Kasih for the Memories...

For the last three weeks, I was traveling in Indonesia and China with my husband, now 6-year-old daughter and our friends Amanda and Leon. The trip was fantastic, and although I kept a journal detailing every aspect of the trip, it is impossible for me to translate that into a blog post because I feel like it will cheapen what was a life-changing experience I'm lazy. But because I am a blogger, and therefore, an over sharer, I am compelled to provide information about some of the highlights in list form:

Southeast Asia travels, what I learned:

1) Many of the toilets in Indonesia require you to add scoops of water to make them flush. The literal translation for what type of activity you'll be doing is "throw small water" (number one) and "throw big water" (number two) to explain how much water needs to be used to dispose of your deposit. One public restroom we saw charged people different amounts based on activity, and was apparently (hopefully?) based on the honor system...

Translation:
Pipis (Number One) - 1000 rupiah
Mandi (Bath) - 3000 rupiah
Buangair Besar (Throwing Big Water) - 2000 rupiah
I have no idea who would be bathing in a public restroom, but let's focus instead on "pipis" (heh).

2) When you freak out a little because the throwaway underpants you are issued at a spa are extremely tight around your waist and you are embarrassed by your girth, it is helpful to remove them, shift them 45 degrees and put the leg hole around your LEG.

3) When you are a bule (honky) at an Indonesian wedding, you get a small taste of what it is like to be Jennifer Aniston, as everyone wants to get a picture with you and the photographers will hide in the potted plants to snap photos. (This is completely true.)

4) When a wild monkey climbs your dress in the monkey forest, then reaches in your bag and grabs the entire bunch of bananas you've brought, it is best to let the monkey have his way so he does not chomp your finger angrily like he did to that poor Russian girl the day before.

5) "Balinese wood" can be dropped into conversation almost constantly when you are in Bali. Sometimes even in relation to the fantastic wood carving that is done there.

6)  When you ask your tour guide how many of the Sultan's five daughters are married, she will reply, "four...and the fifth one probably will not marry because she is "sporty"...

7) In Indonesia, you may be offered many things for sale while you are sitting in a vehicle at a stop light. These things range from food items to rubber gorilla masks to blow guns. Because you never know when you may need a rubber gorilla mask on your way to an important client meeting.

8) You feel a little bit like a rock star withdrawing 1,500,000 from an ATM until you realize that equals about 170 bucks.

9) When your daughter refers to "take off" in the airplane as "blast off" you do not correct her, as you find this adorable.

10) The best part about staying in a villa is being able to toss the fact that you are staying in a villa into every sentence. I'm lying. The best part is the private pool, breakfast being made for you, massages by the pool and outdoor showers amid the scent of fresh jasmine and plumeria.

11) Jet lag can turn your first few nights with your young child into scenes reminiscent of "Weekend at Bernie's" as you cart her comatose body with you to nice restaurants.

12) For some reason, when you are that far from home and someone offers you a cup of poop, you take them up on the offer. (Mandatory joke: that was some good shit.)

13) When you see a perfectly circular rainbow in the sky and comment on how cool it is, your tour guide will become noticeably shaken and claim that the last two times there have been perfectly circular rainbows, there were devastating earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. You will then get a little nervous about getting on a flight that evening.

14) Durian fruit works in a pinch if there is not a nearby dog that you can blame for unseemly odors. (Canetto...)

15) You will make jokes constantly about getting "the 'gue" because Dengue fever is hilarious.
 
Temples, schmemples,
Brutalism

Makes Sense

Do you ever feel like every single moment of your life somehow paved the way for one day writing a blog titled "Brutalism"?

Me, too.

This week's Oakton Patch column.

This Makes Me Craugh (Combination Cringe/Laugh)

My last post took me down that best-left-repressed memory path of guys with whom I was involved in the past.

(Not that there were lots of them -- I was a champ at dating boyfriends for YEARS beyond our expiration date as a couple.)

However, during a transition time for me, I dated a guy that I had known for years. Because I had known him so long, it was kind of like dating my brother. If my brother was Jewish and I had sex with him, that is.

One night, we went to a Washington Wizards basketball game at the arena in DC, and had several beverages prior to and during the game.

So I was probably way more animated than I should have been when I spotted my friend, Simon, about twelve rows ahead of us. I jumped up and down and screamed his name and waved. I certainly had the attention of the people in the rows between us, and finally got his -- so he turned around and stood up and waved back.

Which is when I took the opportunity to scream to him (and the twelve rows of people between us):

"HEY, SIMON! THIS IS THE JEW I'M {verb for coitus that my husband found offensive}!" while pointing at my date.

Good Times

Anyone else play the Facebook game with their spouse/partner/significant other/grandparents/priest/preschool class where you post a status update and then, when lots of people comment, you ask them, "I slept with one of the commenters...can you guess which one?"

I'm guessing the ensemble may take a little attention away from the lunch box...

Because I love to be all subversive and offbeat, I did something completely unique yesterday...

...I posted a photo of my daughter's first day of kindergarten on my Facebook page.

I let her choose her own outfit. That would be tie-dye
leggings, a plaid wool skirt and a beadazzled peace
sign shirt.

A while later, my sister-in-law commented, "Is that a Hello Kitty lunch box? Your first lunch box sets the tone of your school career!"

Egad. Is this true? I mean, I may have noted before that my Type-A, uber-achieving, model student sister had a Jonathan Livingston Seagull lunch box (nerdo.)  And I hate to think that my own Waltons lunch box set the tone for my school career (>sigh<...it totally did.)

So now I'm worried. What does the Hello Kitty lunch box say about my kid? And what lunch box did you have as a kid?

Goodnight, John Boy,
Brutalism

(Note: Read this week's Oakton Patch column about my half marathon experience. Then mock me.)

Full Moon

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

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

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

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

Old School

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

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

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

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

My heroes.

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

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

And then I flipped the page in my scrapbook:

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

CSI: Barcelona with Detectives Membrillo & Manchego

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

I hate to see a grown man cry.

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

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

Or any guy in your life, really.

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

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

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



I've Never Known Greater Comfort

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

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

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

I Will Not Be Censored*

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

There. I said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 

TFSMIF*

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

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

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

*Thank Flying Spaghetti Monster It's Friday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agree that she is amazing.

Me (in head): WTF?

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

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

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

Me (in head): WTF?

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

Me (out loud): That is fantastic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Think I Deserve Extra Credit

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

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

That included the following questions:

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

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

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

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

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

I liked my answer better,
Brutalism

What A Pain In The Ass

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

(Yes I am.)

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

Life in the suburbs is fascinating,
Brutalism

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

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

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

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

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

Someone who appreciates irony. Just ask his skinny jeans.

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

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

Praying for humility,
Brutalism

Angst. So Much Angst.

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

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

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

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

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

I'm A Lucky Pierre

I know I kid a lot about swinging.

I kid because I love.

To swing.

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

Every night.

No wonder I'm exhausted.

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

Kickin' It Old School

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

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

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

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

Delusion Is The New Black

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

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

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

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

Now, if only there was a meth Groupon,
Brutalism

It's The Pits

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

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

Pardon me while I swoon.

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

Spoiler alert: I'm a moron.

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

Lady Gaga cannot relate.

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

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

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

>crickets<

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

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

Thank you, sir, may I have another?
Brutalism

Painfully Obvious

Saturday, our Dilettante Activity was DJing.

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

And I'm not even drinking.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

I AM GOING TO KEEP ALL THE PROFITS,
Brutalism

Chew On This

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

And it becomes glaringly apparent at certain times.

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

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

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

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

Almost as funny as cannibalism.

Brutalism

I Said "Klatch"

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

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

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

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

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

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

In related news, I am also no longer fun.

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

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

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

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

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

Backhanded Compliments



Me



My Husband

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

Jerry Mathers Likes My Beaver Shot!

Last week,  I received the best reply to a tweet, EVER:

Look at me hobnobbing with the A-listers.

Air kisses,
Brutalism

Smut Peddlers Redux

When will I learn?

At the end of a long day, when all I want to do is snuggle in with my kid and read her a few books before bedtime that are appropriate for a five-year-old, I'm occasionally blindsided by the filth that children's book authors sneak into their tales.* (Pun not intentional here, but I'm kind of loving it.)

Like last night's bedtime story, "Nate the Great." I'm not even sure where we got this book, and last night was the first time we read it. While I can appreciate that Nate has an open relationship with his mother and can share everything with her, the Puritan in me thinks that he is simply too young for this:

A few pages later, we learn that Nate the Great is forward...and also apparently, into role-playing:

But perhaps the most disturbing part of this "children's book" is the final page:

Of course you like happy endings Nate the Great. And apparently "group activities" involving people named "Fang".

No wonder "rubbers" is plural,
Brutalism

*For more about sneaking filth into tales, see Major Impact.

Letter To The Editor

You know, since I'm relatively new to writing a weeky column, I was not aware of how much planning, forethought and carefully drafted idea outlines are required to ensure that submissions are made on schedule and provide plenty of time for editing and rewrites.

Below, I provide a little insight into how I usually implement this process for my column:

(Note: My official deadline for the column that runs Wednesday morning is Monday evening by COB).

Sunday: Begin feeling dread that I have no ideas for the column. Ask my family if anything funny happened over the weekend. My five-year-old is now conditioned to recite all our weekend activities and then ask, rhetorically, "but what's funny about that?"

Monday: Ignore the looming deadline by focusing on reading blogs and playing scramble on Facebook work, then run errands and hope that my Patch editor has forgotten that it is Monday and that I have a deadline.

Monday evening: Feeling sheepish, e-mail the editor telling her that I am working on some ideas, but hey...if she has any great ideas, I'm certainly open to them.

Tuesday: Send editor an e-mail like this one:

I began an article about Rep. Weiner -- it is my plan to write about how immature all of the jokes are surrounding his name considering his offense while also weaving in a bunch of words like "junk" and "nuts" and "staff." -- All in a completely innocuous way, but enough so that anyone reading it will catch on. It will be R-rated-ish, but very covertly so.

Do you think that would be okay to run or do you think it is not appropriate for Patch? I'll come up with something else if you think this is too much.

Let me know. Thanks,

K

P.S. "Weiner" (hee hee)

Tuesday night: Write like a crazy person, submit final draft to editor and before she has a chance to read the draft, re-submit two additional versions that I have edited slightly.

Late Tuesday night: Editor cracks open the Maker's Mark and begins searching job sites for nice, quiet data entry jobs. Stops responding to my follow-up e-mails.

Wednesday morning: Column runs. Check it out: Pre-packaged Jokes (FYI - my editor wrote the subhead for the column title. She is fantastic.)

Confident this is how the professionals do it,
Brutalism

Fantastic Hunt

(Say the title a few times fast - never gets old.)

How funny is it that Leon's shirt was promoting Polygamy and he
was on a team with two women? Also funny that a random guy
asked us if we were from Utah. (One of my sister wives, pictured here, answered him.)


Yesterday marked the third year that Team Velvet Unitard (polygamists pictured above) attacked the Post Hunt. And yesterday is the closest we have ever come to solving the end game.

Two-thirds of my team live together in DC proper (since they are married, they find this arrangement rather convenient), so they took the bus to Freedom Plaza, slightly cloudy-headed from their experience at Savor the night before. I was coming in from the 'burbs so I took the metro. And upon stepping out of Metro Center Station and rounding the corner onto the street, I texted my team to let them know I was close. (Here is where you will receive a public service announcement about texting and walking: Don't. I managed to miss three steps in front of me and took a pretty spectacular tumble and landed in a painful heap.) A woman walking by (and stifling giggles) asked me if I was okay, and I told her, "No...I really hurt my ankle" and she kept walking quickly toward the Post Hunt stage. (I don't blame her. The Hunt is cut throat.)

Whore.

So, we had a bit of a rough start which convinced us that it was a good omen for our performance in the Hunt. (If I didn't play little games like this with myself, I'd have no reason to get out of bed in the morning.)

While we were getting our instructions at the Main Stage from Gene Weingarten, Dave Barry and Tom Schroeder, Amanda was following the #posthunt on Twitter. One of the especially prescient tweets she came across stated "dorks #posthunt" - a tweet she read while realizing we were surrounded by at least ten people in t-shirts emblazoned with computer coding jokes. (I know what you're thinking -- that probably every last computer-coding t-shirt wearer made it to the Hunt without falling on his face. And to that, I say, "Touche.")

Nerdo.

When the Hunt began, it was apparent that Leon ate his Wheaties (registered trademark) that morning. Within moments, he had figured out the computer keyboard puzzle, then he and Amanda quickly figured out the government agency fill-in-the-blank puzzle. Then we went to the vanity puzzle. We knew that the answer had something to do with the missing mirror, but could not get an answer that we knew was right. (The puzzle at the Post Office seems to be the tough one every year.)

At the Navy Memorial, Amanda took about ten seconds to solve the scratcher puzzle. (And at this point, I was wondering how they were going to gently let me down and tell me they "didn't have a need for my services" next year...).

I somewhat redeemed myself at the Newseum puzzle by understanding that the password we were given to text should be turned upside-down (since an acrobat had provided the puzzle). There were several more steps (literally -- we walked more than a mile to the next clue) in this answer that we solved with a great team effort.

With twenty minutes before we needed to be back at the Freedom Plaza stage to get the final clue, we filled in our grid and came up with a picture of....an outhouse. (We love the Post Hunt creators, even though for the third year in a row we got shy about asking to get a photo taken with Dave Barry.)

We were back at Freedom Plaza for the end game and this year, we split up to follow two different potential thoughts we had on the clue. Mine was a dead end, but Amanda and Leon came up with the next answer on their route, before they eventually hit a dead end (and we found out there were already winners, so they came back to meet me at the main stage).

As the Hunt creators went through the puzzles, it was encouraging to review how well we did this year, and it is always funny to see the winners being presented with a big, ceremonial check. Seeing this reminded Amanda that she owes me money from our last dilettante activity, so she told me that she would pay me with a large, ceremonial check.

Which is fine, really, as my account is at a very large bank.

Still icing and elevating my ankle,
Brutalism

UPDATE: Forgot to mention that Safe House was filming near the site of the Post Hunt. Amanda thought it may be a clue. Or that the Post Hunt staff had ordered craft services for the dedicated Hunters. Alas, neither was true.

Happy Birthday, Jerry Mathers!

In tribute -- my Beaver shot:

Taken long enough ago that the plaid vest was in style.
No, it wasn't.

At Least I Find A Way To Use My Complaining Creatively

For my latest Oakton Patch column, I've gone completely original and written about something no one else has ever written about before. Something no one ever even talks about -- particularly this time of year.

The heat.

Keeping it fresh and new,
Brutalism