MDNA = AWSM

On Saturday, I was offered tickets to the Monday night performance of Madonna's MDNA tour at the Verizon Center in Washington, DC. My desire to see Madonna over the years has been trumped by only one thing -- my desire to not sell a kidney to pay for the tickets to see Madonna. So with the offer of complimentary admission, I immediately said "yes." And I am so glad I did...this is the best show I have ever seen with the exception of G.G.Allin (but that's kind of an apples-to-coprophagia comparison, so it's not really fair...)

So, finally having experienced the Material Girl first-hand, I give you: My first Madonna concert...a timeline:

8:30pm - Babysitter arrives. Feel very hip and cool about going out on a school night before realizing that it took two cups of coffee to keep me awake enough to put on pants.

8:45pm - Smugly wonder why people always complain about DC traffic...as the trip in is blissfully speedy. Granted it is 8:45pm, but we are smug nonetheless.

9:00pm - Walk around Verizon Center. Pop into arena occasionally to listen to DJ Benny Benassi and text club-music-loving-friends to let them know we are in his presence. Bask in return-text jealousy.

9:45pm -  Make new friends in the ladies restroom. (Both with women and those simply dressed as such). Note that it was really not imperative that I did put on pants. Love that new friends happily pose for pictures:


"Like a Virgin" Madonna, "Rock Hard Abs" Madonna, "Desperately Seeking Susan" Madonna
(as if you needed the caption...)

10:00pm - Enjoy great people watching. And by that, I mean a lot of great looking guys watching my husband as he walks by. Feel invisible. Try and convince husband to make out with one of these guys to get us into a sky suite. Unsuccessful in this endeavor.

10:15pm - Begin to fade. Mainline a jumbo diet coke.

10:25pm - Beeline to restroom after mainlining jumbo diet coke.

10:30pm - Show begins. Best described as equal parts Quentin Tarantino movie/church service/burlesque show/high school marching band performance. It is also part circus sideshow, considering how many triple-jointed dancers that look like living Giacometti sculptures are part of this extravaganza.

11:30pm - Become unclear about which presidential candidate Madonna supports, but understand that she wholly supports displaying her bum on a jumbotron:

Not judging. If my bum looked like hers, I would also display it on a jumbotron.
Although it's doubtful that so many people would pay to see it.
 

12:30am - Cannot believe show has been going on for two hours, as it feels like it has just begun. Watch the diva perform one of my favorite Madonna songs, "Like a Prayer," and assume she is serenading me personally. Break my own cardinal rule of concert-going by singing along with the artist. And at the top of my lungs.

12:31am - Notice husband mulling over earlier offer to temporarily switch teams, if only to get away from the lunatic next to him singing "Like a Prayer" at the top of her lungs.

Madonna...singing directly to me. From the jumbotron.

1:00am - After another easy drive home (seriously, commuters -- toughen up!), pay babysitter roughly the equivalent cost of a Madonna ticket.

6:30am - Grab iPhone off nightstand to turn off intrusive and jarring alarm. Inadvertently press reverse camera icon. Become instantly terrified of creature looking back at me and leap out of bed, fueled by pure adrenalin.

9:00am - Make it to work with hair in a ponytail, and after guzzling no fewer than three cups of coffee. Involuntarily "Vogue" with hands when describing show to co-workers.

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A million thanks to Moss Building and Design for making this long-time Madonna fan's dream of seeing her in concert come true:


MDNA WNABE circa 1985 2007

Eager Beavers

I am shocked – SHOCKED! - by the recent rabid beaver attacks in Fairfax County. One was random enough, but two? And in such short succession? It’s no wonder local real estate agents focus a lot more on the “school pyramid” and a lot less on the “increasingly frequent possibility of being attacked by a rabid beaver” when promoting the attributes of living in this County. While impressive creatures, what is impressive about them is also what is so scary. I mean, those are some serious teeth they have. It’s amazing to watch them fell trees with those things-- slit, slash, down they come. And with those felled trees, they industriously build dams which create rivulets, gullies and canals. I am in awe of any creature that can birth canals.


I love Beaver!

A couple of people have posted the news articles about these attacks on my Facebook wall, with juvenile references to the word “beaver.” And frankly, I don’t find this funny at all. It's actually terrifying when you know the details. A fit and trim 83-year old woman who was swimming in Lake Barcroft was the first victim, and when the beaver attacked, her screams were anything but muffled. Even when others came to her aid and continually banged that beaver with oars, it would not loosen its grip. She had many injuries, including large gashes on her arms and legs, and it almost left a gaping hole where her thumb was. But thankfully, she is expected to make a full recovery.

The second incident involved a rabid beaver launching itself out of the water and using the dock as a landing strip before chasing a group of children at Hidden Pond Nature Center. Talk about a hairy situation! They had just completed a fishing competition and noticed the beaver charging toward them. Fortunately, they were able to get away and no one was injured. Still...a very close shave.

I, for one, am concerned and think that it is time to stop beating around the bush and find out why these animals, that are normally as docile as pussycats, are savagely attacking people. It seems to me that figuring this out should be as easy as pie, and I'm planning on being pretty vocal about that if need be, and possibly even creating a Tactical Women's Alert Team. I'll keep flapping my trap until the authorities determine just how widespread a threat this is. Perhaps I’m being crotchety, but I think it should be fairly easy to snatch and analyze all the available data to prevent this from happening to others.

Thanks for letting me vent. Next week, we’ll be back to humor as usual. Which will hopefully put a huge vertical smile on your face.

See You Next Tuesday! (Er, Wednesday).

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P.S. The preceding blog post was actually written and submitted as a column for Oakton Patch and Vienna Patch. My editor pushed to make it happen, but it was ultimately rejected by her supervisor on the grounds that someone was attacked and this is poking fun at that. (No, it's not.)

P.P.S. The most interesting part (heh) of all of this? This column ran last year. And it was one of my most popular columns to date. Something about this smells fishy... (You're welcome.)

P.P.P.S. Some of the references in the column above were provided by my friends, Dan and Kevin, who are nothing if not cunning linguists.

P.P.P.P.S. In researching this column, I sent two other friends an e-mail asking them for as many words as they could think of for "beaver." They both responded immediately with several great suggestions and neither one asked me why. We will be friends for life.

Well this is a little forward...

 

 

 

Marketers really do know a lot about us. 

I got bupkes

Check out my latest column on the Oakton Patch here about deciding on a theme song to introduce me at my nephew's bar mitzvah next month.

a) I'm not Jewish
b) I have no idea which song to use
c) I love this because life really should be more like a musical. (Apparently, my boss does not share this sentiment because he frowned upon my singing and use of jazz hands during our webinar this morning.)

Help a sister out,
Brutalism

Some candy walks into a bar...

I decided yesterday that the reason we don't have a second child is that I have exactly one round of enthusiasm for theme parks, kindergarten graduations and schlepping-to-soccer-practices in me. I'm loving every minute of this stuff with our daughter, but really don't even think I could fake it if I had to do it over again. Come to think of it, it appears that I can barely muster enthusiasm for this go-round.

Judge me if you will, I know my limits.

So I'm content in knowing that our family trip to Hershey Park yesterday will be the one and only time we go there. And it was great. Especially because I never have to go there again. Oh -- I'm so cruel -- please take a look at the 49 million theme parks my child has been to in her six years.

When we were planning to go to Hershey, I showed my daughter some photos from the web site, which is when she announced vehemently that she "was not going to take a picture with a giant candy bar, because that is weird." Which was fine with me. Although she completely changed her tune (not the first time) the nano-second she realized Hershey makes her favorite candy bar:

You'll notice that she is holding a stuffed animal that her father just won for her playing Whac-a-Mole. As we were walking by a game that was just about to begin, Avery said that she wanted to play so Canetto plunked down two dollars and handed Avery the mallet. Avery then got performance anxiety and handed the mallet to Tim as the buzzer went off. He pounded away and hit 150 points first -- and won a little monkey for our little monkey. She was thrilled and he was feeling pretty good about himself until I pointed out the fact that the other three competitors were in the 10-12 year age range -- something he did not notice until I said, "Hey -- great job, there, Kramer."

Actually, maybe that is the reason we don't have a second child...

Better pack my smoking jacket...

The following is a recent e-mail conversation among me and two friends I have known since we were about seven. We did not really start hanging out until high school, at which time there were lots of shenanigans. And by "shenanigans" I of course mean "drinking."

I am going to Va. Beach (where I grew up) to visit my Mom in a couple of weeks, and wanted to see these guys who also live there, as it has been way too long since we've gotten together.

And now we're all grown up and married with children. Although in some ways, nothing has really changed since high school:

Old Friend #1: Sounds like my wife would like us to host at the house - and it would be easier for the kids to sneak beer out of the garage fridge this way. So who is ok with that plan on the 28th? I can also introduce you to the new TV. We can go with a Fifty Shades of Grey theme or a theme of "wear your favorite Made in China Olympic gear."

Brutalism: 28th is good here. And thank you so much for hosting. I figure one more visit to your house and we'll have almost a complete set of silver...

We'll bring drinks and dessert and butt plugs if we go with theme Option 1. If we go with theme option 2, we'll bring Chinese-made Olympic gear in addition to food and drinks...and probably still butt plugs, which add a touch of whimsy and fun to any gathering (IMHO). What is everyone drinking these days? Beer? Wine? Spirits? Can I find out how many drinks it takes Old Friend #2 to call 911 on himself?

Old Friend #2: My wife just said, "Great...just great. They're bringing the butt plugs, now what in the hell are we supposed to bring?”

Puttin' a cork in it,
Brutalism

Bittersweet

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet!
Brutalism

What's Not To Like?

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

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

Hot Cross Bunions

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps I've said too much.

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

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

Now looking for concerts that attract a younger demographic,

Brutalism

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

Old Friends

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

Yeah, I don't either.

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

Actually, I'm talking about prom.

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

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

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

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

Talk about sticking it to the man.

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

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

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

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

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

Lip syncing for my life,

Brutalism

Famous Men I've Touched

Thursday, I did my first-ever speaking engagement at the Vale School House in Oakton, Virginia, and I loved every.single.second. and did not want it to end. During the evening, I shared this reading of one of my favorite posts:

(NOTE: I did omit mention of the "euphemisms for masturbation" category during my reading. And I think that was the right choice. Although for the record, I'm sure the category would have been included in the double jeopardy round and that "What is Shaking hands with Abraham Lincoln?" would have been the answer to a daily double.)

People laughed in all the right places, with the exception of after the line about "cities I've thrown up in". (Vomit haters.) And then, during the Q&A portion of the evening, someone inquired, "Who are the famous men you've touched?" And I drew a  complete blank. Seriously? Was my misspent youth so crazy that I cannot even remember all of the famous men with whom I've had skin-to-skin contact?

That night, I went home and compiled the names of these men, so I'll be ready the next time someone asks. (My humorist career should skyrocket after killing with the SRO crowd at the school house, so I'm guessing that the next person who asks me this will likely be Anderson Cooper. And if so, I'll make sure he is added to the list.)

Listed in order of importance, based on what each has contributed to humanity from greatest contributions to most minimal contributions, I give you...the list of famous men I've touched:

Joe E. Tata ("Nat" from the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210)
Jeff Cockey
Jeffrey Ross
Todd Glass (He announced that he was gay shortly after. I'm sure this is unrelated.)
Tom Selleck
Joe Mantegna
Jerry Mathers (who really likes my beaver shot, BTW)
Joe Frazier
John Riggins
Buzz Aldrin
Jimmy Carter  (Sure, Jimmy Carter won the Nobel Peace Prize...but did he teach Dylan McKay responsibility?)

I'll never wash my hands again,
Brutalism

Getting Lucky

(This will so not be the post you expected based on that title -- apologies.)

It's like that old joke about what you get when you play a country song backwards...you get your wife back, you get your job back, you get your dog back...

Just 24 hours ago, I submitted this week's Oakton Patch column -- a column based on the theme of what a big, fat loser I am of late. (Yes, OF LATE. Shut up, everyone who knows me.) And between the time I submitted it and the time it ran this morning, I found out that my iPhone was turned it at Penn Station and my good friends John and Meredith are currently working on retrieving it and shipping it to me, and I also found out that a wonderful neighbor had two tickets to the White House Easter egg roll that she offered up. (I have not stopped smiling today.)

However, I also discovered that my daughter is #58 on the wait list for the magnet school -- so not all has moved on from Schleprockism.

Just mostly.

Off to buy a lottery ticket,
Brutalism

I Should Sue

On Saturday, while watching The Hunger Games in the theater, I was so startled by the appearance of the muttations that I tensed enough to strain a muscle in my calf.

I wish I was kidding.

Which was awesome timing as I was running the Cherry Blossom 10-miler on Sunday. I've avoided this race for a few years, as the last time I ran it, I ended up requiring knee surgery. (Though, to be fair, I ran it three weeks after running a half marathon at a pretty good pace.) And grimacing and curling up in a fetal position while crossing the finish line.

In order to prevent any injuries from happening again, I did a lot of preparation and training this time around. And by that, I mean I did approximately three training runs over the past few months.

I'm an idiot.

But guess what? I finished it. While I did not complete it in great time, I did complete it in a non-humiliating time. And I got to be there while my friend, Amanda, PR'd by THIRTEEN MINUTES.

Even better? When I get a massage tonight, I can blame the tight calves on the run and not on The Hunger Games.

I'm a finely tuned athlete,
Brutalism

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.