It's a Maximum Security Sausage, Too

Are you familiar with the game "Sausage"?

The rules are simple. You ask questions and another person HAS to answer them all with the word "sausage" and whoever laughs first loses.

As you may imagine, it is my favorite game and I lose every single time.

I was playing the game with my 8-year-old daughter tonight and she asked, "What does Daddy comb his hair with?" In a strategic move to try and throw her, I did not answer "sausage" and instead asked the clarifying question,"Daddy who lives here or your real, prison Daddy?"

And without missing a beat, she totally deadpanned, "my prison Daddy." 

Well played, grasshopper sausage.

Prancing in the Dark

Recently, I spent a little time with one of my idols. Someone who has gone head to (camel) toe with the other competition in the health and fitness industry and really made a name for herself. I'm talking, of course, about Joanna Rorhback, the founder of Prancercise.


Dear God! I look terrified.

She came through DC to offer classes and prancercise her way through the streets of Chinatown. (Can you imagine looking up from your Scorpion bowl to see that moving down the street?) About one millisecond after the classes were announced, my neighbor e-mailed me telling me to pick a time to go with her. This past Saturday was that day.

As a nod to the prancercise style, I coiffed my hair and wore a statement necklace. Others in the class of eleven people were not quite as subtle. There was a mother-and-daughter team all decked out in nonsense (meaning head to toe leopard gear and skintight gold lame shorts) and another couple of friends who looked as though they had been styled by Richard Simmons.

Which all would have made for an extremely fun class if  only someone had let Joanna in on the joke.

From the moment we met her, we realized that this woman is 100% sincere about her exercise program and does not realize that she is first and foremost a personality, and secondly an exercise guru.

This realization made the mother decked out in a leopard leotard dissolve into giggles, at one point completely turning her back to her gold-lame-shorts-bedecked daughter because looking at her would make her laugh even harder. Joanna's response to this? Asking the mother to come to the front of the class and stand next to her, as though she was a first grader being scolded. (This same woman was scolded again later in class for suggesting that we "dance" some more. Joanna gave her a look of disdain then corrected her, saying, "we can PRANCERCISE" some more.")

(Aside: When I temped during college breaks, I worked in one office where I asked a co-worker where I could find a manila folder. She also corrected me with about the same level of disdain, saying, "the VANILLA folders are in the cabinet over there.) Live and learn, I say.

Perhaps the biggest disappointments were that the 90 minute class lasted just 60, that Joanna had merch on display BUT NOT FOR SALE, and that even though I ran a half marathon a few weeks prior to this and felt great after, I limped away from Prancercise with shin splints and a sore calf. I would be completely humiliated, but thankfully our classmates took the focus completely away from my prancercise injuries:

Very Colorful

Last night was back to school night at my daughter's school. (Tagline: School events: All the uncomfortable mingling of networking events. None of the alcohol.)

In preparation for the parents seeing the new classroom, all the kids in class did construction-paper portraits of themselves to display. And at the bottom of the portraits were identifying facts the children had written about themselves. 

As we walked into the classroom, all the parents were tasked with finding their kid's portrait, then putting a post-it note on the picture telling the child that we had found it. What a cute little icebreaker of a get-to-know-you, right? I'm sure the teacher figured this was a no-brainer, as the portraits resembled our children, the information they provided further identified them, and all good parents recognize their own child's handwriting. Besides, even if all else failed, by simply using a process of elimination a parent could find their child among the 27 portraits. 

(And sure...that may work just fine for children that do not produce this kind of artwork.)

All of these things went through my mind as I went up and down the entire wall four times, finding nothing that resembled my child. I asked for help from other parents, looked on the opposite wall to see if it was there for some reason, and finally -- not wanting to further embarrass myself in front of all the quality parents, convinced myself that she must have missed the activity and simply gave up. 

So when I picked her up from school this afternoon, I explained that I could not find her portrait at back to school night and asked if she would show me where hers was. And she did: 

(scroll down...)

The upside: my child obviously does not see color

The downside: apparently, I do

In my defense: the kid has never once worn a bow in her hair

Not unrelated: she is going to be Gabby Douglas for Halloween. 

Beaches be Loco

Since I last checked in, I have gotten around (insert "just like high school" joke here). In the past few weeks, I shuttled coast to coast -- first out to LA for a work conference, then a quick stop at home to retrieve my family, then to Virginia Beach to run a half marathon. Carefree days of summer, indeed.

The conference was for the travel and tourism industry, which means that many cities and tourist destinations attend to try and lure you with extravagant parties and ridiculous gift bags. The first night I was in town, I attended a cocktail party at the California Science Center that had a Mad Men theme. I mistakenly thought this meant I should wear long gloves and drink martinis. Instead, I spent the evening fetching coffee for men while rebuffing unwanted advances. 

I said, "a new car" and gestured accordingly about 10 times while
trying to get this picture. I love woody wagons.

Another night, a group scheduled a private tour of Universal Studios. While on the tour, the tram ahead of mine spontaneously combusted, causing an emergency evacuation. I'm sorry -- but being involved in a tram emergency is akin to being in rehab for a wine cooler addiction -- you get no street cred for that. Universal is also where I received a very poor excuse for a gift bag, which caused me to throw a bit of a tantrum. I'm not proud of this -- mainly because it made me indistinguishable from about 80% of Hollywood. And let's just say that some people know it's time to leave LA when the acting thing doesn't work out...others pack it in when they can no longer deal with the traffic...I know it's time to head east when I angrily dismiss my nine millionth event gift bag as "sub par."

During the actual conference, a man I do not know walked up to me and asked if I was "drinking tequila with Norm during the Cancun trip because, if so, he has a photo of me." When I responded that I was not there, he looked very confused and stopped scrolling through his iPhone pictures. I need to find my doppelganger and make friends with her because she is way more fun than I. One day, I want to be the woman some random stranger recognizes from her tequila-drinking escapades. With Norm.

With all those hijinks as a lead-in, the half marathon was kind of anticlimactic. Save for the butt chafe and the fact that I prancercised the entire distance. Also, the medal. (For the run, not the chafe...although it was record-breaking...)

Literally a pain in the butt, 
Brutalism

Pre-packaged Jokes

This post first ran as a column in the (probably-soon-to-be-erstwhile) Oakton Patch on June 8, 2011. Apparently, it is something that will be relevant every couple of years:

Carlos Danger. In a moment of self-reflection.
Or perhaps just taking a selfie.

Subtitle: Thanks to one swollen ego, humorists get off easy

Unless you have been in a Lunesta coma for the past 48 hours, you know by now that New York Representative Anthony Weiner admitted to tweeting a picture of his nether regions to some women … both before and after his marriage.

Really, the only reason I even care enough to comment on this is that I feel strongly about one aspect of the situation. It’s not that I am worried about whether he is capable of doing his job even though he has some interesting hobbies. It is not that my new reality includes reading phrases such as “bulging underpants” with increasing frequency in headlines. No, the part that bothers me is that the scandal has made it so easy for comedians and humorists to get a ton of great material without putting forth much effort.

Sure, he should have been much more of a standup guy and been honest about the whole thing from the beginning, when suspicions were first aroused. That may have prevented him from plodding head-long into this mess. I know it would have been hard, but doesn’t he have a trusted staff that he could have utilized to run some ideas up the flagpole before going off half-cocked and lying to the American public about his escapades?

And come on, do you really think the media would have gone as nuts if he had just been a straight shooter when this information first emerged? Currently, he claims he is not resigning, and his constituents do not seem as though they want to give him the shaft. Even so, I am confident there will still be some stiff consequences. He should definitely bone up on appropriate apologies for a man in his position.

Now that the ball is in his court, he should follow any good tips he receives about clearing up his reputation. I’m sure that if he makes a firm commitment to being an upright citizen and ethical leader from this point forward, we can all move on, forget about this, and let him go back to being the hot dog member of Congress he is at work – and the family jewel that his wife used to think he was at home, during the private parts of their life together.

All that aside, I’m sorry to get so prickly. I’m just so sick of all this junk and really wish it would all peter out so Congress and the media could get back to work.

And that all the so-called humorists out there could get back to actually earning their jokes.

Flee to the Cleve and Get to the Pitt

Our big family vacation this summer was to Cleveland and Pittsburgh.

No, we weren't being punished.

My mother was born in Cleveland. She was there celebrating her birthday with her husband to show him the hospital where she was born and the house where she lived until she was two and moved to New York.

So we decided to surprise her there. We went to her hotel room on the morning of her birthday and knocked on her door, which is when her husband had to request that she put on underpants. (Something she shared with us repeatedly, while giggling every time.)

>thrusts sharpened pencil in ear in attempt to erase memory area of brain<

After my mom put on her underpants (and the rest of her clothes), we spent the day doing all the great stuff there is to do in Cleveland....

...and when we were done with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we headed to Pittsburgh for the rest of the weekend. (See what I did there? Oooh...gotcha, Cleveland!)

Mom and her underpants celebrating her birthday. 

Also in Cleveland. I think art is a good choice for my kid, as she is not much of en speller.
Then again, neither is the charming person who wants "to do" Hally Berry.

Pittsburgh was great. We went to the Warhol Museum then ended up walking around town until we happened upon an interesting-looking restaurant. While we dined outside, we chatted up a woman (and her dog) who is a blogger (the woman, that is)...and who has realized my dream of appearing on GOMI several times. (She used to be a master in the regurgitation arts and tends to bit a bit judge-y about what others eat and how they look.) Whatever. She was charming in person.

Our picture outside the restaurant. With Gwendolyn.

And recently, we even made a guest appearance in her blog, because I'm all about letting strangers take photos of my family and paste them all over the Innernets.

We also rode the Incline, said "you'ins" a lot, and after being told we needed to eat there, tried a sandwich at Primanti Brothers which may be the most overrated (and under delicious) sandwich I've ever tasted.

Perhaps a nice beach vacation next year?

Things That Are Making Me Laugh

Even at 50% off, I'm not sure this is a deal I'd want...

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

Yes. A semi was rear-ended near Climax...

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And most exciting? My newest Twitter follower. And boyfriend. 

I heart the Internet,
Brutalism

UPDATE: DC Blogs linked to this post today in the blog round up. I love that DC Blogs publicly acknowledges great writing. And the writing on this blog, too.

Sellin' It

Two Fridays ago, I sold people.

Apparently this is okay in the name of philanthropy. At least that's what the good folks of the Vienna Volunteer Fire Department (VVFD) told me and my co-emcee/auctioneer, Stacey.

That's right...we auctioned off firefighters to raise money for the VVFD.

We even dressed in the official colors of the VVFD. Which hopefully diverted
their attention from the fact that we were gavel-happy and would roast them
mercilessly in them name of sadism raising money.   

Stacey and I go way back to the time we worked for a three-person advertising agency in DC and delivered expensive bottles of wine to clients as holiday gifts. A time during which I brightly said to one client upon presenting him with the bottle, "this is the Cadillac of wines" before remembering he was the General Manager of a Lexus dealership.

With that kind of success under our belts, we were ready to tackle human trafficking. (Note to self: practice the way things sound in head before saying out loud...).

Highlights from our banter included:

• References to Sharknado, Randy Mantooth from Emergency! and jokes about the French
• A bit about one firefighter "not being able to be here tonight because he is donating a kidney to an orphan -- and by that, we mean he is attending his future brother-in-law's stag party."
• Mentioning a fun fact that the Deputy Chief provided about himself, noting that he "enjoys workouts using strange items like sand bags, sledge hammers and kettle bells." (We said, "That doesn't seem so weird. It's the ball gags that are making people talk.")
• Talking about one firefighter attending University of Pittsburgh where she will pursue her dream of always losing football games to West Virginia becoming an emergency pediatric physician
• Pronouncing Tobias Funke's name incorrectly and immediately getting corrected by every.single.person.in.the.audience
• Me (referring to one firefighter up for auction who had a shift that night and could not be there in person):  "You know, it's hard to get people excited about bidding when they cannot see the merch." Stacey: "Did you just refer to people as "merch?"

Jeff went for $250. Which of course made us open bidding for Tina at $251.
She ended up going for $300. Girls rule, boys drool. 

Stacey had the most successful line of the night: (Note: we had noticed earlier that there were about 6 bottles of hand sanitizer on the buffet table. Firefighters = germaphobes.) So, when Jeff Cockey (pictured above) swarthily made his way up to the stage, stopping along the way to wink and flirt with every woman in the venue, Stacey remarked:

"Remember...there is plenty of hand sanitizer available."

I had the least successful line of the night: 

"Jeff joined the VVFD because when he lived in LA he found a man face down in his gym's hot tub and there was nothing he could to until the medic arrived. From that point on, he wanted to make sure that there was always something he could do in that type of situation...He also wanted to make sure the gym bleached the hot tub." 

Too soon?

We were hoping that our shtick would bring some comparisons to the comedy stylings of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey....possibly the name Amy Schumer would be bandied about. Instead? We got a "Hoda and Kathie Lee" and "those two old guy Muppets up on the balcony."

I'm actually understanding this comparison. 

Hundreds of millions of dollars (or something like that -- I'm not great with math) were raised for the VVFD. And really -- all Sharknado and ball gag references aside, isn't that the point?

Settin' it on fire, 

Brutalism

She Doesn't Have A Prayer

Avery (upon noticing a woman in the car next to us fingering the rosary hanging from the rear view mirror in her car): "What's is she doing?"

Me: "She's probably praying on the rosary. You know how Daddy grew up Catholic? It's part of the Catholic religion. In Catholicism,  people go all the way around the rosary, saying a specific prayer for each bead."

Avery: "Huh. (pondering...)...That sounds like a lot of work."

Amen, Sister,
Brutalism

Le Jour De Gloire Est Arrive? Mais Non!

I celebrated Bastille Day with many traditional and meaningful activities. It began with baguette relay races at PAUL restaurant in DC and ended with a (non-French) friends' Bastille Day party in Bethesda -- all while dressed in the red, white and blue colors of the French flag. (We upped the nerd-o factor even more as we walked to the restaurant through the crowded streets of DC looking like the most rabidly patriotic tourist family to ever visit our Nation's Capital. We definitely had a certain (what do the French say?), "I don't know what.")

Ave playing a fishing game at PAUL.
Excuse me. I mean "poisson-ing" game.

Honoring the day was important for us because we have such a rich French heritage. And by that, I mean I took three years of public school French, during which I spiked my extra-credit buche de noel with some kind of brandy from my parents' liquor cabinet, earning me a solid "A" from Mademoiselle Bennett.

Lest you think I'm some neophyte in the Bastille Day games arena, years ago I handily secured 3rd place at the Les Halles Bastille Day waiters' race. (Insert haughty French laugh here.) A somehow perfect bonding experience with my friend, Kath, who was part of instigated the buche de noel shenanigans.

Me & Kath. With our l'eau and pommes frites. And big winnins'

The race at PAUL had a massive attendance of about 50 people who were willing to sweat like pigs in the blistering heat while waiting for the opportunity to win a $25 gift card. While it sounded quite promising to do a short walking race passing off a baguette in lieu of a baton, you must remember that this is DC. And even though the race sponsor said no fewer than five times that we were to walk -- every other team ran. Worse? No one was disqualified for this infraction.

Me. WALKING with the baguette/baton.

Canetto. Also a rule follower. 

I really don't know what is more "Washington" -- cheating to win a "fun" race or being as incensed as I am about the injustice of it all.

All I know is that some vin and excellent food at the next stop certainly took the edge off.

Real French people!

This is the work of a hostess who loves a theme.


Jour de bastille heureux, les tricheur,

                            Brutalism

At least we didn't sell her panties to a geek

Here in the DC metro area, we don't have a lot of celebrity sightings. (Sure, sometimes we see people who are on television -- but they are always pundits...or Senators...or the President...) Bor....ring....

So you can imagine how refreshing it is to be included on the guest list for the anniversary party of a PR firm that hires a real celebrity to mingle at its celebration every year, which is how I've had the opportunity to rub shoulders with the following folks:

The "perfect ten," Bo Derek, for the 10th anniversary in 2007:

Look! It's Bo Derek. And my
gigantic melon!

Buzz Aldrin, the astronaut who piloted Apollo 11, for the 11th anniversary in 2008:

I've never been this close to greatness. (Well, except here.)

Boxing legend Joe Frazier, with whom we were invited to "go twelve rounds" for the 12th anniversary in 2009:

Instead, I just made him laugh.

Former New York Jets and Washington Redskins football star, John Riggins, with whom we were invited to "make our own luck" at the 13th anniversary party:

I was not lucky enough to persuade him to say, "Loosen up, Brutalism baby..."
And not for lack of trying.

I missed the party for the 14th and the 15th anniversaries...rather than getting to meet some interesting character, the big draw at the party those years was the lease on some fancy car for a year (Cobra Schmobra) so I opted out.

But for the 16th anniversary this year, the firm came back huge...with none other than #3 on Canetto's "list":


This was a total set-up. On our way to meet Ms. Ringwald, Tim quickly printed this up
and left it on my car seat then pretended it fell out of his wallet inadvertently.

Canetto does look a little like Molly's husband. Which might
explain her nice smile here.

See? 

But then Canetto's shiny wife happened along and ruined everything...

My friend, Terri, who you may recognize from her earlier work in "I will talk to absolutely anybody about absolutely anything" and who has also attended all of these parties with me, decided that a photo with Molly was not enough. (Sure, she may have been emboldened by Molly telling her that she "smelled nice," which we all know means, "I will not be satisfied until this results in a restraining order.") So, when Molly finished up her photos with the guests and headed toward the restroom with her handler, Terri strode purposefully after her, and -- wanting to see how this would play out -- so did I. 

I actually used the restroom, while Terri spent many, many minutes positioned at the sinks waiting for Molly to exit her stall so she could ambush talk to her. Once Molly emerged from the stall, she again noted how good Terri smelled, Terri returned the compliment, some mutual smelling of perfumes on each other's necks occurred and yadda...yadda...yadda....Terri is now on the Christmas card list.

 

The 17th anniversary cannot possibly top this.

  

A little insight

About three times a year, I decide that I'm boring.

This happens when I don't have the next big thing to which I can look forward. Whether a vacation, a race, an event...I'm convinced that if something interesting is not going on in my life I will stagnate, age about 10 years, and then no one will want to be my friend, my husband will lose interest and I will die penniless and alone.

This is only a slight exaggeration.

So during these times, I overreact. (What? No!) Which would explain why I am taking a writing class, training for a half marathon, serving as an auctioneer for a firefighter auction and going zip lining. 

All in the next two weeks.

I go from nothing going on to too much going on to the point where I get overwhelmed, am not fun to be around, my friends think I'm a pill, my husband wants to throttle me and after spending all the money for classes and entry fees and training programs...I am penniless and alone.

Shocker that Mensa has not made the to-do list,
Brutalism

The Big Squeeze

Sometimes I forget where I live.

And not just after over-indulging at a party. Like the end-of-first-grade-pizza-lunch rager I attended recently at my daughter’s elementary school.

And also not because I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. 

I mean it figuratively. But those times I do forget, something inevitably happens that reminds me some parts of the DC metro area  are rather more affluent than I can even comprehend.

This weekend was one of those times. While driving through the area on Saturday, my friend and I happened upon a roadside lemonade stand staffed by two girls who appeared to be about 8 years old. Feeling nostalgic and wanting to reward their entrepreneurial spirit, we pulled over and offered to treat my daughter, who was also in the car with us, to a cup.

I parked and the three of us walked over to the cardboard box cum business counter and ordered one cup of lemonade.

And one of the little pint-sized highway robbers said matter-of-factly, “That will be 50 cents, please.”

FIFTY CENTS! For one six-ounce cup of lemonade! That she first crammed full of 19 ice cubes and then used only enough lemonade to fill the cup halfway, so noticeably trying to increase her profit margin that my friend asked, "Could you please pour a little more in there?" The tiny thief added one teensy splash, thus ensuring that 48.5 of those cents would effectively line her greedy little pockets.

And yet....YET....because I am an avid supporter of small and women-owned-business and wanted to encourage this little felon, I also decided that I would tip her. Then, she would learn the elation and freedom that we all did as kids when the lemonade stands we operated earned us enough to buy our own candy! The power! The independence! The CANDY!!! Helping her experience that feeling (sugar rush?) -- something that is only appreciated after you've worked hard to earn something -- was well worth the extra quarter to me.

When I handed her the additional 25 cent tip, she said to me, "Oh, my sister will be so happy" and then mumbled something else I could not discern. My friend had a funny look on her face and when we got back in the car, asked me, "Do you believe what she said?" When I told her I did not hear it, she explained, "Well, I'm not sure you want to know. She said that her sister would be so happy because she is going to Germany."

Is it wrong to hope that little shyster buys some Kinder surprise eggs with that money?

Brutalism 

Going to the Chapel

Last week, I took the day off work to ride around Washington, DC, in a limousine while sipping champagne and hobnobbing with celebrities.

...or as I like to call it..."Thursday."

In the interest of total transparency, the hobnobbing consisted of seeing CNN anchor John King on the sidewalk in front of the Capitol while we stopped there to take photos. And since I'm not entirely sure what the definition of hobnobbing is, we'll assume the sidewalk sighting counts as such.

John King was right here. Hobnobbing. (Sure, he
flubbed it big time with the whole Boston bombing
situation...but hey...great hair!)

And truthfully, this was a very special occasion -- the wedding of two friends who have been committed to each other for 22 years and wed in DC because they are still not permitted to legally marry in Kentucky where they live. (I do know the definition of  "ridiculous.")

After sightseeing in the District from the limo, we went to the DC Courthouse for the ceremony, and I have to say...it was refreshing to finally be there for an occasion that did not require me to "lawyer up." (The same cannot be said for my friend, Amy, whose purse corkscrew contraband was confiscated by the Courthouse guards after it was identified in the metal detector.)

The ceremony itself was so touching and emotional and made more so when Amy's son (the grooms' nephew) proclaimed loudly, "those are happy tears!" when he saw nary a dry eye in the house. Kids rock.

The ringbearer. In his Spider-Man sneaks.

Following the wedding, we did more sightseeing and also experienced some safety checks as our limo was pulled over by DC's finest twice so they could search the trunk and open the door to ensure we were not planning a terror attack. Both times this occurred, the officers opened the back door to see three young children in car seats sipping on their juice boxes. As friend, Pete, noted, "even the terrorists aren't that cruel."

Terrorists also don't usually have disco lights in the ceiling. Losers.

The day ended with a beautiful reception at Amy's house in Arlington. And more celebrity hobnobbing:

It is also where I learned some new math. That being that no matter how many gay men attend a party as guests, their combined total body fat will not equal more than 2%.

Mazel tov to Steven and Michael,
Brutalism

P.S. Thanks to DC Blogs for linking to this post today!

Ironically, she's a little Vixen

It has been a tough spring, what with all the bombings, natural disasters and government scandals. (Not to mention that Joran van der Sloot has given his heart to another). >sigh<

But what's great about life is that just when you think there is no end to the bad news along comes something that renews your faith in humanity, gives you a sense of enthusiasm and gratitude, and just makes you happy.

I'm talking, of course, about Prancercise.

If you have not yet heard about this, prancercise is a new fitness craze that's sweeping the nation a desolate pathway in some vague Floridian town. It is called Prancercise because it was designed to mimic a horse's prancing movements. And because it really is the only word that can adequately describe what you are about to see...

Please watch the video then continue on to the discussion questions below:

1.  Do you think she should consider calling this Pantsercise? Because, frankly, isn't that really the focus of the video?

2. Similarly, this story and the one about the beaver attack in Belarus were both in my news feed on the same day. I clicked on this video, mistakenly thinking it was the one associated to the beaver story. Is it understandable that it took several minutes before I realized my error?

3. Has it been your experience that the best way to determine the strenuousness of a workout is by whether it requires a coiffure, full makeup and a statement necklace?

4. If so, is Tony Horton totally missing the boat?

5. If you're prancercising east at 35 miles per hour and you pass someone prancercising west at 45 miles per hour, at what point do you both just admit that hallucinogenic drugs are frighteningly easy to come by at Century Village?

 

I will never look at the produce section the same way again

While in the midst of a long overdue hangout session with two very funny friends this weekend, one of these friends regaled us with tales from a Steampunk convention he had recently attended - a meeting that shared convention space with an alternative lifestyle group.      

(Yes, it is rather obvious how I make choices about the people with whom I opt to spend my time.)

We were eating lunch while we had this discussion and I noticed that he passed on one of the food items offered because it contained avocado -- claiming that he is allergic. I had never heard of anyone being allergic to avocado, so I asked, "really?" And he said, "Yup. Avocado and latex both."

To which I, of course, replied, "Well then, you must have missed out on a lot of the networking opportunities at the alternative lifestyle convention."

Not missing a beat, he said, "Oh...there were plenty of other rooms that featured tropical fruit/rubber product combinations."

And I inquired, "Like the mango neoprene room?"

And now I have a great suggestion if anyone I know becomes a drag queen and needs the perfect stage name.

Mango Neoprene's BFF,
Brutalism

Hot Pants

Not long ago, I was pulling papers out of my daughter's backpack that she brought home from school. As I started to look at one piece of paper, she quickly grabbed it from me, crumpled it up and threw it away.

Of course, as soon as she left the room, I retrieved it from the trash can, smoothed it out and read what she was so intent on hiding: a note to someone in her class. More specifically, a boy in her class. Most specifically, Noah B.

The note read, "Dear Noah B., this is how you get to my house: (and had directions to our house as best she knew)" Fortunately, first graders are neither a) great with directions nor b) can they drive. So I figured this was a harmless little flirtation.

A harmless little flirtation that we had kind of forgotten about until my daughter's class picture was sent home yesterday. She's a tall kid who would logically be in the back row of the photo. But instead, she is sitting up in the front next to guess who? NOAH B.

I shared this story with a friend and mentioned that I was going to look into a restraining order against Noah B.

She looked at me sympathetically then said slowly, "I don't know how to tell you this...but I don't think Noah B. is the problem."

Paybacks

Throughout our years as Dilettantes, the other Dilettantes and I have often owed each other money for purchasing tickets to events and classes and that PADDLE BOARDING LESSON THAT I BOUGHT MORE THAN A YEAR AGO AND THAT WE BETTER USE IN THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, DAMMIT.

As the reimbursements are pretty much the only checks any of us writes anymore (follow that lead retired folk who insist on going to the Safeway near my office at lunch time and using 433 coupons per shopping excursion and then writing a check for the (well-discounted, to be fair) purchase making your total transaction time equal roughly 17 minutes and 200 blood pressure points), we have found a way to derive maximum enjoyment from them. And that is through the competition to write the most embarrassing/juvenile comment in the check memo section with the hope of mortifying the depositor. (How else would we show we care?)

Naturally, these have involved a lot of references to underpants, derogatory statements about each other's hometowns, balances due for swinger and furry conventions, Scientology E-meter reading fees and one I received in the mail just yesterday:

My bank teller is entirely humorless which makes this little exercise that much more fun.

Doing anything for money,
Brutalism

No Sleep Til Brooklyn

For as many times as I have been to the NYC area, it has been only to Manhattan and one great trip to (and an ill-fated return home from) Long Island. So when recently trying to find a halfway point to meet up for a getaway weekend with two of my very best friends - one who lives in Providence, RI, and one who lives near me in Washington, DC, we decided to explore hip-and-trendy Brooklyn.

(Because we're fancy, we took the bus. Because I'm me, I was immediately shat upon while disembarking said bus:)

Yes. That's bird poop on my leg. 

We had fun staying in Park Slope and exploring the different neighborhoods of Brooklyn and checking out local gems like Beacon's Closet and Bierkraft, running through Prospect Park, and strolling through the Brooklyn Flea Market (where we had a Jemima Kirke sighting.) The weather was perfect, the company was great and the conversation was stimulating. Particularly the impassioned discourse we had during dinner one evening about which of the Sweathogs were still with us and which had gone to the great discotheque in the sky. (It is here I'd like to note that my friend, Kath, not only scored 100% in the "guess the fate of the Sweathog" game, but the very next day ran into a friend of hers on the street --  a Pulitzer-prize winning playwright and genius grant recipient. (This is why we've been friends for so many years. Oh, and also because of this.)

Brooklyn Flea Market chalkboard vendor. With a sense of humor.

If there is one bone I have to pick with Brooklyn, it only about the numerous bagel places throughout the city. Not that they aren't delicious -- it's just that there are so many that when it comes to naming these establishments, the owners seem to be struggling to come up with new and creative names. Which is why places named La Bagel Delight and Bageltique exist. And do not get me started on this bastardization:

No. Just no.

Can't believe that's the best name they could fineygl,
Brutalism

If I Could Save Time In A Bottle

I have a huge catchall jar in my home office where I toss things that I cannot part with, yet which also have no real value other than reminding me that my youth included a lot of inside jokes I can no longer remember and a lot of mentions of the sex I was not having.

Feeling nostalgic this morning,  I opened the jar and went through the contents to discover the following treasures:

1 - a ring from the Freedom Train field trip 

2 - a piece of the Berlin wall I hacked off myself during a trip to Germany in 1990

3 - two original "I want my MTV" buttons

4 - an "I had sex with ET" button and a "hot cross nuns" button. I have no idea what either of these things means, but am confident that at some point I thought these made me subversive and interesting.

5 - a jaw harp (WTF?)

6 - two Buffalo Sabres hockey pucks (because I am such a huge sports fan)

7 - the cork from the bottle of champagne Canetto had the night we got engaged (and that we offered to share with the homeless man on the steps next to us -- he opted for a beer instead)

8 - the wrapper from a Cohiba cigar

9- an "Ira" key chain. Neither an homage to the Irish Republican Army (although, they do have a number of fantastic premium items available) nor to my retirement account. Rather, it is an homage to my friend, Ira, who not only made this in shop class and presented it to me as a gift, but now that we're adults, hosts us for butt plug themed parties. 

10 - assorted 80s band buttons (ooohh...the meat puppets...I was so punk)

11 - a humongous button from my tenure as a waitress at the Red Lobster, something I wanted to commemorate after 1) bursting into tears when a customer noted that his "guaranteed 15-minute lunch" took 20 minutes to get delivered to his table and 2) waiting on Rerun from What's Happening! (he was a great tipper). 

12 - a 10 cent stamp from the United Nations

13 - Assorted junior high, high school and college pins - (is it really possible to have Marlin pride?)

14 - a pin commemorating my short stint as the lead singer of all-girls' band [sic]

15 - some kind of psychedelic guitar pick and a giant penny

Wondering when to break it to my daughter that this is her inheritance,

Brutalism

Here's Mud in your Annulus

One of my best friends get daily drilling reports for the projects on which her company is working.
 

And if you've never been privy to one of these (and if you have not, I suggest you make a friend in drilling right away and ask them to include you on their report distribution), understand that they always include gems such as these:

• Ran string and plumb-bob down annulus
• Circulated annulus clean
• Nippled up BOPE on test stump, fabricated choke lines
• Nippled up spacer spool, double gate, and riser
• Test casing and blind rams
• Pre-heat and butt welded
• Toolpusher: (colleague's name listed) (Not as bad as "Team Diarrhea" but still)
• Current Operations: POOH and lay down
• Mud in the annulus

And this is why now instead of toasting with our longtime favorite cheer of "Prost!" we now toast each other with "Here's Mud in your Annulus!"

And which is also why we find that no one wants to go out with us anymore. 

Locks of Love didn't need it, so I'm donating my hair to Merkins of Hope

*title of post shamelessly stolen from 30 Rock

And this is why I love Etsy:

Hell-ay, Baby!

I began writing this during the midst of my very first spring break trip.Well, the first one I want to count, anyway.

There was that one dreadful trip to Florida when I was a college freshman and my three girlfriends and I managed to find the only city in the entire state that was almost completely devoid of college-aged kids. Out of sheer necessity, we hooked up with a group of boys from some vague midwestern state that also made this unfortunate choice of destinations. The boy that singled me out for wooing had not quite finished evolving, so I ended up taking one for the team and entertaining him so that they could flirt with their Plan B love interests. (I'm nothing if not a humanitarian.)

I never took a spring break trip again after that. Until now.

Last year, when we were still in the I-can't-believe-we're-paying-this-much-for-kindergarten-but-it's-awesome-because-there-are-no-in-service-days-or-lengthy-spring-breaks mode, we did not have to worry about this. But now, we get a forced week off right before Easter and since we had to take the time off work anyway, we figured we'd just book a trip somewhere.

We're cute.

Apparently, the entire universe has spring break at exactly the same time, so flights cost $47 million, resorts have no availability, and even some of the more exotic destinations we researched were completely sold out. It looked at though we were going to have to stay home, and as lovely as a "staycation" sounds (Ed. "staycation" does not sound at all lovely) I knew it would inevitably mean taking care of home projects and errands. While that is a slice of heaven for my husband, I have let him know several times that if (God forbid) anything ever happens to him, I am immediately moving into a studio apartment because that is all I'm capable of managing. And only then if I can e-mail the landlord instead of speaking to him or her directly.

So when one of my friends mentioned finding cheap fares on Virgin America - we booked ourselves some flights to LA. Both my husband and I have fond memories of young, crazy days in LA. Nights spent on Sunset Boulevard and at the Forty Deuce, rubbing elbows with movie stars (while serving them cocktails, but whatever) and getting disgusted eye rolls from hotel management in trendy West Hollywood hotels. We figured that age 7 was the perfect time to initiate our daughter.

For the first half of our trip, we stayed at the Standard Hotel on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, and not just because Leonardo DiCaprio is an investor. The hotel is very well located and very hip -- especially for people as cool as us who rent very subtle cars for their vacations:

Bitchin' Camaro. With a booster seat.

We did eight million things while staying in West Hollywood -- La Brea Tar Pits and Page Museum, Griffith Observatory and hike, walk of fame, meth, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, The Grove and the Fairfax Farmer's Market. And saw some of the more famous landmarks as well:

And just because we're now older and have a child does not mean we missed out on the celebrity hobnobbing:

"Muse" may be too strong a word, but I do have Louis CK's ear.

For the second part of our trip, we headed south to Huntington Beach where GET THIS - our child OPTED OUT of a day at Disneyland to stay at the hotel pool and play with her new friend. Which would have been awesome if he was not a 53-year-old drifter.

We biked, played on the beach, visited with our beautiful friend, Lisa, who we met while working the Vanity Fair party all those years ago

Canetto, Lisa, Jeff Cockey and Me. Circa 2003?

and revised our retirement strategy to include winning the lottery and buying a house on the Strand in Manhattan Beach.

Can it still be considered a successful spring break when you have no regrets?
Brutalism