An Honest Question

Yesterday, my friend, Stacey, reminded me of a conversation we had while working together at an ad agency:

Her:  "Would you eat a plate of poop if it meant you would be skinny the rest of your life?"

Me: "Whose poop?"

Which we followed up with lunch at Chicken Out. (Our preferred lunch spot over "Repressed, Closeted Chicken.")

Speaking of jobs, I have always had this fantasy of starting a new job and at the first function that included guests,  I'd bring my husband and make sure he met and talked to as many people as possible. Then, at the next function, I'd bring someone who is his complete physical opposite (Gary Coleman, perhaps) and say to my new co-workers, "You remember my husband, right?"  I'd repeat this scenario with a woman, an albino, Siamese twins...or until I got fired.

"Working" for a living,
Brutalism

Powerless Over It

E-mail to my oldest and dearest friend this morning:

This is kind of a hard e-mail to write.

I'm sure you may have noticed over the years that I have a bit of a problem. Even though I knew it was not good for me, I was a slave to my addiction.

It started because I liked the taste. Gradually, a taste was not enough and before I knew it, I'd be adding a healthy splash -- even to my morning coffee. I was one of those "functioning" types --  I'd hide it in my insulated cup and take it to work...and for years, none of my co-workers was the wiser. For chrissakes...I don't even want to think about the number of times I drove under the influence.

It soon became a daily thing, and the shame of my secret was becoming almost unbearable. It got to a point where I'd start hiding bottles when friends came over. (It hurt most when you, my oldest friend, made a comment during your last visit about how unhealthy this was. I knew then that I needed to make a change.)

I considered seeking the help of a professional or 12-step program, but then decided that I could muster the inner strength to fight the demon.

I know that the majority of the battle is ahead of me and I will just have to take it a day at a time, but I think that I am ready to finally tame this beast. The beast that is...artificially flavored coffee creamer.

A (now) proud and loyal organic half and half drinker,
Brutalism

You Wanna Make Sumthin' Of It?

Unlike the rest of the universe, it seems, I have not watched one episode of "The Jersey Shore." (Trust me when I tell you that I am not mentioning this as I feel superior in some way. Quite the contrary. I'd watch one episode and be sucked in forever, much like the midsection of every Spanx-wearing middle-aged woman.)

Knowing nothing about the show does not, however, prevent me from taking time away from my very important work to play with the Jersey Shore Nickname Generator: which translated the following names for me:

Me:  The Position (So true. And I'm guessing that would have been plural when I was single.)

My daughter:  The Good Time (Fingers in ears singing "la la la la la la la".)

Canetto: Tan Jovi  (Right era/wrong look. Hai Karate Kid would be more apt for the Ralph Macchio lookalike who stole my heart.)

And just for kicks, I went ahead and entered my blog name:

Brutalism: The Back End

Can't argue with science,
Brutalism

Finding Balance...Sheets

This morning, I did one of those things I would never do if I was not married. (Yes, Mom,...have sex.)

I was actually referring to going to a financial planner. You see, before I began cohabitating with Captain Spreadsheet, I never once thought about investing strategies. Why I ever went to business school is a riot, because the mere mention of finances and ROI and M&E and margins causes my eyes to glaze over....and not in the good way. So, during our meeting this morning, I likely bet it all on red, invested in Enron, or put Canetto's second wife in a good position to be a lady who lunches. (We celebrated increasing our life insurance coverage by planning a nice little hunting trip -- that Canetto thinks of everything!)

This meeting today got me thinking of other things I have done over the past ten (married) years that I never would have done had I spent those years as a single lady. 

I would not have been propositioned by the swingers at my friend's wedding.

I would not have had to worry when my friend noted casually, "Isn't that Tim over there chatting up Halle Berry?"

I would not have had the pressure of keeping my husband's horrible secrets. 

and

I would not have laughed myself silly over an episode or two involving Canetto at the doctor's office that I am not allowed to write about EVER...or else. (See "nice little hunting trip" above).

So I occasionally have to suffer through sex a financial planning session. I'd say it's worth it. This blog ain't gonna write itself.

Dirt Boxing

A new friend from Ireland found Brutalism recently by googling, "story feels so dirty in my ass."

Which first made me think, "Well, that is not the most pristine place to keep a story, Seamus." But it also made me think of the old game that everyone plays while reading the slips of paper in fortune cookies. You know, the one where you add "in bed" to the end of every fortune as you read it out loud. Like, "you'll have a great year" (pause for delivery of tired old joke) "in bed." Or "you will have much success at work" (wait for it, wait for it...) "in bed."

I'd like to propose that from now on, we change the ending to any statement (fortune cookie-wise or just in general) to "in my ass." (Example: "I am so happy with our new pool boy....." or "The priest offered me Holy Communion....." or...well, you get the idea.)

Help me start the movement (heh) by leaving a comment in the form of an unrelated statement followed by an "in my ass."

I cannot wait to see how creative you get...
Brutalism

Playhouse Forum

Yesterday on Facebook, someone (kiddingly ha ha isn't that funny not at all even close to the truth) commented that I show my child pornography. (Dear FBI...I apologize in advance that the previous sentence required me to put those two words together. And that my site is called Brutalism. And that I honestly thought your acronym stood for "Female Body Inspector" until just recently...)

You know, we kid around a lot here at Brutalism headquarters, but please know that I would never, ever show my child anything that was not specifically geared toward children. Which means, I guess, that we will not be reading Shel Silverstein anymore:

"Piece", "Big O", "roll by yourself" -- really, Larry Flynt Shel Silverstein?

But that was not enough for you, was it, disturbing combination of John Wayne Gacy and Ron Jeremy Shel?:

Curled up in a fetal position,

Brutalism

Happy 10th Anniversary Of Guy Who Flipped Over The Banister Day

The title of this post is a text message I received over the weekend from my friend, Meredith. It took me a few moments to decipher and then I remembered -- the Milennium New Year's Eve that we spent in New York City...

(wavy lines and "DO..do.do.do" music here signifying the trip in the wayback machine)

Meredith had some sweet deal when she first moved to NYC. She lived rent-free with a couple that had a sick apartment in exchange for cleaning the house wearing nothing but fishing waders and nipple clamps helping out when they entertained, which was often. Over the years, this couple had purchased four adjacent apartments and combined them...which made for a huge, two-story, roof balcony-wrapping-around-the-entire-apartment place on the Upper West Side. They were out of town for the holidays that year, so Meredith decided she would take that opportunity to throw a major party.

She did act responsibly as she was holding this party in someone else's gorgeous home. And by that, I mean she went to the Meatloaf concert at Madison Square Garden for the first half of the evening, while about a hundred people descended upon the apartment. (Including the drunken, jackass cousin of one of our friends.)

(Great aside: On the way into the Meatloaf concert, someone who worked for the show was assessing the crowd in search of someone who would go on stage with Meatloaf during the song, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" and who wouldn't mind kissing someone while they were up there. Because Meredith's life is a series of bizarro incidents that sound made up but are not, she was selected from the crowd of thousands. While she was on stage, her now-husband John saw her, and never having met her before, turned to a friend he was with and said, "I'm going to marry that woman." The friend also knew Meredith, so John ended up being invited back to the party later that night.

By the time Mer and John made it back to the apartment, the evening had already gotten a little out of hand. One friend of theirs (a comedian) spent a good part of the night screaming suggestive ideas to the guys on the roof of the drug rehab place across the street, and the aforementioned drunken jackass cousin was at one point sitting on the upstairs banister when he lost his balance and fell backwards down to the first floor, landing on his (thankfully, fairly soft) head. The following conversation actually took place during this incident:

Drunken onlooker (in a panic): "Is anyone here a doctor?"
Our friend Sanjay (stepping forward, helpfully): "I am"
Drunken onlooker (quizzically): "A medical doctor?"
Our friend Sanjay (patiently, yet sarcastically): "No. A doctor of poetry."

Fortunately, the kid was okay. It took just a few stanzas of Walt Whitman to make him feel better.

Hope you all had Happy 10th Anniversaries of Guy who flipped over the banister days, too.

Notes To Self (Holiday Edition)

Thanks to the recent blizzard and lazy holidays there has been a lot more movie and television watching in our house than normal. In addition to killing off the brain cells that the egg nog missed, it bumped us up to the top of the CPS list gave us some insight into just how influential the media is on little minds.  

To wit:

1. I should not let my child watch 'A Christmas Story' as it prompted the following:

• her to turn to me and ask, "That's crap. Right, mom?" when the dad in the movie opened up the crate and pulled out the leg lamp (perceptive little potty mouth, isn't she?)
  
• her playing "mommy's little piggy" during lunch at the local Thai place recently (how does one say "Yes, she *was* raised in a barn" in Thai?)
  

2. I should not let my child watch 'Best of SNL Christmas skits' as it prompted the following:

• her to exclaim, "my vagina's in a box" in the middle of a crowded restaurant (rendered speechless here)
  

3. In an attempt to steer my daughter clear of references to genitalia in boxes, I should not then let my child watch the food network. The seemingly innocuous segment featuring a donut maker dipping a donut into a big bowl of gloppy white glaze prompted the following:

• "Mom, that looks like throw up" (so much for visions of sugarplums)

Hey, it's cheaper than a babysitter,
Brutalism

Publicity Whore

Jeff Cockey stopped by while in town for the holidays.

My kid, who takes forever to warm up to anyone and has only met this guy a couple of times, led him up to see her bedroom within moments of his arrival with the promise of showing him her "pink tree." As she walked through the kitchen, she attempted to grab the bottle of Ketel One he brought us as a gift along the way. Ignoring all of the "apple does not fall far" comparisons, it was actually kind of cute how quickly she took to him until I realized that at four, she is about three years away from the dateable range in his world. (Not okay, Jeff Polanski Cockey...not okay at all.)

We also learned that Canetto and Cockey have a mutual friend in a relatively successful actor out in la la land...Canetto from his GMU days, Cockey from his actor days. They live near each other in Brentwood and have become friends. (Interesting aside: Cockey is partially responsible for this guy's first foray into sex in the no-no place.) (Though not with Cockey.) (Or so he says.)

While he was visiting, Cockey was telling us about another couple with whom he is friends. The husband is a doctor at Stanford and the wife is a biochemist. They have a daughter the same age as ours who is currently studying Mandarin. As he was saying this, our child walked by with a conical party hat pressed against her forehead, repeatedly grunting "UNICORN". Too bad they live in California, or we'd totally be besties.

Another year, another unannounced visit from Jeff. Nothing like a little Cockey to make the holiday complete.

That's what she said,
Brutalism

Different Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a waste,

Brutalism

In The Spirits

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were totally on the list,
Brutalism

Leave The Gun. Take The Cannolis.

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

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

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

Definitely better than sleeping with the fishes,
Brutalism

It's A Gift, Really

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Holidays, Everyone!
Brutalism

Muy Caliente

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

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

Looking forward to my annual review,
Brutalism

Danke Schoen

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

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

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

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

Breast Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoping yours is memorable too,
Brutalism

Eek! A Mouse

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

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

Back in realityland,
Brutalism

Ass-ault On My Sense Of Justice

Did any of you see this a few weeks ago?

Man who threw feces in CA courtroom gets 31 years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoping they cannot find a jury of his peers,
Brutalism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most Excellent

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

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

The drop-down menu included the following:

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

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

Dear Her Excellency Canedo:

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

Let them eat cake,
Brutalism

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