Chew On This

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

And it becomes glaringly apparent at certain times.

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

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

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

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

Almost as funny as cannibalism.

Brutalism

I Said "Klatch"

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

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

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

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

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

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

In related news, I am also no longer fun.

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

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

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

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

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

Backhanded Compliments



Me



My Husband

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

Jerry Mathers Likes My Beaver Shot!

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

Look at me hobnobbing with the A-listers.

Air kisses,
Brutalism

Smut Peddlers Redux

When will I learn?

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder "rubbers" is plural,
Brutalism

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

Letter To The Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me know. Thanks,

K

P.S. "Weiner" (hee hee)

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

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

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

Confident this is how the professionals do it,
Brutalism

Fantastic Hunt

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

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


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

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

Whore.

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

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

Nerdo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still icing and elevating my ankle,
Brutalism

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

Happy Birthday, Jerry Mathers!

In tribute -- my Beaver shot:

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

At Least I Find A Way To Use My Complaining Creatively

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

The heat.

Keeping it fresh and new,
Brutalism

Cannot Get The Christopher Cross Song Out Of My Head

Check out the latest from the Dilettantes on my other blog, the Dilettante Club.

We went sailing. And learned about the Poop Deck. And winches.

Then we had lunch at a place called "Pusser's". I am not making any of this up.

Continuing to make a hobby of innuendo,
Brutalism

A Little Local Flavor

Through the years, I've found that when I push myself to do things out of my comfort zone, it usually ends up in an arrest helping me grow as a person.

This weekend's attempt to hang out at a biker bar was an exception.

Read about it in this week's Oakton Patch column.

Totally in a box,
Brutalism

Is We All Really?

I went for a run last night. This was my first run of more than a mile since my knee injury three years ago, so it was something of a feat - both physically and psychologically. My former running partner (and fellow Dilettante) Amanda was nice enough to run with me. And we did 6 miles (4 running, 2 walking) at pretty close to my old pace. (Though slower than little miss "My dad owns a running store in Colorado and it's in my blood"'s pace...)

I was scared to attempt this -- and it became even more frightening as we ran along the trail and passed a spray-painted message that read:

     I is lamp.

About 20 feet down the path, we came upon a second spray-painted message. This one read:

     U R lamp.

And a few more feet beyond that, the third message:

     We all is lamp.

That was a bit of a head scratcher. The final message a little further down though, was pretty clear. It stated simply:

      Eff your Mother

Poetry, really.

In preparation for the run on such a humid night, Amanda had drunk a ton of water prior to meeting me at the trail. She really needed to urinate, but there was nowhere to go, so she said to me, "Let's talk about dry things."

So as though she had requested I do this in the form of Jeopardy! answers, I provided the following:

• What is the Gobi Desert?
• What is Steven Wright's sense of humor?
• What is the kind of cake that my mother-in-law does not like (This being an inside joke about me offering to bake my mother-in-law a cake one year on her birthday and asking her what kind of cake she liked, to which she had replied, "moist.")

Amanda said, "Excellent run of the category," and I replied, "Dry things for eight hundred, Alex."

Today...I actually feel okay. I kinda wish I had not worn high heeled sandals to work, but other than that...not in a lot of pain.

In other words:

     I is fine.

Psychotic Acts Make Good Neighbors

Lately, in addition to nine gazillion stink bugs and spiders (and swingers) we've been finding in our house, we have also had a couple of casualties in the yard. This week alone, we found a dead frog and a dead snake (and the dead snake was on the front sidewalk, as if to taunt me).

These gruesome discoveries prompted me to post the following on Facebook:

I received the following comments on that post:

(It also prompted me to re-visit my 6th grade science textbook as I could have sworn that "amphibian" and "reptile" meant the same thing...)

The next day, a neighbor up the street posted the following on Facebook, to which I commented:

And then, just yesterday, as I was retrieving the mail from my mailbox, I opened it and found this:

I love my neighbors.

Even With Two Lives, I Can't Come Up With 100 Things

A lot of us bloggers lead double lives -- our real life and our blog life. My take on this duality (and my own Arnold-like admission) is detailed in this week's At Home with Brutalism column at the Oakton Patch.

Also, here is a link to last week's At Home with Brutalism column, in which I attempt to create a list of "100 things I want to do before I die" (and make it all the way to number 31). I'm an achiever.

Making you feel better by comparison since 2004,
Brutalism

She Loves Me Not

UPDATE: DC Blogs linked to this post today. I'm hoping one of the readers is a family therapist...or a casting director...

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

My daughter and I had a little disagreement last night. I drew a picture of what her hair looked like when she was a baby (sticking up all over the place) and apparently, it upset her. (Like it's my fault she had crazy hair when she was a baby.) (Actually, since she drew from my gene pool, it actually is my fault she had crazy hair.) (Dammit. This parenting thing is hard.)

I knew this upset her, because after I drew that, she drew a picture of me with crazy hair...

...and a beard.

This is the picture. I had to go over the white crayon with ink so it would show up.
At least she drew me smiling before drawing all over my face and giving me a beard.

I'm guessing that my laughter over the beard picture is not the response she was going for, because she then took another sheet of paper and wrote, I LOVE MOMMY in huge capital letters. Then, she marched over to where I was sitting, and very deliberately drew a circle around the sentiment and then a diagonal line through it:

Which made me think the following:

a) This would be an awesome album name and cover art

b) She is five. I am not kidding you when I say I am alternately terrified and intrigued by how dramatic some of our disagreements may become in about ten years.

c) I am sometimes glad I had a child later in life, as I may be in full dementia by the time that point arrives.

d) That would also be an awesomely disturbing tattoo

e) I love that little piece of work.

Leaving Us Hung Out To Dry

Not mine. And I'm a little sad it means I'm getting older since when I saw
this in the parking lot of my local 7-11 recently, I did not for one minute
worry that it might be.

Although, my dirty laundry is becoming more and more public thanks to my increasingly frequent trips to the local laundromat.

Hey, a girl has to socialize somewhere.

Actually, our horrible, terrible, loud, worthless, ridiculous, awful, almost-brand-new-supposed-to-be-awesome-frontloading washing machine has been an utter piece of crap since we bought it. We have had five (read it: FIVE) service calls (one of which involved the repairman doing something so unseemly in our downstairs bathroom that we have promised, for our own sanity, to never speak of it again) and the effing thing still is not fixed.

Because we don't have a reliable washing machine right now, we just go as long as we can before it gets to the point where we're in danger of having nothing but formal gowns (Canetto) and overalls (me) to wear to work, and then we pack up the car and head to the laundromat. (Which, by the way, my daughter thinks is about the most fun anyone can have and will sit and stare at the washing machines for the duration of the wash cycle.)

Note to self: Put 529 plan contributions toward something that might have a better chance of paying off. Like betamax.

This new washing machine came highly recommended by Consumer Reports and replaced a 35-year-old Kenmore that was still working. But it was old, and our dryer had just died, so we figured it was a good time to replace them both.

I think that just because something is older it does mean that it has lost its value and sometimes the newer version of something, while shiny and pretty on the surface, is not necessarily better. I feel like there is an analogy here, but I'm not quite sure what it is. (Donald Trump...)

The washer repairman and his digestive issues are scheduled to come again this Wednesday to finally resolve the problem. Looks like I'll be wearing my Flashdance sweatshirt and MC Hammer pants to a client meeting tomorrow.



The Barn Isn't The Only Thing They're Raising

My friend, Jon, posted a link on Facebook to an Amish online dating service.

As a public service to my Amish brethren, I'm happy to provide the following list of Amish pick-up lines to help them navigate the devil's playground that is online dating:

10. Is that one of Satan's reflective devices in thouest's pocket? Because I can see myself in thouest's lace-up woollen trousers.
9. Got any Pennsylvania Dutch in thou? Want some?
8. My name is Jebediah. Remember that...thou will be screaming it later.
7. What dost thou sayest I plow thou's fields?
6. What's your hex sign?
5. What has 148 teeth and holds back the Incredible Hulk? Not my zipper, as those are the work of the devil.
4. If I told thou that thou had a great body, would thouest bear eleven of my children?
3. Churn here often?
2. Let's take this courtin' buggy straight to Intercourse (Pennsylvania)

and the #1 Amish pick up line:

1. I would love some of thou's whoopie pie, if thou knowest what I mean...

Kathleen 2.0

I saw a few minutes of Tosh.0 the other night, and it featured a clip of a gymnast whose ankle broke and therefore, left his foot at a very unnatural angle from his leg. I cannot get that image out of my head. I will never forgive you, Tosh.0.

Although, the new and improved version of me might find it in her heart to do so. I explain in this week's Oakton Patch column.

Thankful for my intact talus,
Brutalism

I Wore Paunts In Staunton

Note: Staunton, Virginia, is pronounced how a northerner-by-birth (like me) pronounces "aunt" -- as "ant" and not as "awnt" like the Southerners who I grew up with in Virginia Beach pronounced it. As such, I already approved of the place before we got there.

We were in Staunton this weekend for no good reason. Other than the fact that this is the home of the Statler Brothers and we are Statler Brothers groupies. (That is not true. Although, my father did love the Statler Brothers and I could probably name more Statler Brothers songs and albums than I would ever care to admit. Same with my mom and Neil Sedaka. With this kind of musical influence, there was really never any danger of me joining a rock band.)

Staunton is three hours from Northern Virginia on Amtrak and we read that once we got there we would not need a car -- which is something we love. We also love to go away for the weekend often. I do not know why...as we live in a very exciting area. Probably so I can immediately decide that I want to move anywhere we visit and that is not at all annoying for Canetto.



This is us at the Amtrak station in Manassas. Our photo was taken by a man who looked
like a child molester and whose hands were shaking so badly that he immediately dropped the camera after
taking this photo. I have no idea what is going on with my boobs here.



Canetto found a place for us to stay that was a huge loft apartment on top of a couple of shops. It was decorated beautifully and is the type of place I envision myself living. I forget sometimes continually that I am not young, urban and fabulous.

Seriously, check this out:

The owner of the loft left a huge bunch of fresh flowers in the pottery vase on the table and a cake plate in the fridge stocked with fresh baked goods:

Immediately asked if we could come back here. We had been in town about 25 minutes.

We did a bunch of fun stuff in this sleepy little artsy town: walked to a park and fed ducks, watched a glass-blowing demonstration at a glass studio, went to a farmer's market, toured the Mary Baldwin campus, rode the trolley, went to dinner at restaurants that served locally-grown foods, shopped at funky little stores...

Today, I'm back to reality. Living in my decidedly suburban '70s split level house, working at my corporate job and missing Staunton.

Staunton -- I'm entraunced,
Brutalism

On The Road Again

Damn you, Shut up and Run. You somehow make distance running seem like a good idea. It is your fault that I am going to attempt a half marathon in a few months. (Well, your fault and the fault of my friend, Amanda, who just got herself into pretty amazing shape training for a 10-miler.) You both suck.

My Oakton Patch article this week is all about what drove me to this decision. The last time I did something like this was back in 2008, when I was much younger and much more sleep-deprived.

Check out the Patch article. Wish me luck. And please pretend you never saw that photo of me not wearing makeup in the link to the marathon in 2008. (For chrissakes...I made a point to apply makeup before giving birth so I'd like the delivery room photos...and here I go posting a photo of me without makeup for the world to see.)

From really bad choices come really great stories,
Brutalism