I got bupkes

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

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

Help a sister out,
Brutalism

Some candy walks into a bar...

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

Judge me if you will, I know my limits.

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

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

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

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

Better pack my smoking jacket...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Puttin' a cork in it,
Brutalism

Bittersweet

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet!
Brutalism

What's Not To Like?

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

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

Hot Cross Bunions

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps I've said too much.

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

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

Now looking for concerts that attract a younger demographic,

Brutalism

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

Old Friends

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

Yeah, I don't either.

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

Actually, I'm talking about prom.

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

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

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

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

Talk about sticking it to the man.

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

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

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

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

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

Lip syncing for my life,

Brutalism

Famous Men I've Touched

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll never wash my hands again,
Brutalism

Getting Lucky

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

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

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

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

Just mostly.

Off to buy a lottery ticket,
Brutalism

I Should Sue

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

I wish I was kidding.

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

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

I'm an idiot.

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

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

I'm a finely tuned athlete,
Brutalism

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEGUE: Speaking of social diseases...

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

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

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

SEGUE: Speaking of last Saturday...

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

SEGUE: Speaking of happy endings... 

I'm out,

SEGUE: That's what he said

Brutalism

Happy Endings

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

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

McDeathbreath

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

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

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

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

Yup. Pretty much captures my parenting philosophy.



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

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

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

Brutalism



Cannot Outrun My Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks to Canetto for saving me from myself,
Brutalism

Ham

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

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

I'm not that bright.

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

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

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

Me: "Oh my God! Like what?"

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

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

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

Too Good Not To Share

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

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

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

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

Rolling in the dough,
Brutalism

Stye-mied

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

You totally want me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonsense In All Forms Of Communication

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

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

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

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

and finally, her most sage bit of wisdom:

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

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

Dude.

Recommend this Column

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

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

Off to burn my bra,
Brutalism

Totally Brutal

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

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

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

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

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