Laundry Lug

Years ago I designed a laundry "bag" that I wanted. This week, I searched and searched for my illustrations but could not find them . . . not that it matters anyway. I was clearly not moving forward with my idea. But just because I never got my act together doesn't mean someone else can't take this idea and run with it.

I'm sure I'm going to miss some critical details; however, in a nutshell, the premise is this. Across college campuses and in major cities throughout the U.S. (and beyond), people lug giant sacks of laundry to the laundry room. For all intents and purposes, these sacks have not changed much over the last 30 years. In other words, they still pretty much suck. So, in my humble opinion, there is a large, existing market in desperate need for a better mousetrap so to speak. And, in all of its glory, this market has thousands of new entrants year-on-year of college freshman or people who move to the "big city." A built-in, ongoing revenue stream.

And, yes, the current model is broken. When the hubby and I lived in NYC, we would often lug our giant bags of laundry over a block away -- sometimes in the cold rain or snow -- to our neighborhood laundromat so we could avoid spending hours running up and down the stairs in our building to use the few, often broken, machines. We could also avoid competing with the aggressive people in our building who would hover like vultures waiting to pounce on the machine the minute it stopped and place someone else's wet clothes on top of the machine to grow cold. It was dog-eat-dog and defied civility.

However, at the laundromat, we would fold our clean clothes yet be forced to then stack them in these same, grotty old bags only to return home with everything in wrinkles.

So, who cares? I did. Why couldn't someone invent a laundry bag based on the simplicity of the rolling suitcase? It could fit in the closet like a hamper and be expandable (i.e., able to be pulled upright along its spine) as it fills. It could zipper both around the top and down the front. Why? So that, when your clothes were clean, dry and folded, you could unzip the front, take the shelves that were neatly stacked on the floor of this so-called laundry lug, pull them up the spine, latch them into place and voila: a built-in shelving unit that keeps nicely folded clothes wrinkle free.

Perhaps it could be made of a lightweight, waterproof, neoprene material. Perhaps it could have a pretty, inner liner that could be removed and washed. Most certainly it would have external pockets to house a) detergent, b) fabric softener sheets, c) quarters, d) cell phone, e) a book, and f) apartment keys. So many times I was stuck carrying all of this crap while lugging my laundry. Not so easy. I'm not known for my strength.

Lastly, it would also have a handle that allows you to wheel it easily from an upright position. And from this handle, you can hang hangers. Yes, wash your shirts and hang them as you wheel them home -- again, wrinkle free.

This laundry lug sounds expensive. And it should be. I think it's worth every penny. Could it be branded with each college logo and sold for more? Probably. Could it be branded with a laundromat name as well? Sure. But I think there's a more lucrative alternative.

Much akin to the kate spade diaper bag being the hit of the early 90's, this could be the next big kate spade branded product. The kate spade laundry lug. People pay handsomely for perceived luxury names -- including $465 for the "classic noel henry baby bag" that's currently on their site. I think it's due time for another major hit from their collection.

One could argue that anyone who can afford such a luxury is not the same person who is lugging his or her laundry to the laundromat but I would beg to differ. There are a million and one people who carried that diaper bag who should have spent their money elsewhere. They simply liked the brand caché. I believe the same holds true for this audience with one major exception: This product is truly needed!

Please, to whomever is in product development at kate spade, make my year. Although I may not be in your target market anymore, my niece and nephew are! I'll gladly be your first customer.

My Dream Job

Wouldn't it be fabulous to travel the world, a la Anthony Bourdain, eating amazing meals at all of the consummate (but not necessarily upscale) restaurants in each locale? To spend your life enjoying the best that life has to offer? And make heaps of money in the process?

The fact that Anthony is an avowed Ramones fan is just icing on the cake. As Mr. Burns would say, "I like the cut of his jib."

Given that he already owns that niche, I want to claim the same format but cater to those seeking spiritual adventure. I won't get to booze it up nearly as much (well, on camera that is) but I could take viewers to places where filming is rarely allowed. And not to spas and resorts -- which are always highlighted on travel programs -- but to lesser known ashrams, Siberian shamans, and Tibetan nunneries.

Would I love to visit Bhutan? You bet. But I could also share places closer to home like the Abbey of the Genesee where 30+ contemplative (a.k.a. Trappist) monks reside and offer monastic-style retreats throughout the year. Or Rochester's own Zen Center where my girlfriend and I spent one of the best days of our lives in an introductory workshop on zazen meditation.

I guarantee that in every city across America, as well as villages and towns throughout the world, there is something awe-inspiring to showcase. And I'm just the right person to share it with you! Come on Travel Channel, make my dreams come true.

Know Your Audience

One of my SVPs at Amex once presented to a large crowd of bigwigs including Harvey Golub who was CEO at the time. He began his presentation by pointing to a large gap between himself and the audience and saying, "What's this? The corporate mosh pit?" No one laughed. He came back dismayed and said, "You should always warm people up with a story or a joke but lesson learned -- know your audience."

I was reminded of this on Christmas Eve when, in the middle of the children's pageant at church, a blinding white light came on overhead. I turned to the guy next to me, who was seated with his family, and said, "Last call." He responded, "Pardon?" and, like a moron, I repeated myself.

Yep, nothing funnier than barroom humor during a Christmas service.

My Favorite Word

One of my brother's best friends, Tony, is British. I've heard a number of hilarious stories about this guy since he and my brother met but the following observation (paraphrased below) has not only far surpassed all of the interesting tidbits that I've gleaned from William Safire's On Language over the years but also helped me to define my favorite word.

"The English language has so many beautiful plural nouns like a gaggle of geese, a pack of wolves, a litter of kittens, and a yoke of oxen but you Americans have synthesized them all into one comprehensive word. 'Honey, look! There's a sh*tload of deer in the yard.' "

Merry Christmas!

It all began at 6:38 a.m. and ended less than half an hour of mayhem later . . . Now we have a full day of PlayStation 2 fun ahead of us including Guitar Hero, DragonballZ, Godzilla Unleased, The Simpsons, Ace Combat 5 and, for me, Dance Dance Revolution! Yeah baby. Maybe 2008 will be the year of the DDR weight loss regimen. But first I have to eat and drink my way through continued holiday overindulgence on these Pottery Barn plates from Ruth!

I got sooooo many fabulous jewelry-related pressies from family members that I'm not sure which is my favorite. I now have my sixth (!) Annie Adams necklace and first bracelet from her collection. I also have a gorgeous aqua blue necklace from the Corning Museum of Glass and a set of clear acrylic jewelry (ring, necklace and bracelet) from Volpino embedded with dozens of tiny embedded Swarovski crystals that my sister purchased from my favorite consignment shop, Windsor Cottage. Oh, and I got a sweet Christmas-themed green glass beaded bracelet hand-painted with reindeer and candy canes from my neighbor, Liz.

I should be all set for the next 12 months, at least! Per usual, stunningly adorned . . .

Oh and I now have this gorgeous, chocolate brown Lug Puddle Jumper overnight and gym bag. I either need to begin working out or taking a lot of trips. Hmmm, which sounds more appealing?

I hope everyone has a blessed Merry Christmas, remembers our Savior on this day (and beyond) and makes out like a bandit, too.

In closing, and in stark contrast to the crass commercialism listed above, the impassioned refrain from the most beautiful Christmas song ever penned, Oh Holy Night:

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born

What I REALLY Want for Christmas

Santa, you listening? I feel like a few "she shoots, she scores" or "two minutes in the box for roughing" or "game misconduct" or "hank-y panky" jokes are here somewhere but it's like shooting ducks in a barrel. The man behind the mask . . .

I just hope John Cusack doesn't mind.

Something for the Girl with Everything

Yea! Today is my 43rd birthday. And it's a Saturday and I don't have to work. In fact, with the exception of one half-day meeting, some prep time and some catch-up work, I have off until January 2. Whoo hoo.

I plan to sink into the couch for days in my pajamas eating bushels of Fritos and drinking egg nog (with alcohol). And I also hope to finally take advantage of the gift cards I got a year ago for an enzyme facial at one local yoga studio, breathe, and a massage from another fabulous little studio, Blue Lotus.

I also won a $500 gift certificate last spring from our local Ethan Allen that I cannot wait to use. Not sure it will buy anything outright but it could put a little dent on this!


Everything is going my way. Happy Birthday to me!

Feliz Navidad

We recently had a sermon at church that talked about putting a face on your giving. In other words, going out of your way to help someone you may know even slightly (vs. purely donating $ to a good cause) by simply lending an ear, spending time together, asking how s/he is, etc.

It reminded me of a quip that Maura, a woman I went to grad school with, once said regarding Social Security. "I wouldn't even mind contributing to it if I could just receive a card with a picture of a little old man thanking me for paying his heating bill last month."

This year, our family bought presents for an "angel" (i.e., a local seven year old girl sponsored by the Society for Prevention of Child Abuse and Neglect), filled a shoe box with toys and candy for a third world child via Samaritan's Purse, and contributed 10 thermal shirts to the shoe boxes that our bible study packed for the homeless here in Rochester through the Open Door Mission.

I share this not because I'm proud of this tiny, tiny contribution (especially in lieu of how small it is compared with how much we have) but rather because (even though I know that every little bit helps) the sense of giving pales in comparison with helping someone you know.

In my office building, we have had a series of cleaning people come and go through the years. For a beautiful old mansion, the place sometimes looks downright decrepit. But this year, the landlord hired an awesome woman named Juana to clean and the place has been spotless.

Juana and her husband moved here for a better life, live in one of the toughest neighborhoods in the city, are raising two sweet little boys, work four jobs each and selflessly send a big chunk of their money to Honduras where their families live in poverty.

Last summer, she sent her kids to her sister's house in Honduras so that they could have a few months of fun at the beach while her husband and she worked endlessly. Asking about them always brought tears to her eyes because, as any mother would, she missed them in an excruciating way.

But after working all of her other jobs, she comes in every night smiling. And it doesn't hurt that she's gorgeous: long, dark, wavy hair and big doe eyes. She's literally radiant. When I asked her recently how she was doing, I wasn't entirely surprised when she raised her arms to the sky and responded, "God will provide." When I asked her what she was giving to her kids for Christmas, she shared with me that her kids understand that there will be no gifts or tree and that their happiness should come from the Lord (not Santa). Yeah, let me try that one on my kids. What? Not everyone gets Guitar Hero III just because it's on the list?

But last week, for the first time in months, she didn't seem quite as joyful. When my boss asked her how she was doing, she burst into tears and said that her grandmother was ill. I'm sure Honduras felt really far that night especially since we were receiving a foot of snow.

So my boss and I went nuts. We set a price limit and then exceeded it 2X. We bought a tree, lights and ornaments. We bought toys, a huge Lego set, more games and candy. We filled stockings for the boys and gave Juana a big basket of bath products. Lastly, we wrote her and her husband a card that said, "Nuestro Dios es su Dios" (which given my poor Spanish intended to say, "Our God is your God") and enclosed two gift cards: one to Target for warm hats, coats and mittens and one to Wegman's to cover their Christmas meal.

Over the top. Insane. Yet literally a drop in the bucket when compared to the carnage that will be under our tree.

She was overwhelmed. She told me that her kids kept running around their home asking, "What made those ladies buy us all of these gifts?"

Her response, "God put us into their hearts."

And that right there summed it all up. Yes, it's good to give to worthy causes. But it feels amazing when your heart swells for a family who deserves just as much as, if not more than, the rest of us but has so little.

My boss and I agree: Our giving made us feel happier than it made Juana and her family to receive. So much for selfless acts of kindness. Is there really such a thing?

Christmas "Songs"

Years ago, when I worked as a consultant for a small agency in White Plains NY, we had our holiday party aboard the World Yacht circling Manhattan. On this evening, we all received the final gifts from our Secret Santas and I was pretty pumped because mine had been showering me with fantabulous gifts all month.

I received a Mannheim Steamroller Christmas CD.

I almost feel I could end this post right here except that there are people out there who consider Mannheim Steamroller "music." I'm not one of them. Honestly, I couldn't even make out the tunes of the otherwise famous songs which, when rendered by other "artists," are legible, singable, whistleable, etc.

So I wrapped it nicely and kindly sent it to my brother who fondly re-gifted it back to me the following Christmas with fake, yet compelling, cover art, "Tim and Leigh's favorite songs of the year." Wow. A huge letdown two years running.

I still have this CD just waiting to be unleashed on some poor, unsuspecting loser who secretly loves grand crescendos/raucous elevator music/awful electronica mayhem/polluting noise (a.k.a. total CRAP).

It reminds me of the musical version of our agency's fax machine at the time -- which our boss' hysterical executive admin threw in the dumpster in the parking lot one day with a big sign stating, "piece of sh*t."

Anyhoo, it's the thought that counts, right? I just wonder what the thought was . . .

Lastly, for anyone who noticed my excessive use of "quotation marks," please refer to this site which I now love.

What I Want for Christmas

Yeah, I know, too late. I'm sure everyone who buys me gifts already shopped. But I've wanted these for years, tried to do them myself (argh!), and now time's running out because the chillins are getting older.

Maybe I can figure out how to do them over the Christmas break from work . . .

The article on Cookie magazine says to "follow the instructions." I just hope they're easy and don't include stapling my kids' heads to the wall to get them to sit still.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

I love Christmas trees adorned with white lights. In fact, I like anything with white lights. Patios in the summertime draped with white lights. Restaurants aglow with candles and white tea lights.

But I cannot have my own tree lit with white lights . . .

I'll never forget the holiday season almost 20 years ago when my mom first bought her own little house she decided to forgo tradition and decorate with white lights, bows, and minimal ornaments. My grandfather then came to visit for the holidays from NYC, stepped inside our new house and grumbled, "What the hell is this? It looks like we live in a goddamn shopping mall."

Yes Grandpa, my tree in all of its colorful majesty and mismatched ornaments will forever be an annual tribute to you.

Steroids of Champions

Not only does the hubby have to suffer through Son #2's incessant taunts such as "Rangers drool -- Devils rule," he now has to combat my girlfriend in Maine's recent picture of herself and the Red Sox 2007 World Series trophy. I guess it can't be 1986 forever.

Sapphire Lusty Horn

Apparently, if I were a stripper, that would be my name according to an email I just received from Suzy in FL . . . Hmmm. It's not too sexy but that's probably just as well.

I feel like I fared well given that my girlfriend Kim will now forever be called "Princess Heaven Thighs."

1. Use the third letter of your first name to determine your new first name:

a = Chesty
b = Fantasia
c = Starr
d = Diamond
e = Montana
f = Angel
g = Sugar
h = Mimi
i = Lola
j = Kitty
k = Roxie
l = Dallas
m = Princess
n = Heidi
o = Bambi
p = Bunny
q = Brandy
r = Sugar
s = Candy
t = Raquel
u = Sapphire
v = Cinnamon
w = Blaze
x = Trixie
y = Isis
z = Jade

2. Use the second letter of your last name to determine the first half of your new last name:

a = Leather
b = Dream
c = Sunny
d = Deep
e = Heaven
f = Tight
g = Shimmer
h = Velvet
i = Lusty
j = Harley
k = Passion
l = Dazzle
m = Dixon
n = Spank
o = Glitter
p = Razor
q = Meadow
r = Glitz
s = Sparkle
t = Sweet
u = Silver
v = Tickle
w = Cherry
x = Hard
y = Night
z = Amber

3. Use the third letter of your last name to determine the second half of your new last name:

a = hooter
b = horn
c = tower
d = fire
e = thighs
f = hips
g = side
h = jugs
i = shock
j = cocker
k = brook
l = tush
m = sizzle
n = ridge
o = kiss
p = bomb
q = cream
r = thong
s = heat
t = whip
u = cheeks
v = rock
w = hiney
x = button
y = lick
z = juice

Peace Like a River

A beautiful friend from when I was younger died yesterday at the age of 44. I don't want to wax on about her -- even though I could fill countless paragraphs and the words would flow easily -- because she's far too deserving for a footnote in a goofy blog about nothing.

Although I am not one to discount the value of friendship in general, it does make me think even harder about how blessed I am. I can count my mom and sister as tried-and-true girlfriends along with the girls who I grew up with and 40+ years later still hang out with as often as possible. Just this week, manicures, wine and dinner on Monday night (an early "happy birthday" for me) and back-to-back-to-back haircuts last night. I have crazy friends from high school who I get to see throughout the year, fabulous friends from college and grad school who gather together every couple of years (and email heaps in between), close friends from my days in NYC and DC who travel more than 1X/year to visit (and vice versa), awesome neighbors who I relax with every weekend, the Kismet girls from church (so named because we all connected so readily), my soulful but funny bible study girlfriends, and distant friends/cousins/sister-in-laws who I love and never see but some email frequently as if we were living next door to one another. It bears repeating: I am truly blessed.

But Mary's death made me think harder about the friends who I spent heaps of time with and loved dearly in a different period of my life but with whom I rarely connect any more. Some of these people simply drifted from my life, one or two passed away and others cut the ties in more meaningful (and sometimes painful) ways. Regardless of the way in which the friendships ended, they were all amazing while they lasted and for this I am deeply thankful.

So, although I cried rivers yesterday and will probably do the same tonight at the funeral home, I am even more grateful to be living a life filled with friends, laughter and love. And I'm soooo glad that my gorgeous friend Sallie, who has been in my life forever but who I rarely get to see, is planning to come with me. As always, we're going to need each other.

To quote the old hymn, penned by Horatio Spafford after his three daughters died while crossing the Atlantic, "It is well with my soul."

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Happy Birthday Leigh

My niece turned 18 yesterday. 18. I can't believe it. 18. Her brother is in his freshman year at Brown.

These are the two kids that turned my world upside down.

Throughout my childhood and well into my 20s, I never wanted to get married and I certainly never wanted to have kids. I simply never had that maternal instinct at all. I still am not one to look at other people's babies in strollers at the mall and get all mushy. It's just not my thing.

My best friend while growing up was Southern; her family moved here from Tennessee. She lived to get married and raise kids. Throughout our childhood, she would pepper me with unsettling questions that I had never thought about before: "What if we don't have dates to the prom?," "Will you wake up before your husband gets up to put your make-up on?," (Side note: He's lucky if I shave my legs on a quarterly basis) and "What do you think you will name your kids?" (Side note: We talked her out of Bambi -- her daughter owes me one).

She unabashedly went to college to find a husband whereas I went to postpone working for a few years. She found her husband while at home the summer after freshman year and has gone on to raise two great kids. I met my hubby the January after graduation but waited seven years to get married -- and only then agreed because he was my best friend and I couldn't imagine spending my life without him.

But in 1988 and 1989 something fabulous happened in my life. My sister-in-law and brother brought two of the most beautiful, perfect children into this world and my heart literally exploded. It was after hanging out with them as little kids, going to the Discovery Zone and McDonald's, watching them build sandcastles at the beach, drawing pictures for them ("That's a bulldozer? My mom draws way better bulldozers than that") and reading them stories that I thought to myself, "I think I might want kids . . . but only if I can clone these guys."

I still think the world of them except that they've set the bar a little high for my boys. They are great, great kids. Funny, interesting, kind, intelligent, well behaved, polite and high achievers. To the best of my knowledge, they are not partiers nor are they prone to engaging in the stupidity that was my trademark at their age. They are exactly how I want my kids to be -- in their own ways, of course.

Disruptive Innovations

My boss and I are working with a large, international firm to augment their product ideation and commercialization process. As a result, I have been researching and pouring through myriad best practice documents today to update our library, tools and methodology and ensure we have highly effective practices to leverage on their behalf.

While a number of the documents published contain interesting insights, many simply remind me of Dilbert.

Dogbert Consults: "To survive, you must create disruptive innovations that redefine the market."

Dilbert: "Does that mean the same thing as 'sell things that people want'?"

Which, in a round about way, reminds me of the interview that secured my internship at Xerox during grad school. The posting literally said, "Must be able to interfere across all levels of the organization" instead of "interface." If they noticed the typo at all, most students, for good reason, chose to ignore that bulleted line item. I decided to play it up. "I think you should know, I can interfere in many different areas and be as disruptive as you need."

No sense in being blinded by the obvious.

SheHawks

Once again, as a marketing data nerd, I do things that most normal adults refuse to do such as answer all of the impromptu telemarketing surveys that I encounter. I am a member of e-rewards which sends me surveys on a weekly basis and, by answering them, I not only accrue points but also get to see different survey techniques and methodologies which I can potentially utilize for our clients, if and when relevant.

For this reason, I became a member of SheSpeaks a while back. It costs nothing to join and they send you products (free of charge) to test. The only catch: you provide feedback to help the product managers better design future features, functions, etc. Why not, right? I'm always game for free stuff!

So, I'm sharing this with you because I am on "day two" of my new Philips Sonicare power toothbrush and, holy moly, what a shocker. It is possibly the coolest thing that has touched my mouth since Pop Rocks circa 1975. It literally vibrates throughout my mouth which may sound strange but my teeth feel like I've just come from the dentist. I'm an immediate convert.

I am soooooooooo ready for Candid Camera.

But now that I have a $99 toothbrush, I must figure out if I am willing to spend $12 every time I need to replace the brush head. That's a lot of dough . . .

Fairytale of New York

Given that it was like pulling teeth to get the kids to pose for Christmas pictures this year, the hubby wanted to place this photo on our card. At least they're standing next to one another and, from this vantage point, no one can tell if they're beating each other up or not.

My favorite part of this picture is the fact that it showcases something very special about our tree. Unlike our neighbor's tree -- which is perfectly decorated with beautiful ornaments, every branch covered with beauty, the weight of each piece evenly distributed across branches and the sizes/colors painstakingly rendered for optimum viewing -- our ornaments (many of which are kid-made) are all hanging on the bottom 1/3 of the tree where the little guys could reach.

Martha Stewart may not be proud but I really like it.

Lies Lies Lies Yeah-Ah

This is the time of the year when Santa visits . . .

Two years ago: "Why is Santa's wrapping paper the same as ours?"

Last year: "I thought the elves made all of these toys. Why are these the same toys we see in the store?"

The other day: "Do you remember last year when Santa's note looked just like daddy's writing?"

But, yet, they continue to believe. Perhaps it's because they want to believe in the magic (who doesn't?) but maybe it's because my responses are completely filled with utter, and sometimes elaborate, nonsense.

Last year, I launched into an entire explanation of outsourcing. "Santa has a huge production facility that makes every kind of toy known to mankind and handles the peak demand at Christmas time. But he only delivers toys directly to our homes once a year. The rest of the year, he sells toys to Toys R Us to make money, keep his factory going and feed/house the elves. Just think, even when you get a toy for your birthday, it may have been made by elves."

The downfall to all of this is that the kids assume they're getting whatever is written on their lists.

The little guy didn't ask for a Wii for his birthday because he didn't want us spending a lot of money on it given that Santa could bring it for free the next month. Bless his little heart. Make that: Bless his little broken heart on Christmas morning!

Shabby Cheek

If anyone clicked over to the World RPS Society and is as geeky as I am, you may have noticed their tag line, "Serving the needs of decision makers since 1918." So awesome. They take the essence of a typical, hokey tag and use it to poke even more fun at themselves. (At, least that’s what I think, and hope, that they’re doing!)

In a similar vein, one of my neighbors worked at an ad agency that employed the tag line, "Serving you since April 15." Who needs to promote longevity when you have creative license? Especially in this day and age when people care less about how long you’ve been in business than if you can get the job done.

Most companies have no idea how invaluable a strong tag line can be and instead of saying “the quicker-picker-upper” or “feel the rainbow; taste the rainbow” say something like the following: Your widget maker since 1969.

Better yet, when the competition gets strong, they add the term “preferred” to widget maker or stick “partner” somewhere in their lackluster mess. Hmmm, that’ll solve everything. Please, remind me, why should I be doing business with you? Wait, I have an idea. Instead of telling me what you do, go ahead, tell me what you’re going to do for me.

Which leads me to Target’s new campaign: fabuless. Yeah, I get it. I can get fabulous stuff for less money. But, really, as much as I love Target (and I do) it almost states the opposite (less-than-fabulous) to me. Who needs Manolo Blahniks when you can get Mossimo faux-leather boots with synthetic outsoles? Who needs 1000 thread count sheets when you can get the ever-so-snuggly, polyester “bed in a bag”?

But for most of America, myself included, paying top dollar for Jimmy Choo shoes would be overkill. Who is going to see me? Or care? There is no Sex and the City crowd here. Moving here in 2001 meant that I no longer needed the Kate Spade diaper bag or Maclaren Volo stroller.

The comedian Daniel Tosh put it well in a recent comedy show. Quipping about people who can't afford a $600,000, two-bedroom townhouse in California, he said something like, “Move east. That's what the middle of the country is for -- people who gave up on their dreams.”

Ouch! But funny nonetheless.

Off I go in my fashion forward Isaac Mizrahi ribbed turtleneck . . .

We're Through Being Cool

My girlfriend Mary just sent me this test which assesses how cool you were in High School (what crowd you ran with, etc.) vs. how cool you are now.

Share it with your friends to see if they've changed.

But first, click here to see if you're still cool!

I'm cool . . .

We Are the Champions -- My Friends

You know how sometimes you don't understand the gift(s) that life is giving you until everything falls into place and you look back and think "Ah, now I understand why I tripped over that hole in the sidewalk and spilled coffee on my sweater and had to go to the dry cleaner where I ran into Stella and heard about her car woes and then we realized with her mechanical abilities and my tremendous ideation capabilities that together we had the perfect solution for an all new flux capacitor"?

Well, that's exactly how I felt when I realized that, in addition to heaps of love, my kids have been preparing me to compete in something far greater in life than I could ever have imagined.

Color me inspired and awestruck. I'm already visualizing the "world champion 2008" headlines.

No time for losers.

My Treasure Chest of Love

My girlfriend Laura was in town recently from Delray Beach. We spent a little time viewing the permanent collection at the Memorial Art Gallery while the kids accompanied us on an animal scavenger hunt—looking for horse carvings, dogs in paintings, etc. We also went to see the hubby’s jazz band, The Steve Greene Trio, play at the Little Café and later saw his Podunk-punk band, The Chinchillas, play at The Cottage Hotel (a fun a little hole-in-the-wall). We inevitably faced the, “What do you want to do?” question for which Rochester has few fabulous options for repeat visitors (especially at this time of year). There are only so many times visiting the Pittsford “mega-Wegs” continues to have allure, the lakes are too cold to swim, the mountains are not yet snow capped for skiing, and the Maid of the Mist is docked for the season so why bother heading to Niagara Falls for the day?

We ended up late Saturday afternoon at Organic Alley, a fabulous local health market, which was having a holistic health fair. My girlfriend had a reading from an “intuitive,” while I sat on the floor praying to God, “Please put your words in this woman’s mouth.” I have a fear of mediums and spiritualists but this lady was spot-on in her dialog with Laura: not only nailing her raison d'etra but also giving her food for thought.

She then turned to me and asked, “Do you like to sing and dance?” and I wasn’t sure how to answer. I love to sing and dance but I’m horrible at both. I actually lip synch in church and, when I do sing aloud, people turn around to see what kind of mutant I am.

She said that my body was dancing and my heart was singing, “I have a treasure chest of love.” Laura and I started laughing. This woman proceeded to tell me that a) I work too hard, b) life doesn’t have to be this hard, and c) I need to focus on my talents—stop challenging myself further—and life will come much easier.

I came to work on Monday and immediately told my boss! Guess what, I’m planning on not working hard anymore . . . you okay with that?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Oh wait, that was last week. Anyhoo, here goes . . .

Things I'm thankful for:

• My family, friends, kids, health, job, life, etc.
  
• God
• The fact that I can go from indoor garage at home to indoor garage at work and circumvent some of the horrors of the Rochester weather
• The fireplace in my office (albeit unused)
  
• The holiday season and everything it entails (i.e., carols, lights, candles, shopping, giving, receiving, incense, warmth, celebration)
  
• My leopard-patterned, rubber rain boots
• Stinky's warm, furry, purring body
  
• Hugs
  
• The body's amazing ability to heal itself!
  
• Massages, facials, mani/pedis, acupuncture, etc.
  
• The full, pink roses that unexpectedly popped up in our backyard recently
• The joy of repeated visits from the Tooth Fairy lately
  
• Vacation days -- even (or especially) when they're spent rummaging through boxes and throwing out tons of useless stuff or donating it to the Salvation Army
  

While I was cleaning all this crap out of the basement last weekend, I found my godmother's high school graduation ring from Cottonwood ID circa 1928, my worn-out gingham nightgown from childhood, a "love letter" from some guy named Ian who apparently I worked with at Xerox but I cannot remember, an email from a girlfriend who died of breast cancer in 1998, a number of books that I have wanted to read and countless pictures of my hubby and me from 20 years ago, Brazil, my 30th birthday party, grad school parties, etc.

But the email from Gisella ripped my heart wide open and reminded me of how fleeting life can be. I burst into tears and Son #1 came running over. "What's the matter mama?" and I told him why I was crying. He then put his arms around me and said, "Don't be sad about her death; just be really happy that you had her in your life at one time."

So, yes, the main thing I am thankful for at this moment: all of my relationships including those that have now ended or are solely maintained from afar. Without them, there is nothing.

Eawaches

Son#2: "What does the cown doctor heaw?"

Me: "The what doctor?"

Son#2: "The cown, c-o-r-n, doctor."

Me: "Oh, what does the corn doctor hear?"

Son#2: "Noooo, heaw, h-e-a-l."

Me: "Uh, bunions?"

No Estoy Estupido

During dinner the other night, Son #1 commented on how daddy is older than I am and then innocuously stated to his brother, “Yeah, that’s why he’s smarter than mama.”

Whaaaaaaaaat?

Of course, the hubby is going to town with this. His response to everything I say is now, “What was that . . . stupid?”

I'm thinking of investing in this little number to improve my self-image.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye . . .

I cannot count on one hand how many times people have said to me, "I must know! Who is your inner European?" Sadly, I was never entirely sure until now . . .

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful. You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

My oldest brother is apparently French. As he says, "Say it ain't so!"

Getting to Know You

As a bit of a data nerd, I can fully appreciate providing as much information about myself as possible to retailers (e.g., interests, buying patterns, preferences) if it is used to make my overall customer experience better. I actually enjoy, to a minor extent anyway, swiping my Shopper's Club Card. That way the super-powers-that-be at Wegman's know that I am a profile unto myself as I purchase Avalon Organics shampoos and meatless Quorn alongside my Pixie Stix and Ho Hos. Maybe I'm conflicted but I highly doubt that anyone else fits neatly into any prescribed category.

Needless to say, I'm a huge fan of collaborative filtering -- the science of taking my self-reported preferences, matching them with the tastes of a gazillion others, and making predictions about what I would like.

According to MovieLens, the minute I have a moment to watch a non-Pixar movie (heaven forbid) I should be renting a bunch of movies that I have actually never heard of including Monsoon Wedding, The Life and Times of Hank Greenberg, and Gone Baby Gone. Yes, there is life beyond repeatedly watching The Sandlot or Star Wars (all episodes) with my kids.

Why is this important to me? Because I think I am one of the only people on the planet not to love oft-favored gems such as Forrest Gump, As Good as It Gets, or (dare I say) Bridges of Madison County. Puhlease. I obviously cannot trust popular opinion to dictate my tastes so I must turn to the only friend who truly knows me: a robust database in Minnesota.

By far my favorite application over the past couple of years is Pandora. I can select bands I like, Pandora plays similar bands, and I get to rate whether or not I like their selections for me.

Right now I requested bands like Rilo Kiley, Wilco, Sonic Youth, Beck, Ramones, The Psychedelic Furs, Dwight Yokum, Bowie and the Pixies. Given these selections, Pandora has just played the Clash, the Cure, INXS, the Stone Roses, the Jesus and Mary Chain, Brian Eno and the Smiths. It's like having my own custom DJ. Mind you, given these selections today, I'm not really hearing anything new but that's okay; I can switch them at any time.

Now, if only I could swipe a card carrying my preferences as I enter a bar/restaurant and have songs that I would enjoy automatically entered into the mix, that would be cool. A futuristic Pandora on steroids. It could happen.

Craptacular!

For the past week, every time the McDonald's new "snack wrap" commercial came on the TV, my kids would burst out laughing.

Me: What is sooooooooo funny about that?

Them: McDonald's has something called "snack crap"!

Ah yes, reason #1 for teaching proper elocution. And yet another reason for the kids to clamor for McDonald's. Who doesn't want snack crap and a free toy?

I'm lovin' it.

Mr. Mistoffe-Lays

A coworker of mine was bemoaning the fact that his beautiful and talented girlfriend is appearing in a musical right now. He feels that, akin to drinking and driving, regardless of how gifted she is in both areas, one should never mix acting and singing. This combination creates, in his opinion, the “lowest form of art” which is “lower than pantomime.”

Years ago, my much beloved uncle Ed came in to NYC from CA and treated my cousin, my hubby and me to a world-class meal at the Four Seasons followed by an evening at the now-defunct Broadway musical Cats.

Say what you want about musicals in general, or even Cats in particular, we had a really unusual night. Why? Because the heavyset, middle-aged man seated directly behind me, who was flanked by two adoring women, sang along to every song. Yes, aloud. And his date(s) didn’t even seem to mind! One actually complimented him during intermission; she was amazed that he knew all of the lyrics. He shared with her (and me because I was eavesdropping) how a) he had seen the musical a million times and b) what made it so easy was that the lyrics were about cats. And who doesn’t love singing about cats?

Not to be outdone, during the climax of the big hit “Memory” at the close of the show, the man across the aisle from us opened a big bag of potato chips and began chomping away.

Apparently he shared Nathan’s views on this mode of artistic expression.

When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin . . .

'Cause You Had a Bad Day

I friggin' hate it when this happens!

Haste-makes-wasteology?

Until last night, I sincerely believed I was the easiest person to please food-wise. I’m equally as content dining in upscale restaurants as I am gorging myself on cheeseburgers at Tom Wahls. And, in my humble opinion, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese – the powdered kind lest there be any confusion – is better than “gourmet” Mac & Cheese any day. On the flip side, I can’t find a suitable tuna anywhere since I had killer sashimi years ago at the Market Street Bar & Grill in the Hyatt at the Reston Town Center. Alas, my hunt continues.

In recent weeks, I’ve enjoyed a fabulous Chilean sea bass at Max of Eastman Place, shared a delicious plate of Cajun calamari with my girlfriend at Bistro 135, devoured a heavenly breakfast empanada at Juan and Maria’s in the Rochester Public Market, and even found a little slice of yum with the Triple Chocolate Meltdown at our neighborhood Crapplebee’s. Really, it doesn’t take much.

Welcome to Tasteology: Rochester’s very own introduction into branded “health food.” With a clever concept, fabulous mission (the passionate pursuit of great food and inspired customers) and a CIA-trained head chef, what could go wrong? Oh, I wish you hadn't asked. The poor execution of an overstated brand promise, that’s what.

If you like dining at the Ikea Café sans the deliciously fattening Swedish meatballs, this is the place for you. Picture an oversized, nondescript dining room with Pergo-like flooring, colorful green painted walls and what I possibly remember to be plastic chairs —devoid of any warmth—and voila, try to make yourself at home on a chilly, wet, November evening. And feel free to ignore the woman being filmed in the kitchen and broadcast on a giant screen toward the back given that you cannot hear a word she's saying and the top of her head is cut off.

But really, lack of ambiance and technical difficulties aside, we were there for the “great food.”

I ordered the Parrilla touted as “grilled Argentinean style barbeque beef with chimichurri herb sauce, fire roasted tomatoes, chiles and Spanish cheeses (on a flatbread)” and sold to me as “really spicy.”

I received what tasted like sweet, barbequed, pulled pork over chunky Ragu on a flatbread. Being the good friend that I am, I kindly gave pieces to each of my friends. “Try this! No really, I insist!”

Being the good friends that they are, they offered samples of their meals in return. The noodle bowl I tried, to me, tasted like vomit. My girlfriends didn’t mind it nearly as much as I. One commented sadly that she could easily make it at home. Me too! If I stick my finger down my throat . . .

With all due respect, the Sizzology (i.e., stir fried beef, broccoli and cashews with black bean sauce, cinnamon roasted sweet plantains and sesame basmati brown rice) was the best item at our table. Hearty flavor with a hint of cinnamon sweetness. If there’s ever a next time, I’ll be sure to order it. I don’t want to venture out of my comfort zone here ever again! And I'm not naturally risk-adverse.

Thankfully Brio is next door. The minute we finished our meals, we walked (make that ran) next door, grabbed a bottle of wine and sunk into the leather couch and seats by the bar. Surrounded by candles and floor-to-ceiling curtains, we then proceeded to relax and stuff ourselves full with two fairly large bowls of spicy snack mix.

Goodbye health food. Hello Frito Lay!

Please, Tasteology, do us a favor, take some more time to perfect your recipes before going to market. We really do want you to succeed.

I'm a Brainiac, Brainiac

According to an article published in The Financial Times last Friday, “Mindless gossip feeds the brain.” Specifically, researchers have discovered that:

• memory and mental performance improve during a few minutes' conversation with another person
• rambling on about a soap opera seems to be as effective as a weighty conversation about social issues
• socializing is as effective in sharpening your faculties as doing a crossword

Off to the water cooler I go! Really, it's all in the line of duty.

Oh, you know her, would you look at that hair? Yeah, you know her, check out those shoes . . .

Happy Birthday Monkey!

Today is our little guy's sixth birthday! He already opened one gift: a Webkinz German Shepherd that he named Derek after Jeter. The hubby tried to get him to call it Derek Dieter (he is German after all) but the humor was lost on him.

So six years ago today, my boss gave me the day off! Crazy! I was due three days prior and was as big as a house. "Stay home and have that baby," she counseled me. I heed advice well.

I had the world's fastest labor. Either that or I slept through most of it; I do have a high tolerance for pain. I took a nap, woke up in labor and knew I needed to get to the hospital STAT. (Love using that term in that sentence!) I took a quick shower and, as we were walking out the door, my boss called. So what did I do? Why I took the call, of course! Never mind that it's rush hour traffic on a Friday night and I'm about to give birth, what interesting events happened at the office today?

We hung up when she caught wind of the hubby's insistence in the background.

We made it to the hospital in record time only to find they didn't want to admit me because my water had not broken. So they put me in triage and called for a doctor. A few minutes later a nurse came in, checked me out and told me that I'm not even close to giving birth and they'll probably just give me some drugs to ease the pain and send me home. What??? I politely shared with him that I'm giving birth THIS INSTANT and not leaving the hospital.

We then waited a few more minutes for a doctor. The doctor examined me, with the nurse by her side, and not-so-calmly said, "Get her to a room immediately. This is an emergency!"

So, the nurse started running and wheeling my bed down the hall lickety-split. We were careening and hitting walls while he yelled at people to get out of the way. The hubby asked him if he had just come in from Happy Hour. Even though I was in some serious labor, we were all laughing.

I give birth approximately two seconds after arriving in my room. All-in-all, less than an hour in total and <30 minutes after I hung up with my boss.

After calling my mom to tell her all was well, the hubby left a message on my boss' home answering machine. She got home about a minute later amazed that in the time it took her to pack her gear and drive home, I had already gotten to the hospital and given birth.

No wonder we promote our process optimization services so highly. I gave birth to the poster child for streamlining and workflow efficiencies . . .

Role models

I’ve been interviewing a lot of job candidates lately for client-related positions ranging from Executive Administrative Assistants to Controllers and I’ve noticed the following. A lot of the younger candidates for positions—who I typically find to be much more in tune with themselves, level-headed, well spoken, focused and driven then I was at their age—respond to the query, “Describe for me a leader you admire,” with a narrative of their father or mother whereas older individuals cite a current/former manager, military strategist or President (including one nomination for George Bush recently but that’s another rant altogether).

Did parenting change over the past 25+ years or rather, as you age, do different types of leaders emerge in your consciousness to change the frame of reference? Worse yet, perhaps the impact of parenting lessens over time?

Regardless of the cause, after listening to scores of aspiring, freshly minted college graduates give testimony to the strong character development functions their parents provided, the sound role models they were, and the solid foundation of integrity and ethics imparted, I am suddenly keenly aware of my own responsibility as a parent and the enormous impact I can have on the success of my kids both short- and long-term.

I now aspire to be the future response to that same question when my children are on their many job interviews throughout life. And color me a braggart, but I think I can top George Bush . . .

Happy Halloween!

I went to my girlfriend's house last night for our new tradition: a pumpkin martini. Vanilla vodka, brandy, pumpkin pie spice mix (from a can), cream (whipped or otherwise) and a dusting of nutmeg. Yum!

I had one last year at a cute little cafe on Park Ave., Cibon, that was soooooooo good I couldn't get it out of my head but they haven't had it on the menu since. Believe me, I know. We've gone back twice (once last fall and again last week) and I've now resorted to calling beforehand. No such luck.

And, although it is the last day in October, it is gorgeous Indian Summer day today -- perfect for Trick or Treating. With only one exception, it has been warm on Halloween every year since we moved to Rochester. That's four warm Halloweens in a row. So I get to go door-to-door with Darth Vadar and Jack Sparrow while the hubby entertains all of the kids who come to our house. I'll cash my chips in and man the door next year when it has to be cold, right?!

Which, on an somewhat related note, brings me to the following. I don't remember a single costume I ever wore on Halloween (as a kid) nor do I think there are pictures of any. I may have gone as a member of Kiss once; I vaguely remember my face feeling super itchy one horrible night. But I do remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, my same pumpkin-martini-pouring-girlfriend going one year, when we were really little, as a ghost. Yep, the white sheet with two eyes cut out. Why is this image so clear? Because as we ran between houses in the dark, she continued to trip on her sheet and fall down -- all night long.

Not sure it was ever funny to her but almost 40 years later (yikes), it's still funny to me!

Yard Defender

Our front walkway courtesy of my husband.

Note: Idea co-opted from Extreme Pumpkins author Tom Nardone as seen in USA Today.

Holy Roller

Yep, more God stuff that my brother detests . . . D'oh!

My girlfriend and I had a brief conversation when we were leaving church yesterday about becoming "holier than thou." Whereas she knew that reading the Bible and applying it to her life has been making her a better person, she also recognized that others might still see her flaws and not want to subscribe to any religion that would accommodate someone who behaves as poorly as she. (Her perception not mine.)

I felt the same way for years. For a long time, I didn't want to share my faith for a number of reasons including:
1) I always thought that Christians were stupid -- ergo, others probably now think that I am a total idiot (and who could blame them?).
2) My behavior didn't change overnight; therefore, I could predict overhearing the following in Thirsty's as I did a bar crawl, "I thought she was a believer. Some Christian she is."

But the simple fact is, I haven't actually done a bar crawl in years. And that's not because I'm a holy roller but rather because I'm in my 40s, don't get out much and, when I do, my nights are not typically wild. (Note the use of "typically" -- I still have my moments.) However, the truth is: I never really did many bar crawls. That was (and is) more the province of my rowdier girlfriends. And it's still hysterical to witness.

However, instead of covering up my faith because I am a sinner and might give Christianity a bad name, I now recognize that I would rather change my life to be a better reflection of God. Not easy (I still keep falling) but better than the alternative.

One friend, when talking faith, always quotes John Lennon, "Whatever gets you through the night; it's alright." This view is much more tolerant than any I ever espoused historically but also doesn't quite describe my current leaning. To me, faith hasn't served as a crutch that makes me feel better about myself. Instead, the opposite has happened. It has opened giant areas of my life that desperately needed attention. Things I had previously chosen to ignore or I simply never considered to be issues, are now brought to life with a loud (but understanding) "So, what are you going to do about it?" question.

I grew up with this vision of God as a distant entity who had much bigger fish to fry than to deal with my little problems. People were starving in Africa and this little girl in Junior High wants a boyfriend? How selfish and petty is she? I thought I was bothering him when I would ask for anything through my prayer life and, since I never saw any of my prayers answered anyway, I thought he didn't really give a shit. More importantly, I always thought that I never measured up to his expectations. I was supposed to be perfect and I wasn't. Really, who wants that kind of constant condemnation in life? Not me.

I'm still unbelievably far from perfect (farther than I can fathom) but I now understand that I'm deeply loved in spite of all of this. He knows exactly how I act and think but still somehow loves me. How cool is that? Now that makes me want to be a better person . . . not to avoid disapproval but rather to please him. Who knew?

Never Sleep Alone

The New York Times published an article this week entitled, “Shhh . . . My Child Is Sleeping (in My Bed, Um, With Me)” which categorizes those who sleep with their kids in three ways: 1) intentional co-sleepers (e.g., those who believe it’s good for a child’s well-being and emotional development), 2) reactive (e.g., those who can’t get their kids to sleep any other way) or 3) circumstantial (e.g., when on vacation). I fall into all three categories.

From the moment Son #1 was born, he wanted to be held. Even in the hospital, when he fell asleep and I put him in the bassinet next to me, he immediately awoke. After repeated wake-ups, I finally propped the pillows on the side of my hospital bed so he wouldn’t tumble out, placed him next to me and we both fell asleep. We’ve been together ever since: 7.5 years.

Although we had one of those cribs that attaches to the side of the bed, it ended up housing my laptop – which at the time was a much-needed convenience given the preponderance of 3:00 a.m. emails at my previous job and my ancillary night-time feedings which corresponded nicely (no pun intended!).

People who heard about these sleeping arrangements either fully understood (i.e., did the same thing) or, conversely, were aghast. I heard from so many people, “Just put him in the crib and let him cry through it.” The one time I agreed to try it, I hated every moment. His sobbing seemed to go on forever and penetrated every corner of our house. Finally, after hours of sadness, I couldn’t stand it any longer and went in to his room to check on him. Like a beaver, he was trying to bite his way through the crib. His mouth was literally filled with wood chips. Never again.

I definitely feel that a childhood filled with warmth, love and snuggles trumps any negative side effects. Like the fact that I now begin my nights reading books with my kids, saying our prayers and falling asleep; however, mid-night, when I cannot roll over and my body is in a cramp, I finally make my way back to my bed where I belong and attempt to fall back asleep. And, I don’t think the hubby appreciates the fact that this has been going on for so many years.

Now that the kids are older, having me (and each other) in one bed falls squarely in the “reactive,” least positive, most stressful category. Son #2 now has a hard time falling asleep alone and oftentimes, if I’m working late or out with friends, attempts to stay up and wait for me. Not healthy for him -- or for our backs as we repeatedly carry a 65 lb. kid up the stairs who has fallen asleep on the family room floor.

The last line of the article sums it up nicely, however, with a quote from the pediatrician of the author’s daughter. “I can tell you with certainty,” he says, “that one day you will wake up, and she won’t be there.”

We're a long way from being empty nesters but I'm glad. For now, I love the tenderness and, until they're ready, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Girl Scout Cookies

It's that time of year when everyone comes out of the woodwork shilling for the Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Jazz Ensemble, etc. We currently have Thin Mints coming from the little girl across the street, Fat Free Chocolate Chips from her sister, Cinna-Spins (whatever they may be) from our niece, more Thin Mints from the daughter of a friend from High School, Caramel deLights from the daughter of another friend from High School, popcorn from the boy next door, popcorn from some other boys up the street and two Thanksgiving pies from another neighbor's son.

Why do I care? Well, not only did I just get back from the fat-farm only to eat handfuls upon handfuls of chips, I also dyed my hair brown. And then I realized that one of my son's friends from school -- whom I've met on multiple occasions and blogged about yesterday -- asked me recently, "Who are you?" as if I was no longer recognizable.

Dark brown hair? Fat? OMG! Maybe he thought I was Britney Spears . . . I hear that drugs can age you twenty years.

Normative or Deviant?

What do you do if your son's best friend at school keeps inviting him over to his house and subsequently showing him his penis? Nothing? Anything?

I first heard about it after it happened a few weeks ago at our house. I was informed of it by son #2. Son #1 proceeded to confirm the story and state nonchalantly that it happened at the kid's house, too.

Then, son #1 rode the bus home with this kid and they did "something bad on the bus" which he refuses to talk about.

Monday, he went to this kid's house again. I asked, "Did you have fun over there?" to which I got an excited response about various video games they played and Naruto cards they swapped. I then asked, "Did he show his penis again?" "Oh yeah." As if it was nothing. So, of course, I don't want to make it something. I just think it's really weird behavior for a seven-year old. But I don't know. Maybe that's what boys do?

I told him that he could have this kid over if he promises that he won't let him take "it" out of his pants. "I already know that." Well, okay then.

Beyond that, what? Speak with the kid's parents? Is this something innocuous that boys do? Or the sign of worse things to come? Can any guy answer this for me?

No More Tears

While I was gone last weekend, Son #2 began sobbing before bedtime on Saturday night because he missed me.

In order to get him to fall asleep, the hubby told him that if he stopped crying, blew his nose and put the tissue under his pillow, he might get a visit from the snot fairy.

I wonder what she brought . . .

Sleep-away Camp

I just returned from a weekend at a "spa" -- better described as a fat-farm/adult sleep-away camp with my girlfriend. What a blast!

I already posted my review of the Deerfield Spa on TripAdvisor.

There is a quote from Miguel De Cervantes that sums up my two days with Jacque, "Tell me what company you keep and I'll tell you who you are." I am unbelievably blessed to have a friend who a) is one of the nicest people on the planet, b) will roll with the punches, c) engages in everything that life offers, d) laughs a lot and e) maintains her beauty even after kick boxing.

Which reminds me of a Sicilian proverb, "Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty." I'd like to modify that to, "Only your real friends won't mind when you haven't washed your hair in days and it's covered in massage oil."

Thank you Sean (husband and generous ringleader)! Thank you Jacque! Thank you God!

Channeling Jack

In church last Sunday, a girlfriend who has been going to our particular church with me for almost two years got a little teary-eyed and said, “Never in a million years would I have ever seen myself here.”

I was thinking the same thing this morning when I turned off my radio and was praying in solitude on my way to work. Who woudda thunk that lil’ ole me would ever be on such a spiritual path? But, then again, if God truly made us, then what could be more natural? Yet, if it’s so natural, why do I repeatedly reject it? For the past 10+ years, it’s a constant process of faltering and course-correcting.

In my mind, I was likening it to taking a bulimic to Peter Luger. Although a big hunk of protein-rich steak might be good for the body, a bulimic, after years of self-destructive behavior, may naturally reject it. I know that’s a kind of disgusting analogy but, for me, it works. I was off course for so long that my brain cannot handle the quantum leap. So I shift my internal baseline closer and closer to God in tiny increments.

One morning last week, as I was journaling my little heart out, I kept asking God all sorts of questions – and I was pissed at Him at times. Are you really there? If so, why couldn’t my dad give up drinking when I was a kid? If you’re so powerful and all knowing, why can’t you help others who I love to quit drinking? And on and on. I finally asked, “Are you really the Truth?” and my brain responded with a line from A Few Good Men: “You can’t handle the Truth!”

Thank you, Jack Nicholson, for that moment of Zen.

Clueless

During a conversation about beer bongs in which I was telling a co-worker about how my dad helped me buy my funnel and tubing -- and how somewhat clueless he was at times -- I remembered the following personal embarrassment.

One summer, when I was still in college, my sister and I went out to happy hour at TGI Friday's (we really knew how to party!). During the car ride there, I noticed that my bra straps kept peeking out from under my dress so, when we arrived, I slipped my bra off and left it in the car.

The next day, my dad came home from work with it in his hands, "What was this doing in my glove compartment?" No matter how much we tried to explain how innocent it was, he wasn't buying it. He was livid.

In retaliation, my mom decided that we should take a pair of his underwear, plant it in her glove compartment and make a big scene sometime when the whole family was out together. Funny, right? So I went into his dresser, took a pair of his underwear, hid it in a box in my room awaiting the occasion and then promptly forgot about it.

A few weeks later, as I was packing to go back to college, men's underwear fell out of the box. My dad was furious! "Who does this underwear belong to?" OMG! How is this possible?

My mom and I were laughing so hard but he, once again, thought there was more to the story. Nothing like getting in trouble for transgressions you didn't commit!

Polyester Bride

My girlfriend Katherine used the following expression when talking about her love of George Clooney, “He would look so good on me.” True. He would look good on all of us – not at the same time, mind you. During that same conversation another girlfriend, Christine, claimed Matthew McConaughey as her own. Yep, he’s hot alright.

In this fictitious world we were living in (i.e., the one where we could date famous men), I couldn’t figure out who I wanted. Most stars are too good looking whereas I like intelligent and quirky. Tom Cruise is a one-man freak parade. Brad Pitt is way too cool and cannot be trusted. I was mulling over the benefits of Jon Stewart v. Paul Rudd – both cute and funny – when I realized that, the love of my life has been in front of me all along: John Cusack. My husband knows this but, somehow, I had overlooked him. Over the weekend, after watching “Must Love Dogs” for the umpteen time, which my husband taped for me for obvious reasons, it finally dawned on me that I should claim him after I repeatedly said to my children, “I’m in love with that man.”

Hot and talented -- presumably with good taste in music (can a man be judged by the soundtracks of the films he’s in or the Ramones t-shirts he wears when in character?), he’s sooooooo mine. And he has the world’s best bonus: a fabulous sister who may be even cooler than he is. Holidays would never be the same! I wonder if he likes unfamous, married, suburban, 40-something housewives with children . . .

Heartbeat, Increasing Heartbeat

What's the absolutely, positively best way to start a Monday? To turn on the car radio to the opening stanzas of one of your favorite songs from childhood.

"Zoo time; it's she and you time. The mammals are your favorite type and you want her tonight."

OMG! Thank you WITR. I took out my cell phone and dialed my sister -- the only person on the planet who may have gotten an even bigger rush out of it. No answer. Argh!

As the youngest member of the Sparks fan club in the mid-70s, even meriting a mention in their cheesy photocopied newsletter, I was beside myself. I was screaming lyrics at the top of my lungs that I didn't even know still remained in the recesses of my brain.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us. And it ain't me who's gonna leave!

Gore's Nobel Peace Prize

I was wondering, as I read the news, what peace and global warming have in common when I ran across the following quote from Damian Thompson, a UK correspondent from the Telegraph:

"Al Gore . . . has overtaken Michael Moore as the most sanctimonious lardbutt Yank on the planet."

As much as I'm in favor of "going green," as they say, this made me laugh. I love that you can get a Nobel Peace Prize for filming a movie. Mother Teresa could have relaxed after all!

I Love British Airways . . . Still

I spend a great portion of my days lately writing business plans for companies from fledgling start-ups to new divisions of major companies. And, in so doing, I think a lot about brand positioning and differentiation. Why chose this company and not its competitors? I take on the role of the decision makers, influencers and end users across the various markets and ask myself, “What’s in it for me?” Sometimes the answer is fairly simple; other times, it takes sustained concentration and I still have difficulty.

I also think a lot about brand loyalty. After someone becomes a customer, what would encourage them to buy repeatedly? Or, more importantly, never buy again from their competitors? Or, best case, tell their friends about the brand? In my life, there are few brands I’m loyal to. I pretty consistently eat Lean Cuisine for lunch but not always. I get bored. I love my Jetta so much that we bought a Passat wagon a few years ago. But, until Chrysler hired my militant friend, Bob Nardelli, I was considering looking at the Jeep Liberty next. No deal now. And, let’s face it, although I buy them a lot, I’m rarely talking about Tampax at dinner parties. Well, at least not until the plates have been cleared.

We have one client who targets their customers’ children with fun, educational events to get them involved in their company at a young age so that when later in life these kids are successful, they will hopefully equate a portion of their achievement to this brand, utilize its services and tell their other accomplished friends to do the same. The jury is out for another 10–20 years regarding the ultimate success of this program; however, it does promote goodwill with the parents today.

This got me thinking about one of the most fun, brand experiences I had as a child. I was given a hardcover flight-log from BOAC (now British Airways) on my first trip to London. From that flight on, for years until it became embarrassing, I had all of the pilots on my flights sign their autographs and log how many miles I had flown on the given day/route. I loved it. I was often asked if I wanted to go up into the cockpit and meet the pilots but was usually too shy to do so. However, with this book came two other things: 1) a bronze pin of a plane that I cherished and 2) the promise of an interview with the company when I was old enough to become a flight attendant (a.k.a. hostess, stewardess). And, yes, the thought of becoming a flight attendant was pretty darned exciting to me back then.

Although I never took them up on it, I did think about my childhood experience when I flew British Airways last summer. The individual responsible for that campaign circa 1974 was, I’m guessing, long gone from the company. I wondered: if I asked, would BA honor my request for an interview? Probably (although I’m sure they would have gotten a bigger laugh out of it). But, in reality, did it entice me to fly BA 30+ years later? No, my frequent flyer miles did. It did, however, predispose me to think positive thoughts about the airline which, in this day and age, is a difficult feat.

So my hats off to British Airways for creating a sustainable brand experience for one little girl to share with her clients 30+ years later.

Rescue 911

The last few weekends, I’ve taken either one or both boys on hikes. Two weeks ago, Son #1 and I walked along a path near our house that I had seen but had never taken. It began alongside a cornfield, wound its way through a little woods and ended in a huge clearing that was flanked by marshlands filled with cattails. In the middle of the clearing was a great, blue heron that allowed us to approach and then swooped away. We were amazed; it was huge. Then both of us lay down in the grass for a while looking at the clouds and then made our way home.

Last Sunday evening, the three of us walked through the woods in Tinker Park just before dusk. There were deer all around who just looked up at us as we passed. We played on the playground and walked the labyrinth.

Years ago, my girlfriends and I decided that we would go on a big hike the first warm day of spring every year. One year we climbed the face of Bristol Mountain and, when we got to the top, stripped down to our shorts and bras to bask in the hot sun only to have a group of guys descend on us mere moments later. So much for thinking we had the mountain to ourselves.

Another year we began climbing a steep, rocky path alongside a stream in Naples, NY. At first we were jumping from stone to stone to cross the stream but after a number of misses, we just started trudging straight through the ice cold water. We were soaking wet but it felt exhilarating. When my girlfriend Poo got to the top of the cliff and saw a little rope hanging from a tree presumably to swing us across a fairly large precipice to the next overhang, she stopped and said, “Turn back, we can’t go any farther.” Unfortunately for me, my fingers were at the top of the overhang and my toes were dug into the rock. I was literally hanging off the face of the incline. Me. The girl who cannot open a soda bottle with her bare hands was facing a sheer drop into the abyss.

Much akin to driving to the hospital on my way to give birth to Son #1 trying to figure out if it was too late to outsource, my brain was scrambling. I honestly thought we were going to have to call “Rescue 911.” I needed a helicopter and a basket. Somehow, I mustered up my courage and made my way back down to the ledge below where my friend Patti helped me to safety. I was pretty shaken but, at least for a short while, I felt really confident and empowered.

But not enough to want to repeat it--ever!

Another Chinese Toy Recall

Note: From my brother. Original source unknown.

Same as it ever was . . .

I just took the online "Sleep Profile Quiz" from Ambien CR. I scored a 3 out of 10 which means that, according to them, I don't have a sleeping problem. I guess I need to have had a major life crisis recently and be supplementing my sleep already with melatonin in order to qualify. Just the sheer fact that I can no longer fall asleep or stay asleep, night after night, isn't enough.

It's a vicious cycle. I can't sleep and I lie in bed worrying about work. But when I get to work, I can barely think because I'm working on no sleep. So I can't get enough done. Then I go to bed, even more freaked out than the night before . . .

All of this is turning me into an evil bitch. Last week, as I was driving to work I passed some women in my neighborhood who were out jogging together. I said aloud (in my car, of course), "Fuck you." And then I said it about a hundred times more over the next couple of days. When the street light would turn red right in front of me. When someone would cut me off. Whatever the minor infraction, it didn't matter. I was feeling really let down by the universe. Why do I have to work my ass off for years and years with nothing to show for it? What's the f*ing point? What would happen if I just drove off a cliff today?

"And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house. And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife."

In the midst of this maniacal behavior, my oldest brother sent me another research study pointing to how liberals are less satisfied than conservatives -- not because of rising inequality (which is often erroneously blamed) -- but rather because they do not see the opportunity at hand as clearly as their happy-go-lucky, conservative friends. I realized that my definition of the "haves vs. have nots" in my community is what's making me miserable specifically in light of my personal lack of upward mobility.

I leave for work before my neighbors and come home later. Yet, my house is in disarray and I have little to no money put aside for my retirement and my kids' education. I am jealous that one good friend's major stress in life involves a new puppy. As much as I know she's really frantic, I think, "How hard can it f*ing be?" and then I feel guilty for minimizing her angst. I am jealous that another friend's husband is uber-successful and whisking her off to London at a moment's notice. As a stay-at-home mom with beautifully manicured fingernails and no time at all to call me and check in to see how I'm doing, my jealously is compounded. Then I think, what kind of so-called friend am I that I cannot be happy for her? The truth is, I am happy for her. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is a horrible place to live.

Then I hear about a couple who lost their eight-year-old son in a bicycle accident years ago and I count my blessings. I hear about a woman roughly my age who was born with hydrocephalus, who cannot see, sit up, speak, use her arms/legs, etc. yet has been lovingly taken care of for years to ensure her life is not further compromised. And I know, I know, I know that I have a fabulous life. I don't live in Darfur, I have never been a victim of genocide, I have perfect health (when I'm sleeping well), I have two gorgeous, loving sons. What the f* is wrong with me?

So, instead of praying for greater mobility, a new job, more money, a rich husband (sorry hon) and a cleaning lady, I need to begin praying in earnest for non-attachment. I need to be okay with who I am, right here and right now: a latent Buddhist apparently. Or an expletive-laden Christian. I'm just glad that God provides compassion and forgiveness. If this f* you phase continues much longer, I'm going to need 'em.

Like a Moth to the Flame

Last night, the kids and I went to Marshall's where we were looking at the Halloween gear.

Son #2 wanted to buy daddy a big skeleton that, when you pushed its button, said, "Hey, can somebody get me a drink?"

I, on the other hand, found giant, cloth wings that had the following warning affixed to them: Keep away from open flames.

I had to laugh. It was as if, upon wearing this contraption, you would immediately gravitate to the fire pit. Help! Somebody stop her! She doesn't know what she's doing!

Is it . . .

better to blow kisses to someone or receive kisses that someone else has blown to you?

There are a lot of kisses flying through the air when I leave the house almost every morning.

When I get home at night, there is often a rush to hug me, as well. But lately, Son #1 is on the computer and cannot be bothered to come up to greet me.

And this morning, he kissed his hands and threw the kisses at me over his shoulder without even looking away from his bowl of cereal. It was still really sweet, a bit of a surprise ambush that I didn't see coming until it hit, but the writing is on the wall.

I need to savor these moments because someday soon they'll be over.

I already got the "Please don't call me Scootchie in public" request recently (although it's still allowed at home) and the "You embarrass me sometimes" statement after I asked a "Who wants ice cream?" question to a group of kids at our house and then snapped my fingers, pointed my thumbs at myself and responded, "This girl."

So, for now, when Son #2 wants me to leave work in the middle of the day to have lunch with him in the cafeteria and play during recess, if I can, I will. In a few years, it will no longer be an option.

Locomotive Lungs

While describing the woes of my husband’s snoring, someone near and dear to my heart (a.k.a. my mom) told me that her husband (a.k.a. my dad) also had suffered from sleep apnea. When they were first married, she claimed that she worried incessantly that he would stop breathing during the night. After thirty years of sleep deprivation, however, she began a somewhat different prayer, “Please, God, let this be his last breath.”

I’ve simply begun putting headphones on or, because my kids often sleep together in each other’s rooms, I switch to an unoccupied bed or the couch. Until a few days ago, it seemed to be working. I’ll keep you posted on my thoughts in another 15 years. Or again next week if my inability to sleep continues . . .

My New Favorite Blog?

Okay, so I’m sure I’ll continue to hit Go Fug Yourself daily – and not because I am into fashion but because I love how hysterically well these women write; however, I found another fabulous blog with gorgeous design ideas: Desire to Inspire.

Two days ago, they added a post plainly entitled "Simply some pretty photos. . ." that actually did inspire me. Just because I live in a 1960's tract house and have barely a penny to my name doesn't mean I have to give up. But I pretty much have done just that over the past five years.

Their collage of zebra rugs have made me want to go out and find one! I want to paint! I want beautiful fabrics!

To quote the Foo Fighters, "This is a call to all my past resignations. It's been too long."

Iron Chef Look Out

Hubby: “What do you want on your pizza?”

Son #1: “I’ll try anything.”

Hubby: “Monkey butts it is then.”

-------

Hubby: “What kind of yogurt do you want for lunch?”

Son #2: “Surprise me.”

Hubby: “Steak and cheese it is then.”

Massage Abduction

In two separate incidents this week, local teenagers called 911 after a stranger approached them. Details are sketchy; however, in one situation, a man in a pickup truck stopped to ask a group of girls to help him find his lost dog. Thankfully, they were old and/or wise enough not to fall for such an obvious ploy. Sadly, I worry about the outcome if the same scenario played out with our little guys. We’ve practiced with them what to say and do in a variety of situations but in reality, when push comes to shove, what would happen? It’s so disturbing that I can’t even think about it.

In so much as it’s not a laughing matter, my girlfriend mused that the end result would be worse if someone asked her, “Want a free massage?” She joked, “My clothes would be off in two seconds.”

Corbett's Glen

Between Little League, riding bikes, sewing patches on a Karate uniform, reading, drawing and playing hockey, basketball, soccer, kickball and catch, the boys and I took a long walk down a wooded, dirt trail after church on Sunday. We climbed up steep inclines, made our way down a thin path at the crest of a sandy hill, found short cuts through clearings, and located little purple berries in the underbrush. We finally wound up wading in the cold waters of Allen’s Creek, throwing leaves off a wooden bridge and watching the rush of the waterfalls.

Son #2: “Can we go home now? I want to be outside.”

Knock Yourself Out

When Son #1 turned six, he was really excited. “Only 10 more years until I get my license!”

Recently he asked me, “When I go to college, can I really do anything I want?”

“Depends. What do you want to do that you can’t do now?”

“I want to go fishing whenever I feel like it.”

The Mares of Diomedes

Driving to Little League last weekend, there was a family by the side of the road petting some horses. Son #2 wanted to stop.

Hubby: “You can’t pet them. Those are man-eating horses. Trust me, when we come by here after your game, those people will be gone.”

I’ll be darned. He was right. Car and all.