Currier & Ives Gotsta Stop Eatin'

A while back, I went to the Cape with a bunch of friends from college. One friend commented toward the end of the trip that I should become a “snacktress” because my eyes light up and I become animated whenever someone opens a bag of Frito's.

Wouldn’t that be a great job?

I envy the guy who walks around the country asking, “Can you hear me now?” What could be better than receiving a nice, recurring revenue stream from an oft-broadcast commercial? He was on TV constantly for a while but no one would ever recognize his face in LAX. And, even if we did, would we care?

Until my first snacktress job appears, however, I need to back away from the chips. My oldest brother joked over the phone a minute ago that, much akin to the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes, my ass appears to be keeping pace.

What a holiday card that would make.

Carry Me Home to My Kin

Having spent a number of years in NYC and a brief 18 months outside of D.C., I know firsthand —and can fully appreciate—that the Rochester airwaves are much more compelling than those in some of the major broadcast markets in this country.

For a relatively small city, we have great radio stations and world-class programs including: Friday night soul on WRUR, Saturday morning Memory Lane (R&B) on WDKX, Bad Dog Blues midday Sunday followed up by a Whole Lotta Shakin’ on WITR, New Wave Wednesdays on alternative music’s WBER, and the homegrown jazz station that my hubby favors, WGMC.

This is why it came as a bit of surprise when my five-year-old and I were in a local pizzeria recently and he screamed, “Sweet Home Alabama” after three (maybe four) notes of Skynard came on the air. Everyone turned to us and laughed.

Turn it up.

Fortune Cookie

I took my recent fortune cookie as a sign from God. It read, "You are offered the dream of a lifetime. Say yes!"

My husband took the fact that I was now believing in fortune cookies as a sign of the ongoing and prolonged demise of my faculties.

Heaven Sent

When I was pregnant with Son #1, he came to me in a dream.

Son #1: "Is there anything I need to know before I'm born?"

Me: "Just remember where you are right now. Somehow, after you're born, you forget."

Me: "Speaking of which, what are you doing right now?"

Son #1: "Just playing with my little brother."

I awoke the next morning amazed that we had connected in that way and shocked to boot: I'm having two boys?? I thought I was going to have girls! Oh nooooooooo!

In retrospect, it's been a huge blessing. To quote the Rolling Stones, you get what you need. But now who's going to go shopping with me when I'm 80? I guess that's what girlfriends are for.

Soccer Mom

Son #2 was on fire last night on the soccer field. While one of the kids on the opposing team kept reclining on the field and gazing at the crowd, our little guy kept tearing down the field and scoring. Four goals and one assist to be exact.

I was so proud.

Things that Perplex Me

Why was I, someone with a passion for music, given the world’s worst voice? Why was I, someone who loves traveling and adventure, paired up with a man who prefers to stay at home? How can I reconcile my refusal to buy shampoos with parabens and sodium lauryl sulfate with my fondness for ingesting toxins in the form of martinis with my girlfriends? Why am I more comfortable slam dancing in a dive bar than I am moving my body during worship at church?

And lastly, why does contemporary Christian music have to be so lame? Every cell in my body screams in protest when I’m listening to the radio and John Tesh electronica crap comes on. Why Lord? Why? I’m really trying here.

If only Bowie would convert and record a new CD . . .

Captain Underpants

Son #1 and I were riding in the car last year when we passed through a construction site.

Son #1 (plugging his nose): "What is that smell?"
Me: "It's coming from those trucks that are repaving the road."
Son #1: "Oh I get it. Is that why they put the 'ass' in asphalt?"

Damn. There are adults who don't get the subtle nuances of the English language as well as a six year old.

Thank you Captain Underpants.

Let the Greed, I Mean Adventure, Begin

Yesterday, during KidMo (the kid's service at church where I volunteer), the host, Johnny Rogers, taught the kids to "be specific" when praying. With that, I would like to begin my list.

Dear God -

Thank you first and foremost for all my blessings including, but not limited to, my: 1) awesome family including my fabulously gifted and beautiful children, 2) relationship with you!, 3) job that is interesting, challenging, varied and pays well, 4) fantastic health (physical, emotional, intellectual, etc.), 5) best-ever girlfriends including my mom and sis and 6) pretty nice stuff (e.g., house, cars, clothes) in a decent neighborhood in a good town, with excellent schools, in an great country . . .

So, at the risk of sounding greedy, per my KidMo instructions, please may I also:

• really come to appreciate all that I have
• learn to live my life with more excitement, passion, laughter and abandon
• teach my kids the important things in life and guide them well so they grow up healthy, happy and successful in their walk with you
  
• make strong decisions in life based on your guidance
• trust you implicitly
• have more quiet time with you to connect
• have more time with my kids -- specifically summers off and school breaks
• take more vacations
• maintain and augment my health
  
• have a cottage on a nearby lake
• have financial prosperity with fully paid retirement for me and the hubby and college for the kids
• thrive in a job where I continue to be highly valued, earn more money, have fun, contribute significantly to improving the world, and work fewer hours under considerably less pressure
• have a clean house, new kitchen, finished back patio (vs. bricks stacked up), a dry basement all year long, repaired front walk with bricks replaced, safe chimney, new windows, no rotting termite holes, fresh exterior paint, and a new couch without holes and stains
• be less exhausted and more able to function properly in life
  
• have a cute, hybrid, efficient car
• have more patience, peace and contentedness
• accept anything you want to provide in addition to, or in lieu of, all of this

Amen. And thanks in advance!

Yikes, I could have gone on forever. Feels funny but, hey, I can follow instructions. I just hope that God has a sense of humor. I'll keep you posted . . .

Regrets, I've Had a Few

My sister and two brothers are all 1-2 years apart and then four years later I came along. My middle brother told me once, when I was really little, that I was a mistake. I started crying, ran to my mom and asked if it was true.

“Of course it is. You all were.”

Amen to That

Two nights ago, as I was putting the boys to bed, son #2 curled up into his pillow so I couldn’t see his face and began whispering. I asked him if he was praying. He repeatedly insisted that he wasn’t but I could hear him pleading, “please, please, please.”

He then said, “Mama, if I tell you, then it won’t come true.”

“Monkey, you’re confusing wishes with prayer. It’s good to pray out loud with others – that way we can all pray with you.”

“Dear God, please let my mom stay home to play with us this summer.”

Uh, you might want to ask for an alternate income stream, preferably a financial windfall, with that request. Then, we're good to go

Kudos to Webkinz®

Bear with me. I promise this is the last, albeit brief, commentary about customer service.

In stark contrast to my God-awful experience with Home Depot, my hubby sent an email to Webkinz when one of the eyes fell out of son #2’s much beloved Tree Frog.

They sent an email response within an hour, called the very next day, and promptly shipped us a new Tree Frog (free of charge) along with a gift: a free Lil’Kinz frog!

As the hubby put it, son #2 was “totally jacked.” Now we have 13 of these little creatures.

In unrelated news, Home Depot still sucks.

The Art of Success

My oldest brother, the contra-proverbial “white sheep” of our family, is a PhD-level economist by trade prior to starting his own investment firm with some other brainiacs . Somehow, in the pursuit of his work-related research (at least that’s what I’d like to believe), he comes across a multitude of studies on variables that factor into success – or lack thereof – all of which point to my ultimate failure in life such as being:

1. short
2. a girl
3. the youngest child
4. born in the mid-60s
5. born in the winter
6. schooled early
7. blond (not sure that was really one of the studies but it sounds apropos)

Finally, a few months ago, he found a study that looked promising: that teenage binge drinking correlated to higher earnings as an adult due, in part, to the heightened ability for those young lushes to learn the art of socialization. Alas, the last line of the study stated that the findings were unrelated for females.

He now claims, based on "happiness research" cited by Will Wilkinson, that the reason I’m so f*ed up (to use his term), is not because of any of these factors but rather because I’m a status-obsessed liberal.

I’m going to have to mull that over at the country house this weekend.

Moving On

A few years ago, I was walking in midtown Manhattan with my mom – who grew up in the city. I told her, “Every block of this city reminds me of Grandpa” because, as a career funeral chauffeur, he knew every inch of the city -- every church, every synagogue, every street, and every alley -- like the back of his hand.

She responded with a litany of one-liners, “You’re living in the past; you need to move on. Don’t be so emotional. He had a long life.” And so on. Basically telling me to get over it.

Not one minute later, we turned the corner where Alexander’s, the once famous department store where she had worked, was being razed.

She stopped dead in her tracks and gasped, “Oh my God, Alexander’s is gone!”

Altruism at Five

Last night, the neighborhood kids were all in our yard. The boys were digging under the big pine tree and the girls were hanging out with me and chatting -- mainly about shoes.

After doing a cartwheel, the little girl next door, who is five, said to me, "Sometimes, when I'm doing gymnastics at the gym, I hear a voice in my head that says, 'Your job here is to help'."

Hello.

Yes, There is a God

After nine months of mayhem and, no exaggeration, probably 20+ calls to customer service, I just received a long overdue $125 refund from Home Depot for a wedding gift that they mis-shipped to my friends in VT.

Instead of simply reshipping the correct product without further involvement from me, Home Depot claimed to be crediting my account and I had to reorder the gift. I was also informed that, since Home Depot marked the item as "returned" on their system, someone else had already ordered it for the couple and I had to pick something else. I almost ordered something immediately, but decided (thankfully) to wait until my account was credited. I had no idea that it would take the better part of a year, with literally no response from Home Depot to my countless calls, and would result in a final, three-month “escalation” process.

During that same span of time, I have maligned the company not only personally with anyone who will listen but, more importantly, professionally in front of countless organizations by using it as a case study for “what not to do” as well as a treatise on the importance of effectively living your brand values.

You know, a good friend once joked to me, “I just read ‘I’m okay, you’re okay’ . . . I get the ‘I’m okay part’.” Well, that’s exactly how I feel about the Home Depot tagline, “You can do it. We can help.”

Home Depot either needs to streamline their internal operations, train their staff on customer service 101 (starting with the importance of returning a call), and revisit the term “escalation” or simply change their tagline. I suggest the following:

“You can do it. Let’s all sit back and crack open a beer as we watch her struggle.”

I'm going to celebrate by going on a shopping spree at Lowe's. Anyone need anything?

OMG! Update! Update! I just received a call (June 12) from Home Depot! The woman was looking into my account and couldn't figure out what was going on. I shared with her that I had already been reimbursed -- she didn't even know. Could this possible have been the call I requested in October? She stated that I had requested help reordering. As if!

All I Really Need to Know I Learned on The Simpson's

Son #1 has his wife picked out: a little blond girl named Sarah whom he met while in preschool. He has known that she is "the one" for years now and every once in a while he inserts her name into his nighttime prayers. One night, he asked his brother if he wanted to pray for his future wife.

Son #2: "I'm not getting married."
Son #1: "Just because you don't want to get married or are you gay?"
Son #2: "I'm not gay!"
Me: "Do you guys even know what gay means?"
Son #1: "Yeah, it's when two guys fall in love with each other."
Me: "How do you know that?"
Son #2: "We saw it on the Simpson's."

What would Reverend Lovejoy think?

My Dad

My dad died over thirteen years ago. While I'm not one to grieve for years, I do still think about him on occassion -- particularly when I hear an off-color joke that he might enjoy. And I dream about him, and the house I grew up in, all the time. So much, in fact, that sometimes I feel like he's still a part of my life.

He died of pancreatic cancer. We knew he was ill because he seemed to be getting extremely forgetful and we thought it was either alzheimers or, because he was an alcoholic for most of his life, some sort of alcohol-related dementia. Turns out it was probably his brain metatesizing from the cancer.

He was only in the hospital for a few days when he was diagnosed. There was nothing the doctors could do. We were told he could live another month or another six months; they had no way of knowing. He died the very next day.

My sister and I were scheduled to meet at the hospital after work to transport him to a local hospice. It was a blistering cold, snowy January. That afternoon, as I was sitting in my office, the sun came out and bathed my office in warmth. I was filled with peace. A moment later, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my father had just died.

I called the hospital. "Did my dad just die?" "Yes, how did you get a call so quickly?" "I didn't. I just knew."

When my sister and I went to the hospital later, we went into his room to say "goodbye" to him. His roommate (poor guy!) then told me that my father, just before he died, got out of bed and was trying to dial my number.

Although he never reached me, we had an amazing connection.

Otherwordly Visit

A few months ago, Son #1 got up really early, around 5:30 a.m., and came downstairs in the middle of my ersatz-yoga, morning routine. It was a little chilly, so we got under a blanket on the couch and snuggled. Neither of us said a word. After a few minutes, Son #1 spoke, “Mom, do you see that angel over there?” “You mean the one on the lamp?” I asked pointing to one of the curved angels that serves as a pseudo-urn handle on the lamp base. “No, the real one standing in the corner,” he responded.

I whispered, “No Scootchie, I can’t see the angel but I’m glad that you can.”

Again, we were silent for a while and then he said, “Oh, it was your dad.” “What makes you say that?” “Because he just came and gave you a big hug.”

Breakfast Conversation

Son #1: "My gym teacher is growing a mustache."
Hubby: "What's her name again?"

Kid Swap

Son #2, my five-year old, wants to be adopted by the next door neighbors so he can play with their son more often.

His brother is trying to talk him out of it. "If you move in with them,
you'll have to clean your room." "You'll have to brush your teeth more
often." "We'll have to go on vacations without you." And lastly, "Mama won't snuggle with you when you're going to sleep." None of these were deterrents.

Originally the neighbors suggested that they would take Son #2 if I adopted their dog, Ginger. Then we agreed that maybe we should just host our own reality TV show called "Kid Swap" which is less juicy than swapping husbands or wives but maybe teaches the kids that there's no replacement for their parents' love.

I told Son #2 that if he went to bed like a "big boy" for two weeks, I
would give him up for adoption. Not to fear, he went upstairs all by
himself the first night without even saying "goodnight." So much for my
snuggles.