I'm thrilled that it's taken a turn for August so early in the year. Sunshine. Hammock season. Little League games. Neighborhood walks. Heaven.
Lastly, what makes me happiest (well, one of the things at least) is dancing like a goofball (yeah, an oft-cited fact). Out with the girls a couple of weeks ago, we were driving home early and made a spontaneous U-turn on Monroe Ave. Kidnapped them with a last minute decision to see the Hi-Risers at the Bug Jar. We waded successfully to the front of the crowd and danced our little hearts out. Too much fun.
And last week, Cracker. Not as glorious as last year because a) I love dancing outside in the rain and b) their set was much too short this year but they're such great musicians, it never grows old for me. The best part? They played their Camper Van Beethoven hit, Take the Skinheads Bowling. The second best part? Sal, their bass player, stopped to chat with us in the parking lot after the show. Apparently, they had gone to the Bop Shop, home of the Hi-Risers' Greg Townson, earlier in the day and loved it. What's not to love?
Finally, this weekend is the 24th annual Bob Dylan birthday party at the Bop Shop atrium. Taking the kids to hear daddy play Positively 4th Street. Can't wait. Memorial Day weekend here we come!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
FML
I've been having a run of bad luck lately. Not major life events -- the hubby is dealing with that stuff. I mean little things gone awry. Forgetting to do things. Driving to the gym to find the pool closed. Almost running out of gas on the Thruway but not stopping, heart racing, because I'm cutting the timing to my meeting so friggin' close. Attempting to facilitate (ugh) a meeting that was god awful and absolutely out of control. (Nice work, huh.) Losing my glasses. Losing my sunglasses. Getting lost in downtown Syracuse without my GPS. Heading to a Red Wings game after an 80 degree, sunny day just in time for the downpour. Dumping a cup of cinnamon all over my oatmeal because I had the non-shaker side of the top open. Dealing with chronic, and amplifying, shoulder and neck pain that has spread from the right shoulder across my entire upper back over the past three weeks. And so on.
Then I heard about my coworker's best friend whose step father died over the weekend literally while on the Peace Bridge. (Thankfully his wife was driving.) He's a truck driver and wanted his ashes sprinkled over the Thruway. So they did just that: opened up the sunroof on Sunday and let him fly. And then, out of nowhere, came a huge gust of wind (a "tornado" in their words) which swooped him directly up and dropped him back into the car -- all over everyone. In their eyes, hair, clothes. This woman spent the rest of the weekend vacuuming up her step dad while grieving.
I guess my life isn't all that bad. I'm feeling thankful for the small things today.
Then I heard about my coworker's best friend whose step father died over the weekend literally while on the Peace Bridge. (Thankfully his wife was driving.) He's a truck driver and wanted his ashes sprinkled over the Thruway. So they did just that: opened up the sunroof on Sunday and let him fly. And then, out of nowhere, came a huge gust of wind (a "tornado" in their words) which swooped him directly up and dropped him back into the car -- all over everyone. In their eyes, hair, clothes. This woman spent the rest of the weekend vacuuming up her step dad while grieving.
I guess my life isn't all that bad. I'm feeling thankful for the small things today.
Friday, May 14, 2010
A Day at the Improv
I perfectly choreographed my day today. Up at 4:30 a.m. Swim. Qi Gong in steam room (and pray to God that no one comes in to witness). Sauna. Shower. Drive to Albany. Conference call. Four hour meeting. Drive home. Girls' night out.
Nagging feeling. Gosh, what am I forgetting?
Oh, to pack a bra and underwear in my gym bag?! What the . . . ?
With no time to drive home but with the need to stand in front of a conference room of men and only men (i.e., no confidante) wearing a skirt, I did what any reasonable woman who doesn't want her cooch to be the focal point of a meeting would do: I wore another (dry) bathing suit under my suit.
It doesn't get much better than this.
Nagging feeling. Gosh, what am I forgetting?
Oh, to pack a bra and underwear in my gym bag?! What the . . . ?
With no time to drive home but with the need to stand in front of a conference room of men and only men (i.e., no confidante) wearing a skirt, I did what any reasonable woman who doesn't want her cooch to be the focal point of a meeting would do: I wore another (dry) bathing suit under my suit.
It doesn't get much better than this.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
My Life at a Glance
1) I have three hickeys. Kitten hickeys. Somehow, against all odds, we got another passion kitty like Stinkers. A face licking, lip sucking, up all night snuggling/purring, chest-not-lap cat. And the impassioned evidence is on my neck (for all my clients to wonder about silently).
2) I'm almost at my baby weight. What the . . . ? And I bought three pints of Ben & Jerry's over the weekend. Must stop the nonsense.
3) Recently I went through my closets to get rid of everything that a) doesn't fit and/or b) hasn't been in style for a gazillion years. I then took the newer, more expensive, still looking fresh clothes and shoes to Lu's Back Door, a local consignment shop. As I wandered around looking at a lot of the old clothes they had on their racks, I thought I had segmented my piles too stringently. Some of the stuff I was giving to Goodwill was much nicer than what they were selling. Lo and behold, when I went to leave, I noticed the majority of my clothes were put aside to be picked up. They wouldn't take most of my items! Brand new pants from Saks that are already too small. No thanks? I was astounded and said to the lady, "You don't want any of this?" and pointed to one of my suits saying, "This is an $800 suit." Her response, "No one buys black here." Seriously? But they buy faded sweaters from the Gap and worn out shoes? Go figure.
4) I went with my girlfriends to see a double-feature this past weekend (i.e., two, one-act plays) at the Black Sheep Theatre. The theater only seats 30 people (talk about intimate) so the action takes place right in your lap. Both plays were mystery thrillers which made for a strange intensity in a space that little. Pretty cool.
5) Son #2's class won honorable mention this year for the book they submitted to the Scholastic Kids Are Authors contest. Although his teacher won the Grand Prize last year and he was hoping for a repeat performance, I would say he's pretty proud of himself/his class regardless. It's very impressive and they put a lot of hard work into it. While most of the student-written comments on the board in their classroom say, "I learned that with teamwork, great things are possible," his quote says something pithy like, "I learned that it takes more than a month to write a really good book." True.
That's it.
2) I'm almost at my baby weight. What the . . . ? And I bought three pints of Ben & Jerry's over the weekend. Must stop the nonsense.
3) Recently I went through my closets to get rid of everything that a) doesn't fit and/or b) hasn't been in style for a gazillion years. I then took the newer, more expensive, still looking fresh clothes and shoes to Lu's Back Door, a local consignment shop. As I wandered around looking at a lot of the old clothes they had on their racks, I thought I had segmented my piles too stringently. Some of the stuff I was giving to Goodwill was much nicer than what they were selling. Lo and behold, when I went to leave, I noticed the majority of my clothes were put aside to be picked up. They wouldn't take most of my items! Brand new pants from Saks that are already too small. No thanks? I was astounded and said to the lady, "You don't want any of this?" and pointed to one of my suits saying, "This is an $800 suit." Her response, "No one buys black here." Seriously? But they buy faded sweaters from the Gap and worn out shoes? Go figure.
4) I went with my girlfriends to see a double-feature this past weekend (i.e., two, one-act plays) at the Black Sheep Theatre. The theater only seats 30 people (talk about intimate) so the action takes place right in your lap. Both plays were mystery thrillers which made for a strange intensity in a space that little. Pretty cool.
5) Son #2's class won honorable mention this year for the book they submitted to the Scholastic Kids Are Authors contest. Although his teacher won the Grand Prize last year and he was hoping for a repeat performance, I would say he's pretty proud of himself/his class regardless. It's very impressive and they put a lot of hard work into it. While most of the student-written comments on the board in their classroom say, "I learned that with teamwork, great things are possible," his quote says something pithy like, "I learned that it takes more than a month to write a really good book." True.
That's it.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day to Grannie Annie. You are the bestest mom ever: beautiful, funny, sarcastic, smart, thoughtful, kind and generous. If Willie Nelson ever met you, I guarantee he'd leave his fourth wife for you. What's not to love?
Friday, May 7, 2010
Happy Birthday Scootchie
Our oldest son turns 10 today. Ten years of love, snuggles, tenderness and fascination, on my part, with all of the things boys go through. (Really, who knew the military channel could be so compelling?)
A decade ago while living in VA, we went to dinner at an old friend of the hubby's (who is now a mutual friend). When we arrived, this guy and his then-girlfriend were hammered beyond belief. Whiskey, I believe. While it made for a really interesting/fun night out, mainly because he's a very sweet and funny character, it probably wasn't best for someone who was >9 months preggers and counting (i.e., me) -- especially since they left out the actual serving dinner portion of the evening. I finally asked if there was any food. They fired up the grill, put on a hot dog for me and promptly forgot about it.
I ate a single, bun-less, burnt hot dog. No condiments. No chips. And then I went into labor.
Uber-nerd that I am, I couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent the night tracking my contractions in Excel and calculating/charting the a) length of time between them and b) rate of acceleration. Finally, around 6:30 a.m. I woke the hubby up to drive me to the hospital.
As we drove, my brain went into hyperactivity. OMG: How do they get this thing out of me? Is it too late to outsource? Once we got to the hospital, I was fine. And by fine, I mean that I was weak and exhausted from staying up all night and not eating dinner. Good Lord. Just a few short, strenuous, puking orange Popsicle, drug free* hours later, our little dude was born.
Had I known I was a birthing machine, I would have started younger and put some on the black market. Anything for a buck.
With that said, I'm unbelievably grateful for the past ten years and feel blessed beyond belief. He's a wonderful little man; I'm honored to know him and to be his mom. Happy birthday dude.
*I didn't intend to do labor drug-free. My OB-GYN practice was highly professional but also run by hippy chick MDs (no hip, hip, hip, hip, no hippy chick). Alternative medicine. Doulas. The whole nine yards. Through them, we signed up for the Bradley Method without realizing that it stressed natural birth. First class: show of hands, who's planning to use drugs? Only hand up: mine. Me drug free? During excruciating pain? Yep. I did it. Crazy but true.
A decade ago while living in VA, we went to dinner at an old friend of the hubby's (who is now a mutual friend). When we arrived, this guy and his then-girlfriend were hammered beyond belief. Whiskey, I believe. While it made for a really interesting/fun night out, mainly because he's a very sweet and funny character, it probably wasn't best for someone who was >9 months preggers and counting (i.e., me) -- especially since they left out the actual serving dinner portion of the evening. I finally asked if there was any food. They fired up the grill, put on a hot dog for me and promptly forgot about it.
I ate a single, bun-less, burnt hot dog. No condiments. No chips. And then I went into labor.
Uber-nerd that I am, I couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent the night tracking my contractions in Excel and calculating/charting the a) length of time between them and b) rate of acceleration. Finally, around 6:30 a.m. I woke the hubby up to drive me to the hospital.
As we drove, my brain went into hyperactivity. OMG: How do they get this thing out of me? Is it too late to outsource? Once we got to the hospital, I was fine. And by fine, I mean that I was weak and exhausted from staying up all night and not eating dinner. Good Lord. Just a few short, strenuous, puking orange Popsicle, drug free* hours later, our little dude was born.
Had I known I was a birthing machine, I would have started younger and put some on the black market. Anything for a buck.
With that said, I'm unbelievably grateful for the past ten years and feel blessed beyond belief. He's a wonderful little man; I'm honored to know him and to be his mom. Happy birthday dude.
*I didn't intend to do labor drug-free. My OB-GYN practice was highly professional but also run by hippy chick MDs (no hip, hip, hip, hip, no hippy chick). Alternative medicine. Doulas. The whole nine yards. Through them, we signed up for the Bradley Method without realizing that it stressed natural birth. First class: show of hands, who's planning to use drugs? Only hand up: mine. Me drug free? During excruciating pain? Yep. I did it. Crazy but true.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Take a Load Off
With all of this talk about airlines, such as Spirit Air, beginning to charge extra fees not only for checked bags but also for carry on bags, people are clearly dismayed. When it's bundled into the cost of our tickets, we don't know how much we're paying for baggage because it's not itemized (so we complain about high ticket costs). When it's unbundled and we're presumably paying a lower fare to fly, we balk at the incremental fees.
Yet here is where these policies create real value for the travelers and not for the airline: the power of choice. At $45 for a carry-on and, on average, $20 for a checked bag, I might be better off sending my luggage via FedEx, no? The four-day, ground, door-to-door delivery option for 30 lb. package traveling from Rochester to Beverly Hills is a mere $36.75. Yep. I'll pay a lower price to fly and I don't have to carry a thing. Sure I have to pack earlier than usual; I can handle that.
I'm not sure if this is a classic example of some idiot in revenue management looking at growing his airline's profit margins (short-term) without looking at the bigger picture (i.e., customer dissatisfaction and/or lost revenue to a carrier that's not directly in his competitive set); however, if I worked in marketing at FedEx, I would leverage this opportunity to market the heck out of my service and cue up The Band.
And . . . you put the load right on me.
Yet here is where these policies create real value for the travelers and not for the airline: the power of choice. At $45 for a carry-on and, on average, $20 for a checked bag, I might be better off sending my luggage via FedEx, no? The four-day, ground, door-to-door delivery option for 30 lb. package traveling from Rochester to Beverly Hills is a mere $36.75. Yep. I'll pay a lower price to fly and I don't have to carry a thing. Sure I have to pack earlier than usual; I can handle that.
I'm not sure if this is a classic example of some idiot in revenue management looking at growing his airline's profit margins (short-term) without looking at the bigger picture (i.e., customer dissatisfaction and/or lost revenue to a carrier that's not directly in his competitive set); however, if I worked in marketing at FedEx, I would leverage this opportunity to market the heck out of my service and cue up The Band.
And . . . you put the load right on me.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Doucheoisie
One of my best friends from college married a wealthy Dutch woman who cannot stand me. As a result, he's no longer allowed to be friends with me. Understood. This past weekend, I learned via a mutual friend that she also refuses to visit his presumably downscale family in Cheektowaga so he has to go alone.
As the Countess Luann de Lesseps would agree, money can't buy you class.
In local news, our crazy neighbors on the corner (post #1, post #2, post #3 and post #4) are at it again.
This time, the husband dragged the wife's entire closet of clothes to the end of the driveway. From what I've been told, it was a giant heap of possibly more clothes than I've ever owned -- from 1964 until today. The cops were called in. The neighborhood gossip levels began peaking once again. But none of that is really of interest to me aside from: a) How/why does he stay married to a lunatic? b) Are there signs before tying the knot that you're marrying a lunatic? If so, what are they? Maybe her juvenile obsession with sex and high heels? Or her preponderance to share her sex life on Facebook (i.e., through a series of brief comments re: how long it took her husband to finish)?
Anyhoo, what's really of interest to me is much more simple than the nonsense above. When I drive past these neighbors, smile and wave, would it be so difficult for them to return the wave? It's a simple, kind gesture that says, "Hi." It also says, "Sure you might be a freak parade but that's okay. We all have our problems. Let's agree to coexist peacefully."
As the Countess Luann de Lesseps would most likely agree, moving into a new town and neighborhood so that your children can have better opportunities (i.e., the wife's words, not mine) but then treating your neighbors like social pariahs is counterproductive. Not that I, personally, will be providing her family with any opportunities; but, hey, I'm a nice person. Perhaps I could provide a small degree of happiness in an otherwise bizarre life if they'd only be willing to glance at me.
Just a thought.
As the Countess Luann de Lesseps would agree, money can't buy you class.
In local news, our crazy neighbors on the corner (post #1, post #2, post #3 and post #4) are at it again.
This time, the husband dragged the wife's entire closet of clothes to the end of the driveway. From what I've been told, it was a giant heap of possibly more clothes than I've ever owned -- from 1964 until today. The cops were called in. The neighborhood gossip levels began peaking once again. But none of that is really of interest to me aside from: a) How/why does he stay married to a lunatic? b) Are there signs before tying the knot that you're marrying a lunatic? If so, what are they? Maybe her juvenile obsession with sex and high heels? Or her preponderance to share her sex life on Facebook (i.e., through a series of brief comments re: how long it took her husband to finish)?
Anyhoo, what's really of interest to me is much more simple than the nonsense above. When I drive past these neighbors, smile and wave, would it be so difficult for them to return the wave? It's a simple, kind gesture that says, "Hi." It also says, "Sure you might be a freak parade but that's okay. We all have our problems. Let's agree to coexist peacefully."
As the Countess Luann de Lesseps would most likely agree, moving into a new town and neighborhood so that your children can have better opportunities (i.e., the wife's words, not mine) but then treating your neighbors like social pariahs is counterproductive. Not that I, personally, will be providing her family with any opportunities; but, hey, I'm a nice person. Perhaps I could provide a small degree of happiness in an otherwise bizarre life if they'd only be willing to glance at me.
Just a thought.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Land Where My Father Died
The boys were just asking me if the world was coming to an end in 2012. Nope. Then we were talking about if the sun was going blow up in 50 million years. No idea. In 50 million years, will our great, great, great (keep going) grandchildren be living on this planet? Who knows.
Me: If so, they'll have zero knowledge of us. We're just here for a flash and then forgotten.
Monkey: Yeah, I only know one thing about your dad. He was in the Navy in WWII and he died of patriotic cancer.
Wow. That sounds so much more inspirational than pancreatic cancer. Let freedom ring!
Me: If so, they'll have zero knowledge of us. We're just here for a flash and then forgotten.
Monkey: Yeah, I only know one thing about your dad. He was in the Navy in WWII and he died of patriotic cancer.
Wow. That sounds so much more inspirational than pancreatic cancer. Let freedom ring!
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