Ding Dong D'oh!

Last night, the doorbell rang and Son #1 opened the front door.

"What the . . . ?"

He just stood there so I got my lazy bones off the couch to see who was there. No one. Empty front porch. Silence.

I almost closed the door but immediately realized that there were a dozen or more people scattered across our front yard lying motionless. It was like a flash mob but eerily quiet. More like a flash mob that met instant death on our lawn. Dumped from a hovering UFO? Overtaken by sudden, mysterious mushroom cloud? I could see the headlines a la "100K fish found dead in Arkansas river," or "More Than 1,000 Dead Birds Fall From Sky In Arkansas."

12 Teens Found Dead on Local Lawn

A minute after we opened the door, they all jumped up, started hollering and ran down the street. When they were a few doors down, Son #1 yelled something fairly incoherent to them about "You better run" and they all stopped. They gathered into a tight bunch in the middle of the street and stood silently staring at us.

Seriously. What the . . . ?

I stared back for what felt like a really long time (but was probably less than a minute) until they started running away again. They then turned the corner never to be seen again.

It bears repeating: What the . . . ?

Kids these days. Engaging in harmless fun. My the world has changed.

HAGS

No, we don't have an elevator in our home. No, we don't have a boat. Or a pool.

And now, sleepovers at our house are more boring than at friends' homes. Why? Because other kids have go-kart tracks in their backyards.

Really.

But seriously, thank God for those friends because it really does sound like fun! I want to come!

******

In semi-related news, gone are the days when kids write a nice line or paragraph in each others' yearbooks. Today, it's all boiled down to one acronym: HAGS.

Have a great summer.

Not without a go-kart apparently.

Random Soapbox

I donated a few months ago to World Vision for disaster relief in Japan. Since then, I have received countless direct mail pieces, thick envelopes chock full of letters and inserts, asking for more money. I feel like a) too soon and b) that can't be cheap. So I sent them a quick email the other day asking, "Is it possible to get on your 'do not contact' list? When I donated recently, it wasn't to fund weekly direct mail pieces to myself soliciting incremental funds."

To their credit, they responded quickly; however, it will take another eight weeks of junk mail headed directly to the recycling bin to do so.

According to Charity Navigator, World Vision scores four stars. In addition, it only spends seven cents on every dollar in fundraising (i.e. over 88% of its budget goes directly to programs and services). That is unbelievably efficient. How is that possible given the number of direct mail pieces that I am receiving? Oh, right. Because they raise over $1.2B (!) in revenue each year. This translates to over $90M in fundraising. That's a lot of fundraising, no?!

In short, I feel significantly less inclined to continue contributing to them now even though I still believe they're a worthy cause. While their efficiency rating is high, I have a lack of trust that my monies are being used wisely.

I wish there was an easy way to set your preferences once, across all organizations, to avoid waste. Just because an organization "owns" my name, doesn't mean I want to hear from them ad nauseam.

Okay. I'm done.

Mount Hope Cemetery

Today is Monday and I didn't go to work! Repeat: I didn't go to work!

Instead, I went for an early morning walk with my girlfriend Gretchen through Rochester's beautiful, hilly, gothic, moorish Mount Hope Cemetery. We admired the monuments, obelisks, mile high angels, wildly overrun plantation and pea-soupish ponds.

I love the hands on hearts, below, along with the skyward finger point. (Apparently that wasn't originated by hip hop performers and/or football players in the end zone. Who knew?)

 

We went to see the burial site of suffragette Susan B. Anthony . . . 

    

And the famous abolitionist Frederick Douglass . . .

And, of course, the sites of Gretchen's family and that of my hubby's grandparents (i.e., my kids' great grandparents) Link and Castleman below. It would have been our future grave site, as well, but we declined a few years ago and the MIL sold the plots. D'oh!

Must. Keep. Clam.

I don't know what it is. My Catholic school edumacation? My mom's propensity to copy edit menus in restaurants? Facebook typos kill me. The occasional error, I get. We live in a fast-paced world and nobody is perfect. Yet I have "friends," and I use the term loosely, who cannot post on FB without an error.

One such friend posts god-awful things about his wife, pictures of hot chicks in bikinis, shout-outs to his business (seriously) and rants about Obama -- all of which contain misspellings. The other day, he wrote a long post that had no errors. My immediate reaction was to clap and say to myself, "You did it!"

His most recent post has a picture of a woman in a thin bra, short-shorts and high heels and reads, "If you voted during the last presidential election to prove that you are not a racist, vote this presidential election to prove your not a moron (I was gonna post a political photo, but lets face it, we (all my male and lesbian friends) would much rather look at an attractive female......."

Exactly: prove that your (sic) not a moron

Anyhoo, if you're a freak like I am, you may really enjoy this little link. A virtual gift from the gods. Shorter and sweeter (and marginally less off-color) than its kissing cousin.

In response, I created this masterpiece with (once again) my mad PowerPoint clip art skillz.

Perfect in My Mind

No time to blog . . . well, maybe a minute.

At this point in time, after working the past 25 days straight with nary a weekend to myself, I am 99.9% certain that a) there's a jertain in the curtain and b) I have to work this weekend. Methinks me head may explode. However, the kids both have sleepovers tonight which means I may have a date with the hubby. Yikes! Will I be whisked off to Paris for the night? (Fingers crossed.)

Most notably: school's out for summer. Sing along with me.

Son #1 had his "moving up" ceremony this week. Instead of to a deluxe apartment in the sky, he has now officially entered middle school. I never understood the value of a graduation-like ceremony at such a young age but, 1.5 non-billable hours later, I'm glad I went. It was kind of sweet to see all of those cute kids on stage getting their fauxplomas. The eternal slideshow? Fun for the kids; a bit unbearable for the parents--especially those who needed to get back to work. (I think you may know who I mean.) Sentimental pop tunes. Picture after picture of children in everyday settings (e.g., on the playground, playing soccer/lacrosse/whatever) and not-so-everyday settings (e.g., on their family yacht, in Venice/Australia/wherever). It felt touching and inspiring yet somehow elitist and privileged. Damn kids have been more places than I . . .

Both kids got their annual summer haircuts (aka heads shaved). Now they can be nice and cool for summer sports even if they look like they are suffering from radiation poisoning. Son #2 coined the experience, "Long story short."

Son #1 received his class award for "best reader" and "most laid back."

Son #2 was nominated by his teacher for "safety patrol" and received the principal's award for "citizenship." In response to our stating, "wow, you're like a role model," he deadpanned, "yeah, right?!"

Lastly, Son #2 just became a karate green belt.

Love.

Rain Roll In

This song, from one of my favorite new artists, Eilen Jewell, (who is playing the Rochester International Jazz Fest on Friday night) goes out to my husband's friend Natasha who died last night.

Today is dark and rainy. And sad.

Natasha, we will miss your sweetness. The kindness of your soul. And your milkshakes.

Healing Mass

I was just searching this blog for my last healing mass story and can't find it. Maybe I never wrote it? Maybe I didn't look hard enough? Maybe it went the way of other disappearing posts?

In short, we took Son #1 to the pediatric neurology clinic at the University of Rochester Medical Center one afternoon a couple of years ago. His Tourette's seemed to be progressing at a rapid pace and our pediatrician recommended a visit.

His symptoms started so slowly, we didn't quite notice for years. If it wasn't for my girlfriend Jacque sharing her daughter's story, and us beginning to put the pieces together, I'm not sure when it would have dawned on us. A weekend of eye blinks. (Eye drops.) An ongoing dry hack. (Allergies. Buy hypoallergenic pillows.) Expectorating. (Yuck! Will you stop that? You're grossing us out.)

Long story short, the day we were in the clinic, he described all of his symptoms to the doctor. And he was off charts behaviorally. Beeping. Snorting. Foot kicks. Hand gestures. Coughing. You name it. The list went on and on. He said that he tries to suppress his ticks in school but they come on full-bore at night when he allows them to. She asked how he knew when a tick was coming on and he likened it to a sneeze: you just know.  We were then asked if we wanted to put him on meds but he, and we, declined. Until (or unless) it was bothering him socially, why have a nine year old boy ingest a toxin?

The next night my sister and I took Son #1 to a healing mass at a local Catholic church. After the service, the visiting priest, Father McAlear (who looks a bit like Sean Connery complete with sparkly eyes), laid his healing hands on our heads and said a prayer. Guess what: the entire crazy spectrum of symptoms gone. Completely gone -- for maybe six or nine months at which point they came creeping back but, to this day, have never been as bad as they were a few years ago.

Fast forward to Tuesday night this week. My girlfriends Dawn and Meg were headed to St. Catherine of Sienna in the next town over for another healing mass. Same priest. This  year, he was touching people and they were fainting. Literally fainting. It was surreal.

He came to Son #1, chatted for a minute, prayed over him and then said to him, "Do you know what you have to do now?" Son #1 replied, "No, what?" and he responded, "Get a haircut."

Yes Grannie, you have an ally in the Catholic church.

Adopting George

When we went to the Montgomery County Fair in Texas a couple of months ago, Son #2 wanted to win a giant stuffed banana with dreadlocks. Can you blame him? I let him try a couple of times until it dawned on me that idiot mama (i.e., me) would have to carry that thing through the airport or, worse yet, check it like luggage and pay an extra baggage fee. Nu-uh. Not me. He was crushed.

Fast forward to this past Friday night at our local carnival. The kids and I were casually meandering through the game tents when Son #2 shrieked and took off like a bat out of hell.

Yep, giant bananas (of the hairless variety). He tried to win one, as did Son #1 and I, but none of us won the game. (Hmmm. Odds stacked against us? At a carnival? Shocking.)

Later, we found a game where everyone is a winner. It was simply a giant bucket stationed approximately one foot away. The kids each got a fist-sized ball and threw it in. Unless you’re Michael J. Fox, you cannot lose. Both kids selected plastic, old west, cowboy style pistols with a bag of marble sized bullets. What better to shoot in my car on the drive home?

Needless to say, before leaving, and after many, many games (goodbye college funds), Son #2 looked a bit unhappy. He had to go back and get that banana; it had his name on it. So back we went. And, because everything that kid touches is gold, he won. Even the carnie did a bit of a double-take.

Son #2 immediately grabbed his new giant banana, hugged it and named it George. Then he grabbed his gun, pointed it at the banana’s forehead and said loudly to the watching crowd, “nobody move or I shoot the banana.”

As we walked through the carnival the remainder of the night, Son #2 was flogged by other aspiring banana-owners. “Dude, I spent like $50 trying to win that banana. How did you do it?” Son #2 nonchalantly played it totally cool, “It was easy.” The level of admiration received from other 8-15 year old boys was unreal. I felt like I was hanging with somebody famous.

We have now welcomed a new, highly coveted banana/scratching post into our family.

The ride home. (I hope George is old enough to ride in the front seat. He didn’t come with a birth certificate.)

Reenacting the dramatic hostage crisis in the driveway.

Surprising daddy, Godfather style, upon his arrival home after a late night gig.

And, not to overlook my first and other love, Son #1’s new killer, blowup baseball bat.

The Story

I would so love to go to CMAC tonight to see the Brandi Carlile, Secret Sisters, Ray LaMontagne show. Yet I would feel more strongly about it if it were warmer out and not raining. Instead, I'll hunker down with the kids and watch my favorite Brandi song on YouTube. Love, love, love her.