Focus

At a meeting near Ottawa on Friday, we were told by the head of HR not to use the word "focus" in front of the team because it meant something different at their company.

F* off 'cause you're stupid.

Good to know. And particularly interesting coming from HR . . .

Holdin' on to Black Metal

I daresay, this darling of the college airwaves is growing on me. Maybe because it's on the radio every time I step into my car? Or because it sounds like something I would have listened to in the 80s? Crowded House meets . . . who knows. Anyhoo, they're coming to a city near you, my lone reader, on Wednesday, August 24. Git yer tickets now!

Punch Drunk

When I was in grad school, a little shop on Schoen Place become available for rent. I called the landlord and asked about the price per square foot. "What do you have in mind for the space?" he asked. I told him I was thinking of a Wine Bar.

"A wine bar? What the hell is that?"

When I told him, I swear to God, he barked that there was no such thing and hung up on me. I was fit to be tied.

Anyhoo, yesterday, my girlfriend Ellen and Dan, her boyfriend, were chatting with me about what the next foodie craze may be. Last night, as we were watching the Food Channel (or some derivative), it occurred to me that the time is ripe for a Punch Bar.

I would need a highly trained mixologist and a constantly changing menu of delicious, punch-bowl recipes made with ingredients like absinthe, exotic herbs/spices sourced daily from my organic greenhouse, high-end/scarcely known liquors made by elves, bizarre fruit juices from other planets, flaming concoctions, etc. Like the mai tai gone wild and refashioned for the new millennium.

Fun, right?

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.

The Royal Wedding

I was talking to my friend Petey the other day about his upcoming nuptials. The marriage part, no fear; the part where everyone is staring at you during the service, ugh. Agreed.

Imagine being Kate & Will. Yikes!

Yet, she handled it with poise, sophistication, grace, aplomb, and so on. They both seemed to be cracking up, at times. I even think there was a slight air of "Take this biyotches!" Check. And Mate.

Watching the royal wedding from my couch this morning was fun while the hubby read the tweets from the live bloggers on dlisted. (Did they have to stop to get Camilla an apple or carrot? Touching.)

Vastly different experience than when I was living in Jersey UK in 1986 and Fergie married Prince Andrew. I was working in my girlfriend's health food shop and we, along with all of the shopkeepers in Quennevais Parade, were drinking champagne, waving flags and celebrating. Sure, we were miles away from the event, across the Channel (well, almost), but yet on English soil -- quite the festivity.

I want to agree with John Oliver's coverage on the Daily Show that 80% of Brits don't care about the royal wedding; however, there's something about it that's undeniably cool. Maybe it's the 1936 diamond tiara borrowed from the Queen, the reverential curtsy, the horse drawn carriages (that are downright pretentious for others but seriously awesome if you're royalty), the Union Jack flags lining the streets or, more comprehensively, the fairytale-like nature of the entire event.

Swoon. 

As the cover Newsweek proclaimed a few weeks ago, and a recent sermon in church touched upon, "In a world gone to hell, thank God, a wedding." So true.

Time to put on my white gloves, one finger at a time, and pour myself some Pink Champale.

That Was Easy

My obsession with living ones corporate brand continues. Today: An unplanned visit to Staples to buy invitations for an upcoming client-related seminar.

After searching the envelope/office supplies section, I asked Customer Service for help. A guy stocking shelves, overhearing my request, came running up. "Are you the lady who called? I can help." He then led me to the right section, helped me pick the appropriate products, carried my boxes to checkout and thanked me for my business. I said, "No, thank YOU. You made it so easy."

No joke. He pointed to the sign on the wall and asked me, "What does that say?"

Staples. That was easy.

I'll be darned. It was. And I'm glad he pointed it out! A+

Venus Envy

Shrieked in our family room last night, "Dude, I just Saturn Uranus."

Snow Monster

Every morning during the winter months I pass the incredible snow monsters on Highland Avenue. They're usually brightly colored (food coloring?) and awe inspiring. Yesterday, I finally stopped. The snow sculptor was on a ladder fixing the larger of the two so I grabbed a quick picture of the unadorned creature to his left.

Isn't he great?

I asked the dude on the ladder if he's an artist. Nope, he's the chef at Rooney's! (Yum!) Art in the kitchen; art in the world.

I'll have to walk up the street at lunchtime and see how the other leviathan turned out.

Nuttin' Honey

Tip #1 on how to make a fourth grade boy totally crack up: Call your wife "honey."

Did you just call her honey? Ha! I've never heard that one before!

Arrogant Bastard

I posted a few years ago that I really enjoyed the Arrogant Bastard Ale I had at the Dinosaur.

Today, the hubby brought a bottle home. More than the beer, I love the copy.

"This is an aggressive beer. You probably won’t like it. It is quite doubtful that you have the taste or the sophistication to be able to appreciate an ale of this quality and depth. We would suggest that you stick to safer million dollar ad campaign aimed at convincing you it’s made in a little brewery, or one that implies that their tasteless fizzy yellow beer will give you more sex appeal. Perhaps you think multi-million dollar ad campaigns make a beer taste better. Perhaps you’re mouthing your words as you read this."

As if that wasn't funny enough, their "Questions or comments?" section says:

"If you don't like this beer, keep it to yourself -- we don't want to hear from any sniveling yellow-beer-drinkin' wimps, 'cause this beer wasn't made for you."

I am not worthy.

Verily Verily

I stumbled upon the Books Ngram Viewer in Google labs that allows you to graph words or phrases published in books over time. As one does, I began wondering when phrases like "Abraham begat Isaac" and "Rehoboam begat Abijah" became less common than phrases such as "Dude, where's my car?"

Answer: sometime in the mid- to late-1970s.

Little Bird Courage

Instead of a day of inner tubing at the lake, I took the boys, and their friend/neighbor, to Roseland Waterpark yesterday. We all had a blast. Wave pool. Lazy river. Raft rides. Tube rides. Just a whole heck of a lot of fun.

The Cliff, below, was Son #1's favorite.

The boy next door is afraid of heights, however, and as we climbed the stairs to the top of the Mammoth Raft Ride, and we were standing well above the tree line of the forest below, he grew progressively more fearful. At the top, he was crawling with his hands on the steps in front of him and visibly shaking. But he really wanted to go on the ride so he continued. And then he enjoyed it so much, the kids went 3X more. All fears bravely conquered in the name of fun. I give him a lot of credit.

At over $70 to enter, for a family of four with coupons, and then another $25 for crappy lunches where the Italian sausage was the size of my ring finger and completely emasculated in a hot dog bun, this was definitely a summer splurge. Yet it was worth it for the people watching alone.

At a mere 20 pounds overweight, I was still one of the thinnest women in the park -- teenagers included. (I blame the manufacturers and retailers of size 12 bikinis for what's acceptable poolside these days. There should be an extra step, like an additional signature required when purchasing, no?) I was also one of the only adults without a tattoo. Everyone, bar none, is tattooed these days from ex-Marine looking men who are absolutely covered in ink to intrepid suburban moms who probably felt a daring rush of adventure entering the tattoo parlor after one cosmo too many with their perfectly rebellious request, "Could you do something tiny on my shoulder blade or ankle that is highly tasteful but also lets the other housewives know that I'm edgy and cool?" Hmmm. How about a subversive heart/ladybug/clover/flower?

While I was duly impressed by the father who spent the entire day texting while his wife and kids kept passing him and cajoling him to join them (which he never did), there was another family that stole my attention. The grandmother and two daughters were so overweight that their stomachs dropped almost to their knees; however, their little kids ranging from, I'm guessing, ages four to 14 were all thin and wearing expensive, designer swim suits. The strangest part of this family was their high, high, high pitched voices. At first I thought they were deaf but the weren't reading lips or signing. Then I thought they were mentally handicapped but, once I made out what they were saying, I noticed that their vocabulary and syntax was stellar. I now have to believe that they all suffer from a severe speech impediment -- but one that causes all members of an extended family to, literally, squawk like birds before each utterance. If I hadn't seen and heard it, I wouldn't believe it. I just hope the birds kids aren't mercilessly ridiculed at school.

Courage little birds. Courage.

Garden & Gun

During our all-too-brief stay at the Boar's Head Inn a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading, cover to cover, the latest issue of Garden & Gun magazine. Seriously.

Initially, I was a bit perplexed about the alliterative but contrasting title. Are they preemptively targeting post-apocalyptic survivors? Is there a wide audience for these two subjects (among many) that I know nothing about? (Others include: Needlepoint & NASCAR, Scrapbook & Spittoon and Ironing & Inbreeding).

Anyhoo, I just have to tell y'all that I really enjoyed the magazine and I keep going back to their site. Beautiful photos. Southern libations. City portraits. Interesting articles.

Although I'm no Southern Belle, maybe I'm inclined toward gracious living . . .  Next thing you know, I'll be sending away for my NRA membership, booking a flight to Savannah, drawing myself a bath, driving Miss Daisy or maybe just drinking more bourbon. So many options.

I'll just start with the bourbon and see where that takes me.

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble

On Friday night, I dragged the hubby to see the Flaming Lips at CMAC. True to form, it was a sensory explosion of lights, lasers, giant colored balloons, streaming confetti and beautiful, but deafening, sound. The giant, multimedia, onstage screen showed everything from trippy Woodstock-like images to footage of naked chicks dancing -- including the band emerging, womb-like, from a larger-than-life woman's light-emitting genitals. (You don't see that every day.)

As expected, the lead singer and major cutie, Wayne, crowd-surfed in a man-sized, plastic bubble. I have to believe that this is probably easier, or more dignified, when not rolling up/down a hillside. He was falling on his face a bit. (All in a day's work.) Legions of people were dancing on stage in orange, prison uniforms or orange dresses except the man in the over-sized, furry bunny costume who was more tastefully dressed. I heard later that the dancers were hand-picked locals which would explain why they barely had any rhythm. The talent scouts should have consulted with me before casting. I could have rounded up some babe-a-licious friends who can shake their booties with style. Next time: call me. (Insert pinky to lips/thumb to ear.)

The crowd was a mix of hippies (read: prep school kids) and middle aged suburban folks (read: us). As a result, the air was a delicate co-mingling of pot smoke and bug spray. The hubby offered me a dollar for every black person in the audience; I would have been better off spotting the misguided youth who were being escorted (or wheeled) out by security. Hey kids, save your drugs for a concert where the psychedelics aren't part of the actual show.

Aside: If I were the older dude wearing silver goggles and the suit/hat affixed with a case of Cheetos, I would have run for my life after the show when the munchies got the best of the audience. Just sayin' -- pick your outfits wisely.

For those of us who made it through the show without passing out like the slacker in the Batman cape next to us (or, in the hubby's case, feigning sleep), I'd say it was money well spent. (My husband would disagree. He wants both his $ and his eardrums back.)

I'm thrilled that they played their hit, Do You Realize, during the encore and a just a little sad that they didn't play Fight Test. The hubby is thrilled that it's over and a little sad that Wayne kept stating, rapid-fire, "come on, come on, come on" to get people engaged or "thank you, thank you, thank you."

But I had fun. So, to the Flaming Lips, my husband who joined me and my mom who watched the kids, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Psycho Therapy

In another have-kids-lose-privacy moment, I hopped out of the shower today to find Son #2 sitting on the toilet, lid down, waiting for me. Shocking for me today. Worth a lot of $ in therapy for him 20 years from now. His problem/not mine.

"Hey mom, can I invite Robert over?"

"Sure."

"If he comes over, try not to walk around the house naked, okay?"

What the . . . ?

Oh yeah, I'll have to remember that. Note to self: try to restrain yourself from removing all clothes in front of eight year old boys. I just hope it's not as difficult as it may sound.

Here's where I should put a clip of a Bare Naked Ladies song but I despise them so I'm giving a nod to a much preferred Ramones tune that's also somewhat appropriate. And Grannie will love it too -- not as much as her love for Dokken but you can't have everything.

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.

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!

On the Rocks

Son #2 has a neighborhood friend who he hangs with a lot. Cute kid. His parents are both prominent professionals in the community. Yet last time Monkey slept at their house, the family didn't have dinner until 11:30 p.m. (Steak! He was very excited to tell us the next day.) Last night, he was supposed to be sleeping over there but at ~8:30 p.m. they changed their minds and came here. No dinner yet.

Is that strange? We're not European.

Monkey called home one Saturday ~10:30 a.m. and asked me to pick him up. Why? Their whole family was still asleep and he was bored. I can't imagine the last time our family slept past 8:00 a.m. (and that's sleeping in). Then again, we usually eat dinner before midnight. Color us crazy.

I discovered this jewel in the basement this morning.

Just now this little neighbor boy was chatting with me about how he can't wait to be a teenager. Why? The parties.

Me: What do you think happens at those parties that you can't do now?
Him: They have fun.
Me: You don't have fun at parties with your friends?
Him: Not that kind of fun.
Me: What does that mean?
Him: Teenagers get to drink.
Me: What do you want to drink?
Him: Beer.
Me: Why?
Him: Because it's fun.

Sh*t. Does it really have to start this early?

Him: My mom drinks wine every night. She says it's fun and it's supposed to be good for you. We call it "Mom fuel."

Ugh. Methinks I should tone down my evening wine so my kids don't start to think it's cool somehow. Or maybe I should just embrace it . . .



UPDATE: We just received a call from his house at 3:10 p.m. asking if he was here. I put him on the phone. This is what I heard.
"Yes, I'm here."
"I did tell you."
"Yesterday."

I guess they just noticed that he was missing for a day.

Fish Sticks

I'm wondering what's the best way to respond when one's oldest son says, "I heard an inappropriate joke from Tommy today; you don't want to hear it."

My first inclination is to agree. Please don't share it at the dinner table. Instead, I went with my second, stronger (more quizzical) tendency. Specifically, what on earth is deemed "inappropriate" to a nine year old boy? In other words, what the heck are these kids up to?

No puhleaze, tell us . . .

Son #1: "Do you like fish sticks?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "Do you put them in your mouth?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "So you're gay for fish?"

Me: "Do you even know what's supposedly so funny about that joke?"
Son #1: "Yea, it sounds like he's putting the fish's balls in his mouth."

Close enough for (dis)comfort. Well, now I know.

Son #1: "Want to hear a better joke that's not inappropriate?"
Me: "Sure."
Son #1: "What do you do with an elephant with three balls?"
Dad: "Walk him and pitch to the rhino."

Redeemed. Somewhat.