Sake Mom

One of my best friends since the first grade came over for wine and cheese a few weeks ago. The kids, mainly Son #2, have a running gag with her where they pretend to drink too much (i.e., head back, fist to mouth, thumb to lips, pinkie in air), stagger around the room and then get behind the wheel of a car (i.e., two fists turning an invisible steering wheel) while making screeching tire noises. Very rude behavior from disrespectful children. Not to mention, completely undeserved. Thankfully, she laughs.

Son #2, our resident comedian, even coined a new nickname for her. In response to me calling her a "soccer mom," he stated, "More like a sake mom."

It'll be hard to live that one down.

Bird By Bird

I was dreamin' when I wrote this
Forgive me if it goes astray

Like a light breeze breaking through midsummer's oppressive heat wave, little topics to blog about keep appearing in my mind's eye and then flutter away. I'm overcome with the vapors and cannot put the proverbial pen to paper.

It's this way at work too. Headhunting. Writing website copy. Conducting secondary research for a host of wide ranging topics including the ever-so-compelling adhesives industry. Creating a sales decisioning process. Generating proposals. Writing a keynote speech, a module on Board governance for a succession planning seminar and training workshops on leadership and change management. Every day starts with a gaze at my overflowing desk and the immediate question: where to begin? (With Facebook, of course.)

The title of Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird is the perfect example of my current frame of mind. In the author's story, her kid brother was overwhelmed an enormous homework assignment at hand: to write a report on birds.  His dad gently sat him down and gave him the best advice ever. "Bird by bird buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

Amen to that.

Here are some of my birds in random order:

• I got my first VW Jetta in 1986. Since then, I've owned three. I love them. I purchased our last in Connecticut in 1999 with the sole purpose of moving from NYC to VA with Stinky the cat on the seat beside me. This week I bought a forest green/black RAV4. I sobbed at the dealership when leaving my car behind. Leaving Stinky behind. Leaving a piece of myself behind. (Speaking of the vapors, apparently I was overcome with female hysteria. No smelling salts nearby.) And then I drove off in my giant hulking machine like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome smashing through roadblocks, sparing no one. The new me will survive -- nay thrive. 
• Itinerant artist, and all around great guy, Jim Mott came and stayed with us for a few days recently. I felt a little bad for him because he probably usually stays in areas that are more picturesque than our suburban tract. But it was fun to host him, spend time chatting with him and, most importantly to me, see the world from his eyes for a brief moment in time. He's very much in tune with color and light (as one might expect). I, on the other hand, am not. One evening, he and I headed out to a nearby field to watch the moon rise. Literally. Staring into the horizon to catch a glimpse the split second it came into sight and then watching as it swiftly rose to its full splendor. I hate to wax poetic given that I'm an MBA nerd and not prone to such things naturally, but it was a gorgeous, mesmerizing, radiant full moon. Next time, I'm bringing bug spray. 
• My brother sent me two blogworthy items of interest. First: research proves that more intelligent people (i.e., those who scored high on a vocabulary test), drink more than the "dumb." Given that my writing style has clearly devolved over time, I think there's a call-to-action in these findings. (In a corollary sense, it also may explain why I was an English major in undergrad. Somehow it just came more naturally to me back then.) Bring on the pink elephants. 
• Second: A recent WSJ article about nationwide fashion trends contains a great line that my brother picked up on about the indie movement in Brooklyn (e.g., home-sewn clothes, handmade jewelry, homemade pickles, butchering their own meat). "It's what I call 'party like it's 1899.' " Classic.
• Lastly, the neighbors hosted a red wine tasting at the fire pit last weekend. Everyone brought a bottle and we sipped, rated and ranked them. The clear winners, in my opinion, were the wines our neighbors custom made at Casa Vin'Arte in Fairport. Absolutely delicious. So, in addition to spending a really nice evening with a select set of neighbors (i.e., the non-crazy ones) ranging in age from 4 to 80, we were also partying like it was 1899.

Yeah, they say one thousand nine hundred zero zero party over
Oops out of time

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.

The Christian Brothers

I've been subscribing to the American Catholic "Saint of the Day" e-newsletters. Yesterday's email profiled St. John Baptist de la Salle, the man who founded the Brothers of the Christian School (a.k.a. the Christian Brothers).

When I was a junior in high school, I went on a class trip to Mexico with one of my BFFs, Mary, along with a bunch of nerds from our Spanish class and one gutter-mouthed girl, Laurie, from the other high school in our little town. (Note: She was a blast but we all came home 10 days later dropping the f-bomb like an everyday sentence enhancer -- not so acceptable in polite society such as under my mother's roof.)

Our parents made the mistake of signing permission slips that would allow us to drink. The premise was that we could have a glass of wine with dinner. The reality was that we now had unlimited access to booze. Hey, our parents signed a form! Who could argue with that logic? When we arrived in Mexico City, the first thing we did was buy as much beer, tequila, Kahlua, etc. as we could possibly carry back to our hotel. We had the elevator to ourselves and yet it made one stop en route to our room. The doors opened and there stood our teacher. Wide eyed. Aghast.

She asked us to remain in the hotel if we were planning to drink that much alcohol so we complied. Thankfully, there was an entire school of southern, preppy boys from the Christian Brothers Academy there to keep us company. They were all grounded for getting drunk and throwing beer bottles out their hotel windows. Perfect company!

Interestingly enough, yesterday's description of St. John Baptist de la Salle stated that he established "schools for young delinquents of wealthy families." Apparently, at least in the early 80s, his work continues. He should be proud.

The rest of the trip was just as much fun. Sure we ate at great restaurants, were serenaded by mariachi bands, saw all of the sites, went to the ruins, visited museums and haggled for embroidered shirts at the flea markets but when we arrived home, the only thing we could talk about was how Mary peed all over the floor of the hotel elevator because we were laughing so hard.

We went on a side trip to Taxco where we roamed the cobblestone streets, shopped for great jewelry, danced around the campfire with pinata remnants on our heads and encouraged our teacher to drink worm-soaked tequila with us on the bus. (She did. Straight from the bottle.)

We ended up in Acapulco where we watched the cliff divers (great!), ate dinner at an upscale restaurant on the beach where rats (I kid you not) scurried in the dark around our ankles, and we almost drowned in the rough seas (seriously awful -- one member of our group was hospitalized after almost losing her life and we flew home without her). It was here that our teacher gave up on us entirely and took off with our handsome tour guide, Poncho, for the remainder of the trip.

Lo que paso en Mexico, queda en Mexico.

Big Night Out

I heard on the radio this morning that Snooki from Jersey Shore was in town last night promoting herself at Woody's. The chick who called into the program said that Snooki spent less than 10 minutes at the bar, didn't speak with anyone, was upset that there were so many people in the VIP room, left, returned for another five minutes and that was it.

My thoughts:

• I want a television show! One that allows me to be devoid of all talents yet pays well. I'll even keep my underwear on. (Promise.) And I'll try not to get punched in the face. (Fingers crossed.)
  
• If I had a television show, I would be so grateful for anyone who came, nay paid, to see me on my world tour of dive bars that I would smile continuously, give big hugs and thank them profusely for watching. Then I would do a shot with them. Why not?
  
• I would rather be the host of Three Sheets than a cast member of Jersey Shore. Either way, I would be out boozing it up every episode; however, Three Sheets would enable me to travel, check out myriad different types of bars and avoid the perpetually tanned, weight lifting, machismo men that Snooki has to endure. 
• Before Jersey Shore, I thought "I've never met a beach I didn't like." (Better yet: I got 99 problems but the beach ain't one. Hit me!) Alas, I was wrong. I would rather be beachless on Three Sheets than anywhere within 10 miles of wherever they film Jersey Shore. 
• I'm concerned that my Yankees hats/caps are now associated with penultimate douchebaggery. Do I have to become a Mets fan after all of these years? 

Now I'm trying to figure out what my new TV show should be. Three Sheets is clearly taken. No Reservations is not only taken but nobody can do it as well as Anthony Bourdain. Same for Top Gear -- but, boy, are they having some fun in life. I don't think I would have a large audience if I traveled throughout the world to religious shrines and sites (especially if I'm boozing). What does that leave me with?

Here's what I'm thinking: how about a night out somewhere uber-trendy or interesting with someone famous? Kind of like the weekly A night out with column in the "Style" section of the Sunday New York Times but fun and interactive. With cocktails. First up: John Cusack. Followed immediately by David Bowie, Zooey Deschanel, John Oliver, etc.

I would be living the dream of middle aged housewives worldwide!

A girl can dream, right?

More Good News

My brother sent a CNN article to me yesterday which states that "a new study in the American Journal of Epidemiology found that healthy seniors who consume light to moderate amounts of alcohol reduce their odds of developing physical disabilities or dying in the next five years by 23 percent, compared with either heavy drinkers or those who abstain."

Now that is good news--especially for him because in the study, "seniors" referred to men and women over age 50. Oh the humanity!

What's more: Light to moderate drinkers were defined as those who consumed fewer than 15 drinks a week and fewer than five per day (fewer than four daily for women).

That's considered light? More good news for me!

Grad School Reunion!

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said “no, no, no.”

Okay, where to start with a fun-filled four day trip to NYC? Definitely with friends because I have the best friends anyone could ever wish for. Margaroo – definitely my best friend in a “past life” too (per her beliefs!) with heaps of continued common music/God interests to talk about. Martin – generous beyond belief, funny and kind to boot. Melissa – gorgeous, sweet, fun and spunky. Laura – awesome friendship that, over this weekend, included much schlepping about while I tried on clothes. (Sorry!) Petey – absolutely love him. Period. Janette – inspirational, energetic, driven and my future business partner, right?! Not to mention I loved meeting her gorgeous kids. John C. – really funny, as always. And it was nice to meet the “ex” girlfriend. Anu – elegant, beautiful and kind. Lastly, Ann and John – classic, upscale, reserved and probably wondering how on earth they ever became friends with us to begin with! (Read conservative: Ann rolled her eyes and promised to take in an episode of the Colbert Report in return for me trying Gossip Girls. I’m definitely game for that.)

I’m just sad that four days goes by so quickly.

If there’s a recession, it’s only noticeable by the crazy markdowns in the stores. Amazing sales but I’m not sure they’re warranted just yet. I have never seen so many people shopping in all my life. It was virtually impossible to navigate the sidewalks in the midtown/Rockefeller Center areas. I don’t remember it being quite so crowded in the years that we lived there. Or maybe I just shopped more wisely then than I do now as a tourist.

From dawn to well beyond dusk, we never stopped. We shopped at Century 21, Reiss, Zara (total crap), Bloomies, Saks, Designer Resale (my fave), ABC Carpet and Home, myriad shoe stores and the holiday fair at Union Square – which is one of my all-time favorite things to do at Christmas time. And the dude in the Celtic jewelry stand where Margaret bought her cross even played The Pogues “Fairy Tale in New York” just for me.

After all that, I only came home with two fat-ass-covering, cashmere sweaters and some cheap bracelets. Oh, and two hats: one orange and the other a leopard skin cap that Martin bought (i.e., one for each of us). Fun!

Speaking of fat asses, walked throughout downtown on Bleecker to find the best cupcakes in the world at Magnolia Bakery and then found them right up the street from our hotel at the Sixth Ave. branch again the very next day. Yessiree! A two-cupcake weekend!

Ate at normal but fun restaurants like the Shake Shack, Heartland Brewery, Chat 'n' Chew and a cool, newish bistro called Five Napkins (where I had a yummy frozen strawberry mojito at lunch – hey, I was on vacation). We also had a tasty meal (with a lychee martini) at Indochine where our cute waiter was great. Actually, we pretty much tested every appetizer there, too – all were fabooo. I even tried and liked the lamb appetizer. Who knew?

We ended that night at the Apartment in Grand Central Station where I had a big punch drink in an oversized brandy snifter. The next night Martin treated us to an unbelievable meal (read: non-economic downturn prices), with delicious wine, at Valbella a modern industrial space in the meatpacking district. Our waiter there was topnotch, too. Especially since his specials list went on for the better part of five minutes. Uh, could you repeat that? I opted for the shrimp stuffed with crabmeat stuffed with lobster stuffed with whatever else they could find appetizer followed by the white truffle linguini. Low fat for sure. And then we shared a Grand Marnier soufflé, two chocolate soufflés and crème brulee. Hello.

And my favorite of all favorite things to do in NYC? I went to church at Redeemer Presbyterian where Tim Keller preached a sermon on, of all topics, work! It was as if he knew I was going to be there . . . Also, the choir brought me to tears. It’s simply powerful to hear hymns echoed by a throng of hundreds. Just beautiful, I say, beautiful.

It was a perfect weekend. Perfect. However, now is the time to detox and I'll say, "yes, yes, yes."

I Dare You to Vote for Me!

According to Political Calculations, it's time for me to "Fire up the spin machine, you're ready to kick off your campaign this week! It's time to start courting donations from lobbyists and to put underlings to work deciding what you believe!"

Actually, this site calculates my "qualifications" based not on my experience in office (or lack thereof) but rather on whether or not I've ever toured with a rock band which I have not -- yet. Oddly enough, it doesn't ask race, gender or whether or not I'm a total babe. It's also more focused on my current bio. Holding all values equal, I'm still qualified for office if I am married with two sexual partners vs. in a relationship with only one. Yee haw! As I said to my brother, this doesn't account for my millions of past affairs or the fact that I'm one step away from rehab next week. As long as I'm clean and perceived to be sober today, all's well.

Not to mention that I can strangle moose barehanded . . .

My Health Comes First

My dad used to have the 45 of a catchy little tune entitled The Drinking Man's Diet which contained the lyrics:

Drink, drink, everyone drink
It's not as bad as we used to think
With every Manhattan
Your stomach will flatten
So drink, drink, drink!

I was singing this on my way to work this morning after I heard the DJ on the radio state that although resveratrol is found naturally in red wine, "the dose you're getting with your nightly glass is probably nowhere near enough to make a difference."

Well then, time to polish off the bottle! My vision might get blurry but, for now, I can still read between the lines . . .

Yay! Back to Work!

Yes, it's good to be back at work. Oh wait, no. It's Sunday. Whaaaaaaaaat am I doing here? Ah yes, enjoying the sunshine and warmth after a cold, windy trip to Florida . . . and deleting the majority of my 664 new email messages. No need for a replica watch, discount medications or penis enlargement.

My post on Disney World will have to wait until I have less work to catch up on. But here are a couple of my favorite conversations held at Disney last week.

-----

Kid to mom while walking past my kids who were swimming on a 60 degree day: "Mom, what are those kids doing in the pool?"

Mom: "They must be from Michigan."

Right concept. Wrong state.

-----

Teenage girl underneath large picture of Steven Tyler: "Ew. Look at that guy's huge mouth."

Her friend: "Oh, I think he used to be famous. It's what's his name."

-----

Bus driver: "Please be careful when disembarking."

Son #2: "Is disembarking when you suck all your puke back in?"

Me: "It's bark with a 'k' not disembarfing. It means getting off the bus."

Son #1: "Why didn't he just say that then?"

Good question.

-----

Son #2: "They should have a restaurant at Disney's Hollywood Studios called 'Straw Wars.' "

-----

Conversation in restaurant after I let my kids blend their own Sprite, Root Beer and Fanta Orange concoctions.

Older woman: "Are you boys having fun in Disney?"

Son #2: "Yeah! Our mom is letting us have mixed drinks."

Hello social services.

-----

And my least favorite of the lot . . .

Son #1 on day two: "I'm bored."

Hello Prozac.

Travel Writing

It only took seven months for me to get my act together but I finally submitted my review of our February trip to the Dominican Republic to Trip Advisor. Not sure it was needed because most of the reviews for this hotel were glowing and it's currently ranked #1 of the 55 hotels in Punta Cana but what the hey? Every review helps, right?

I would also offer up my review of my trip last summer to Jersey, Channel Islands in the UK but I think it may frighten most tourists. Unless, of course, they enjoy drinking to excess with girlfriends, smoking cigarettes, and hanging out at surf clubs. We did somehow manage a day of shopping in St. Helier but a) most things were imported from the US and b) I couldn't afford anything anyway. But sightseeing? Hmmm. I guess so in the sense that, as long as you have your eyes open and you're relatively sober, you can't help but sight see.

The island is a gorgeous mix of English countryside, tan cows with long eyelashes, lavender fields, old castles, tiny roads flanked by cobblestone walls, and miles and miles of beaches. All of this seen mainly from the road betwixt pubs. There was time spent at Jersey pottery, a frigidly windy hike up to the lighthouse at Le Hocq and a day spent basking on the beach (with horrific hangovers) at St. Brelade's Bay.

But, the best part, was simply being with friends with a bit of reminiscing thrown in given that I lived there for five months after graduating from college in '86.

One night, as we were sitting outside at a pub in St. Aubin, a homeless-looking young guy walked past. Gail, my girlfriend who lives on the island, immediately said, "I'm a magnet for derelicts." Sure enough, this destitute man with long hair, wearing all camouflage, came in, sat with us, and told us about his boat, life at sea, rich ex-girlfriend and children. Yes, children. And then he began singing a song with the melodious refrain: "life seeds I sow." Just before he peed in his pants all over the floor under our table and we all ran for the next stop on our drinking tour, he said that he sat down with us because he is always drawn to spiritual people. And he pointed at me.

Later, this led to an interesting (and at times heated) discussion about Christianity. One friend was mostly ambivalent about the topic, one took exception to something I had said to her on a prior occasion and the third surprisingly seemed somewhat interested. We agreed, as one does when drinking too much, to go to church on Sunday -- except the ambivalent friend who said, "I'm not stepping foot in a church unless they're serving alcohol."

The next day, as we were driving out of town, we noticed a church that was advertising something akin to a "sermon and cider" series (cider being an alcoholic drink in England). Per usual, I took it as a sign from God. Look! Now we can all go! We all laughed. But alas, twas not meant to be . . .