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.

Coffee Anyone?

The attached, "must read" article from my brother Kevin is a great study in cultural anthropology.

In it, three things can be noted:
1) Owen Wilson is called the "Butterscotch Stallion"? Ew.
2) Coffee as a euphemism? Really?
3) Remind me not to move to West Hollywood any time soon . . .

Let's hope our country's shift to sea-to-sea conformity (vs. regional differences) maintains some boundaries; otherwise, I'm staying in the drive-thru at Dunkin' Donuts until at least the second date.

Bad Day: #5

One of my clients intentionally uses sex appeal as a tool to bring in new business. As a result, she is always getting hit on and combating "unwanted" advances. My boss and I were talking about her unconventional tactics and how, conversely, we're never hit on -- which, clearly, is a good thing.

Then I remembered a nightmare of an afternoon that happened a few years ago. I was working at a client site when the short, chubby, red headed, white eyelash/eyebrowed (and married with children) VP of Sales said to me, "The guys and I were out drinking last night and we all agree, you're a MILF."

I stupidly didn't know the term at the time so I asked, "What's a MILF?"

He responded by whispering "A mother I would love to . . . " and mouthing the last word.

I could have crawled under a rug. Instead, I said, "Sheesh, wait till I tell my husband that one!" Then I bolted back to my office in their facility and sat with my hands on my keyboard completely unable to type. I'm not sure if I've ever turned brick red but I was mortified enough that it felt like my face was burning.

He came in a minute later and apologized.

When I got home that night, the hubby was unfazed. "He meant it as a compliment." As much as I understood that logically, it felt ridiculously unprofessional (to say the least). With a few years between me and that incident, I now agree that I was overreacting. I never want a client to say anything like that to me again but worse things can happen in life.

A few months ago I went out to dinner with a friend who, at the time, was dating a 50 year old woman who has grandchildren. He said to me, "At what point did I stop dating MILFs and move on to GILFs?"

I guess that's the silver lining: at least I'm not a GILF. But, when I do hit the golden age of GILF, I'm guessing it's better to be a GILF than not . . .

Extreme Sex

Conversation while putting the kids to bed last night.

Son #1: Mama, did you ever date any guys between that guy you married in the pool when you were five and daddy?

Me: I had dates but nothing serious.

Son #1: Did you ever play spin-the-bottle?

Me: Yes, but I never wanted to.

Son #2: Why not?

Me: Because I never wanted to kiss any of the guys we were playing with. It grossed me out.

Son #1: Did you have sex with them?

Me: Uh, no, but do you even know what "sex" is?

Son #1: It's when a boy and a girl lie in bed and kiss. It's different than "extreme sex."

Me: What is "extreme sex"?

Son #1: When they roll around in bed and kiss for like four hours.

Me: Where did you hear this?

Son #1: It's just a rumor going around school.

Rockin the Suburbs

I just read, or rather attempted to read, Restless Virgins, a story presumably about a sex scandal that rocked Milton Academy in 2005. The book is, more accurately, a one dimensional chronicle of teen hook-ups (I'm too old to care) and tracks a number of kids through their sexual exploits and/or teen heartaches. And the "scandal" -- which is nested in the center of the book and barely makes a dent in the reading -- seems like just another day in the life of these kids except that they got caught. Rather, the whole scene is scandalous and belongs in Penthouse Forum Junior (if there was such a thing).

I put down the book midway through and thought to myself, "I'm so glad that I never had to compete with my friends sexually." Things really were so much more innocent 25-30 years ago. Yes, I had some promiscuous friends but they were more the exception than the norm. I think.

Then I went out for a quick cocktail with my neighbors last night. Women who live in all of the homes surrounding mine but who, with the exception of a couple, I really don't know. Women who, I just came to find out, dine naked with their husbands IN THEIR BACKYARDS wearing nothing but red pumps. Women who apparently howl so loud with their husbands from their hot tubs that they caused a lot of laughter at the table last night. Women who boast about breaking their headboards.

I can't compete at that level. With the exception of my classically dressed next door neighbor and a couple of slightly more casual friends, I was also the only one not (as her husband later put it), "cougared up." My green t-shirt with bright pink belt on white cotton shorts was no match for all of the black-on-black ensembles I was seated with. Which also begs the question: Was this a casual night out for the girls or were they headed later to the Academy Awards? I somehow missed that portion of the invite.

Anyhoo, I'm thinking I should climb up into the tree house over the weekend to make some crazy noises. As Bonnie Rait once said, "Let's give 'em something to talk about."

Or maybe not.

There's a Monster in My Pants

Dear Eliot -

Why? Why did you have to become our two-faced, corruption-busting, whoring governor?

Yes, we all have our sins and failures. Yes, call girls need lovin' too. Yes, people are tempted into extra-marital affairs all the time. (What else could explain the phenomenal success of the Jerry Springer show? Or the scandal-induced sales of People magazine thanks to people like Brad Pitt?)

But, unlike the stars in Hollywood or the slack-jawed yokels found across America, we trusted you.

Why couldn't you keep it in your pants for just a few short years?

Sincerely, Confused in Rochester

P.S. $5,500 per hour? Tax-free? By working one hour per week, one can bring home close to $300K annually? Why doesn't anyone tell aspiring young MBAs this before they incur massive debt, mortgages, wrinkles and flab?