Tell me, can you ask for anything more?

Boy, do I love musicians or what?



This video found on a blog devoted to all things Henrik. 24/7 Hank. Thank you baby Jeebus.

Long December

I think I've spent the better part of the past week feeling completely overwhelmed. As much as I normally love Christmas, there's way too much to do and think about at this time of the year. And since I now have to work during my "vacation" week, I've been feeling a bit low, out-of-sorts, down in the dumps, sorry for myself, etc. I keep reminding myself that I am blessed to be gainfully employed in a down economy and that helps for a while. That and the countless fabulous gifts I received -- way too many to mention! Truly blessed, I am.

Christmas day here was our typical mayhem. The kids awoke at 2:00 a.m. and played not-so-quietly in Son #1's room while attempting to follow explicit directions, "Do not wake us up until 6:30 a.m." They kept chatting, laughing their heads off, and opening the door and peeking in to see if we were awake. We repeatedly feigned sleep. This tactic worked until 4:30 a.m. when they couldn't handle it any longer and came rushing in. Needless to say, they were finished opening gifts before 5:30 a.m. when the rest of the civilized world was still sleeping. Same bewitching hour as last year.

Now that the excitement has died down and the get togethers are officially over, we can attempt to regain some normalcy around here. Play the new Xbox. Put together a million Lego sets. Go snowboarding and sledding. Skateboard in Grannie's huge, unfinished basement.

Just last night, we relaxed over a game of Scrabble. With two boys under the age of ten, Scrabble basically equates to spelling a lot of "bad words," giggling and fielding the resultant questions that you don't expect quite so soon. "Hey mama, what does 'getting laid' mean?" (I told them it was like extreme sex.)

And just this morning, we began reading the Guinness World Records book because Son #2 wanted to show me the biggest boobs in the world. Fascinated and awestruck, Son #1 took out the measuring tape to see for himself just how gigantic they are. "Mom, come here. You gotta see this!" His teacher would be so proud of his practical application.

To quote the Counting Crows, it's been a long December but there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last . . .



To quote my dad, "I need a long winter's nap."

Little Humdrummer Boy

As if the constant "What can I do?" interrogations aren't enough, Son #2 woke up this morning and announced, "I had a dream last night that I was really bored."

Santa, please make it stop. I'm hoping that Christmas should take care of this recurring issue (at least for an hour or two).

I'm bored, they told me
Humdrum pa rum pum
I have nothing to do
Humdrum pum pum pum pum
None of my friends are home
Humdrum pa rum pum
To play driveway hockey
Humdrum pum pum pum humdrum pum pum pum humdrum pum pum pum

So we placate them
Humdrum pa rum pum
With PlayStation

My Life (No Exaggeration)

Every time this clip comes on TV, I cannot stop laughing. It's me and Son #2 while I'm driving, on the phone, working on the computer, attempting to do anything. The only exception: I don't yell at him. That and I need to change my name to Lois.

Go Shorty! (It's My Birthday)

Yea! It's my birthday! I have no real time to post today so, much like choosing a sugar cereal for myself (our big treat when I was a kid), I thought I would pick a couple of non-birthday-but-just-sweet songs for myself. I can't seem to find a video for John Vanderslice's Tremble and Tear so I chose a classic, Moon River, and a fairly new song with a stupid video, Come Monday Night. 45 years old. Yikes! Bring it on.

The Way I Am

Our church service yesterday was absolutely gorgeous. The sanctuary was beautifully decorated with fresh greens and the trees were covered with white lights. We had an orchestra and full choir accompaniment as we sang all of the traditional Christmas hymns. At the end, as we stood to leave, I said to Son #2, "I just don't want this to end."

He replied, "Yeah, you should've married Pastor Rob."

I responded, "Hmmm. Daddy might not like that" to which he replied, "Neither would I."

"Why not?"

"Because he would probably make us go to church every week."

True. And he might not take me the way I am.

Ingrid Michaelson "The Way I Am" (music video)
Uploaded by Ingrid_Michaelson. - Explore more music videos.

Baby It's Cold Outside

I have only heard my favorite (secular) Christmas song on the radio once this year. Boo friggin' hoo! But, for whatever reason, I keep hearing this. Ergo, I keep singing this. And, per my latest girl crush, I just downloaded the Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version. So sweet. So really I'd better scurry . . .

Baby It's Cold Outside

Christine | MySpace Video

The Reason for the Season

I spent Monday evening with my bible study girlfriends and our kids filling shoe boxes with goodies for the homeless at the Open Door Mission (hats, gloves, socks, toothpaste, etc.). I spent Tuesday night with the kids at Cub Scouts as they filled plates with cookies for local families in need -- four dozen of which the hubby baked himself. (Thank you!) And I spent last night with my church girlfriends (a.k.a. the Kismet girls) enjoying one another's company over dinner. It was a nice, quiet, fun-filled evening in the midst of the snow covered Christmas rush.

This morning I was thinking about the holiday season and how people across the faith spectrum rally together to make the world a bit brighter for each other and for those in need. While I recognize that there are people of all backgrounds and faith traditions who devote their lives to helping others, I also recognize that Christmas often brings out the best in those of us (e.g., me!) who need a little more prompting. It's the time of year when non-believers and believers alike will give a bit more of themselves than they do throughout the year. When churches are SRO. When people go out of their way to share a little token of their appreciation with others. When we deck the halls with boughs of holly and share a glass of wine with our neighbors. (Mind you, the latter half of that sentence is a nightly common ritual in our neighborhood regardless of season.)

During any other time of the year, you can tell most people that you're a devout Buddhist and they'll think it's cool because we're trained from a young age to welcome, nay embrace, all religions (as we should). On the same token, at any other time of the year, you can tell most people that you're a devout Christian and they'll think you're a simpleton that needs a crutch. Born again Jesus freak. So I ask, why the double standard?

At this time of year, however, we can say "Merry Christmas" to others and it's not considered offensive. Is it because the holiday is sanitized? Because it's associated with Santa and gift giving and not with Christ? Our savior?

I wish that radical acceptance of people's beliefs, regardless of faith or sect, would be widespread year round. And I wish that radical change of my own behavior, my desire to give more to the world and dedicate my life to God, would be my driving force year round and not just on the occasional night out in December.

I want the spirit of the season to fill my very being every day of my life.

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.

My Wish List

My mom asked me over the weekend what I wanted for Christmas. My answer: EVERYTHING. I personally think that I must be the easiest person to shop for 'cause I really do love everything I see. The more expensive, the better. Just kidding. It makes no never mind.

Military coat? Check. Hugs? Check. Zebra rug? Check. A clean house? Check. Cute prints from Etsy? Check. She & Him CD? Check. Jewelry of any type? Checkmate.

Speaking of which, isn't this custom necklace really sweet?



I would wear it while listening to this -- yet another soulmatesque song that my girlfriend Margaroo and I have in common. How can two people living in different hemispheres always, without fail, discover they are totally into the same bands? It's been happening for decades now, literally since the day we met. Crazy!

Archimage

Yesterday, I had two luxurious hours completely to myself while the kids were at a birthday party so I went Christmas shopping at one of my favorite little stores: Archimage. In addition to getting heaps of great stocking stuffers for the kids (and who wouldn't want bloody eyeball band-aids in their stockings?), I found gag items for the under $10 Christmas fiesta gift swap across the street next weekend.

I wonder what lucky neighbor will be boastfully toting this beauty around Wegmans in the new year?



Or what happy party goer will be proudly serving gin & titonics next summer? (Whoever it is, I'll be there. These ice cube trays serve as an open invite, right?)


Lastly, I got a little magnet for my girlfriend/co-worker Jennifer who is in a constant battle of the sexes with her husband of a gazillion years.



Seriously though, if a man speaks in the middle of a forest and there is no woman around to hear him, IS he still wrong?

This is just the tip of the iceberg (no ice cube pun intended). I did way too much damage in one little store in return for nothing substantive. As I heard in church this morning, Christmas is like being mugged. It comes rushing in, empties your wallet and is gone in a flash.

But it's still fun!

Morning Awkward

I was riding the elevator down to the hotel lobby yesterday morning with a business man who was roughly my age. We stopped on the 11th floor where a younger dude wearing a navy pinstripe suit stepped in the elevator and gave the first guy a forced "hello."

Going against unwritten elevator protocol, he never turned around to face the door. Instead, he stared right at the first man and said, "I heard some men had fun at the casino last night."

Dead silence.

"Were you one of them?"

Pause. Eyes averted. Focus on the floor.

"Well, I was there."

Nothing more was said. The doors opened and the pinstriped man walked away briskly.

Now I want to know: what the hell happened at the casino?! And why wasn't I invited? Had I been prescient enough to feel this man's shame and embarrassment prior to the unspoken reprimand, I could have passionately chimed in (like in the movies), "No, he was with me."

Yeah, that would have been better. What happens in Milwaukee stays in Milwaukee?

Art for Scouts

I decided to pawn off my week of leading a Cub Scout meeting by kicking off their pursuit of the Artist badge and immediately passing the baton to Jim Mott, a local "celebrity" of sorts and a friend of the hubby.

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He shared his adventures and some of his paintings with the kids. Beautiful scenes -- some painted in our own backyard. (Well, just up the street.) Unbelievable talent. And friendly to boot.

I hope to check out his show at the Mercer Gallery this weekend. Thank you Jim!

Total Request Live

For all of my family members (i.e., Mom and Sis) who now love Citygirl, please note the convenient addition of Mudflap Bubbas on my blogroll to the left. You can thank me this weekend with a pitcher of sangria and some Fritos.

Safe but Not Sound

Winter mornings in Rochester consist of driving along the highway, steering your car quickly around large clumps of hardened snow that the semi in front of you just deposited on the road, and passing car after car after car that somehow ended up in a ditch on the side of the road or backwards/upside-down in the median. Police cars lit up. Tow trucks everywhere.

But that doesn't slow us down. Nope. It doesn't matter that the speed limit is 65, the roads are covered in black ice, 40 mile per hour howling winds are blowing snow across your windscreen and there's a hazardous weather outlook in place: you still need to drive as fast as possible, pass, cut people off and slam on your breaks when some idiot in front of you is doing the speed limit. No need to put down the cell phone. Multitasking is cool.

Come on people, you're going to make me late for that critical meeting that, this time next week, I'll have forgotten all about.

As I approached my office, the car in front of me was doing 25 in a 40 mph zone. Hey, what's with the caution? Can't see the road through the sleet? Then I noticed the out-of-state plates and I wondered what it must be like for someone unaccustomed to extreme driving to be thrown into the lunacy here. Would it be like lacing up my ice skates and trying to compete in an Olympic speed skating event? No, because at least they're all headed in the same direction.

Maybe I would understand more clearly if I was battling asteroids from a single passenger spacecraft. Or if I was suddenly thrown, without warning, into a Rugby game, say the Barbarians vs. New Zealand, and I had the ball.

It's all so very Norman Rockwell around here in the wintertime.

Gabba Gabba Sleigh

I’ve recently decided to take a deep breath when someone compliments me and ingest it. It’s been a rocky start but I dooooo believe it’s worth the effort.

Usually, when I get a compliment from a client, of course I say “Thank you” but I shallowly then think to myself, “Uh, that’s what you paid me to do.” Conversely, if I think I performed poorly on something (or at least could have done a better job preparing, presenting, listening, responding, etc.), I berate myself for hours, days, months, years: whatever it takes to feel really, really awful about myself.

But why do I, and others like me, allow ourselves to wallow in self-loathing over an overblown perception yet brush aside callously any real appreciation?

I need to put an end to this. Stuart Smalley here I come.

With that said, my favorite compliment over this past week of taking stock/giving thanks came from my coworker, Jenn. For an upcoming Christmas party at a not-for-profit agency for which I volunteer, each Board member was asked to come with a small “you-nique” gag gift that really reflects his/her personality. Huh?

I was at a complete loss for what I should bring. I don’t collect anything (but dust bunnies), have any hobbies, or really connect/associate myself with any one thing, etc. So I asked Jenn what she thought defined me with the hope of a gift-inspired idea. She thought for a few seconds and responded with a go-go dance move, “I kind of see you as a hippy chick. Like Goldie Hawn popping up on Laugh-In but with some punk rock thrown in.”

Love that! Love that! Love that! Problem solved.



Merry Christmas (I don't want to fight tonight).

Good Eats

In the last few weeks, I have had the pleasure of visiting a couple of pseudo-Anthony Bourdain-worthy restaurants. (Wow, do I envy his life.)

When in NYC, I met my girlfriend Beth at Charlie Palmer's Metrazur in Grand Central.



Very elegant and sophisticated for two chicks wearing jeans. I ordered the ahi tuna tartare and, per our waitress' recommendation, the veal pappardelle. In other words, enough to feed a horse. Hearty, filling, interesting, something I would never normally order and, yet, nothing I'm craving now. The dramatic ambiance, overlooking the concourse, is what makes it worthy of a visit. As an added bonus: Beth knows the owner so we were given a free plate of cookies to accompany her warm chocolate chip and banana financiere. Calorie overload. Sensory overload. Taste explosion. Nice touch.

Last weekend, some of the hubby's friends took us to Santasiero's, a Buffalo landmark.



Although the building stands in what felt like a deserted, industrial area of downtown, inside it was warm, friendly, inviting and packed to the gills with families of all ages.

The tablecloths were plastic, colorful and covered with mismatched Christmas motifs. The dinner salad consisted of iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, black olives and something akin to Wish-bone Italian dressing.

I was persuaded to order either the pasta e fagioli or the pasta and peas. Why not? When in Rome, right? I opted for the "pasta fasoola" (as it was written on the wallboard menu alongside something about their "family jewels" -- yum). What arrived was a gigantic, delicious, heaping bowl of pasta and kidney beans that was never-ending. So good, I could eat it again immediately. And the carafe of wine I shared with Cyd came with two, unassuming shot glasses for our wine. Loved it! Nothing pretentious here.

Food-wise, Santasiero's was the clear winner. Ambiance? Impossible to compare apples to oranges but I think Santasiero's was more my style overall. Company? Excellent for both meals. But there's something to be said for leaving the table at Metrazur and wandering through the Grand Central Market and the holiday fair. Yep. Everything can be trumped by a great tree chandelier.

The Lone Ranger(s)

The hubby won tickets to a Sabres game courtesy of Labatt Blue Light. The whole beer drinking thing can pay off, apparently!

While he could have taken Son #2 to see the NJ Devils, instead he chose a Rangers game so that he could see one of his favorite players, hailing from Rochester, Ryan Callahan and so I could see my Swedelicious* boyfriend in action. (*Term coined, to the best of my knowledge, by my Swedish friend Krister.)

Amen to that.

Free tickets = awesome! Free tickets also = nose bleed. Fourth row from the tippy tippy, vertigo-inducing top. So high in the rafters that the Hindenburg-like blimp that drops tchotchkes on the crowd was flying below us.

As much as I like the Sabres when they're playing pretty much any other team, last night I had to root for my favorite team: the Rangers. That meant wearing Son #1's camoflauge Rangers knit hat in front of a crowd of over 18K Sabres fans. The hubby wanted to know if I was looking to get my a*& kicked in the parking lot.

When you're spawning upstream through a wave of Sabres jerseys while sporting a Rangers logo, you feel a sudden kinship with the handful of other Rangers fans you spot along the way. Little smile. Thumbs up. It's like being overseas for a while and hearing an American accent: it doesn't matter how big of a dork that person is, s/he's suddenly fascinating. That drunk dude with the painted face? My new best friend. The chick in the furry blue hat with yellow horns who keeps turning around and giving me the snake eye as I cheer for the Rangers? Not my new best friend. No, not at all.

For the majority of the game, we could pinpoint the other Ranger fans in the crowd. Look, over there, thirteen rows down, to the left, there's guy cheering for Lundqvist. See? But, at the very end of the game, a slew of guys in Rangers jerseys came and sat right behind us. Comrades in fun. And the last few minutes were, indeed, tense, action-packed fun, especially when Buffalo scored in the last minute and brought the score from a shutout to 2-1.

The crowd went wild for a few waning seconds only to give it back up in 4, 3, 2, 1. Oh darn.

I think Henrik clearly knew (or definitely felt in the depths of his soul) that I was there. (Yes, I'm kidding.) He was en fuego. And, with that score, they sucessfully ended not only the Sabres' four-game winning streak but also their own three-game losing streak.

Saturday night: date night. Thanks Labatt. Thanks hon. And thanks mom for watching the kids.

Let Them Know it's Christmas Time

Monroe Golf Club hosts an annual women's holiday party on behalf of the Society for the Protection and Care of Children. I attended the first year that we moved home but, since then, have only dropped off presents for my angel on the day of the event -- usually around lunchtime.

Last night, I stopped by after work and was overcome with emotion by the sheer number of gifts lining the lobby. Bags stuffed to the brim with toys, dolls, games, stuffed animals, you name it. On the floor were hula hoops, bicycles and electronics.

As I drove away, my car parked between a Lincoln SUV and a Cadillac SUV, I began sobbing. There must be hundreds of kids in the protection of this one agency alone. Not to mention the countless others whose names and wish lists are written on paper angels that hang on Christmas trees in churches across the city (including mine).

How many kids are in desperate need right here in our little city? I feel very blessed to be able to share even a small portion of what we have with one boy in need.

I pray that our family's angel, "Anthony, XL, age 12," has a very Merry Christmas.

Yu-Gi-Oh My God!

Following is a brief except of the inside of a nine year old boy's head (or what he excitedly shares at approximately 500 words per second) when asked what he wants for Christmas:

Well, every monster that my opponent controls, no for every monster he summons, the monster is decreased by two thousand points for whatever position it’s in. And if it doesn’t have enough points, it’s automatically destroyed with no battle damage done. That’s the reason I want Slifer the Sky Dragon. It gains a thousand attack points for every card in your hand. The Wing Dragon of Ra costs over $50 on Amazon. Well, I don’t exactly want it too much but it’s good because it’s an Egyptian God monster and it doesn’t matter about the stars for the monsters you sacrifice it just adds up all those points. It’ll well when it’s sent to the graveyard it’ll do a direct attack on the player for a certain amount of attack that I don’t really know unless it comes from the field to the graveyard. Obelisk the Tormentor starts out with four thousand attack and gains more attack with every monster you sacrifice. Both to sacrifice it up for him and just feeding him monsters. Yes, you can feed him monsters. I can also ask for Exodia the Forbidden One and Horakhty, the Creator, God of Light. It’s just a fusion of all the three. The three Egyptian God Monsters. Both count as an automatic win . . .

Following is a brief except of the inside of my mind as I stare at him feigning interest and completely check out during the first sentence:

The monster is decreased by two thousand, wait, that reminds me of a song. What song? Decreased. Decreased. Clocks? Yes. Clocks. Every day, I get up and pray to Jah. And he decreases the number of clocks by exactly one. Everybody's comin' home for lunch these days. Last night there were skinheads on my lawn . . .

A mere 35 year difference. A similar mess.

Dragonforce

Local radio station Fickle 93.3's tagline is "We Play Everything."

Son #1: That's not true. They don't play Dragonforce.

Son #2: Yeah, they should change it to "We Play Everything People Like."

The Country Life

I seem to have a habit recently of quoting one of the hubby's musician friend's Facebook comments but yesterday he wrote (about Rochester), "The music scene is as good as ever, thanks to the die hard spirit that comes from this cold, shitty area, that everyone endures and comes to celebrate. Bring it on Old Man Winter!"

Blue collar poetry at its finest and I agree: Bring it on. Masses and masses of snow. Hot toddies in front of the fireplace.

This morning was just gorgeous. I could see for miles as I drove through the countryside. Snow was covering the trees and lightly falling from a pale blue and muted pink early morning sky. It truly felt like a dream.

So long to the city lights . . .

Ring in the Season

Long weekend. Fabulous meal. Awesome family. So much to be thankful for.

Caught up on missed episodes of Glee. (Mr. Schuester. Hot.) Watched the parade. Watched The Longest Day (which is strangely compelling for nine year old boys and painfully boring for eight year old boys--what a difference a year makes). Played basement soccer. A little driveway hockey. Played Life. Star Wars Monopoly. Connect Four. Had my girlfriend across the street over for wine. Avoided the Black Friday shopping stupidity. Decorated the house and tree. Helped Son #2 make a gingerbread house. And now, excitedly, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

(This list reads just like my diary in the fourth grade except that every entry that summer said pretty much the same thing, "Played kickball." And then I listed every player: Misty, Alexis, Rich, Mary, Sallie, Chris, Christine, Dave, John, James, etc. Fascinating stuff.)

Anyhoo, isn't this Kate Spade ring perfect for the holidays?

I'd be the envy of everyone. Everyone!

Doolittle

I finally, finally, finally got to see the Pixies last night at the Hammerstein Ballroom. An absolute dream come true. I looooove them. They, as expected, sounded phenomenal. They were unbelievably tight, Kim Deal's voice was haunting, Frank Black can still scream like there's no tomorrow, the guitar riffs were fantabulous, and so on. In an alternate universe, they would have rocked the house but, chalk it up to over-excitement on my part, they seemed almost . . . bored? Soulless? There was zero audience engagement except for a few random sentences from Kim. And the feeling was reciprocated. There was next to no dancing or even movement on the floor. I was expecting rapture, madness, joy, anything. Nope. I've honestly seen more bodies swaying at a church service.

Throughout the show, the Pixies had a vibrant screen of riveting, surrealist film images running behind them and their faces were dimly lit. I seriously think I could have saved a whole heap of money by simply listening to them on my iPod and watching my screen saver. At one point they had cameras lighting the crowd and capturing the first few rows of people on the screen behind them. Overall, it was definitely a cool effect but I couldn't help but feel the irony of paying to hear a band and instead watching the friggin' audience.

Other stage effects included giant, glowing, bulbous orbs and epic amounts of white smoke pouring onto the stage. My friend Petey likened it to a Great White show, "Let's get the hell out of here."

The Pixies have so many great, great songs but the Doolittle set only lasted one hour. The audience had to beg for each encore when it felt wholly premature for them to have exited the stage to begin with. And they were gone so long -- as we watched a film of them repeatedly taking bows -- that we were joking that they were probably already back at their hotel while a roomful of idiots remained clapping. (That could actually be an interesting social experiment. How long would people keep clapping?) But the encores, including Gigantic and Where is My Mind?, were mind blowing and most definitely worth the wait.

They may still be one of the best bands ever but, hands down, Wilco blows them away.

A Mismatched Night's Dream

For a long time, I've wished that I could have a job that allowed me to live in the hinterlands and commute to the city. Not so much anymore. While I love catching up with everyone, albeit much too briefly, I really miss my family and don't like being away from them for even a few, short days. And I cannot afford to live here with exorbitant property costs, maintenance fees, private schools, etc. But I saw a 7-8 year old boy guiding his soccer ball through the lobby yesterday and later spied a few, free-range, ten(ish) year old boys goofing off as they walked up Broadway together (sans parents) and I thought, "What if?"

In the midst of running around, meeting Janette at Rosa Mexicano for lunch and Melissa for dinner at some sushi joint near her apartment in Brooklyn, we ended up at a bar called Spike Hill to see Melissa's friend Pete Sinjin's band. Instead of really enjoying the music, and they were good, I stood out on the sidewalk in front and called my little guys. Son #2 kept calling me "Mommy Mommy" as if he were two years old and saying, "I'm hugging the phone right now." Me tooooo. (Insert aching heart here.)

There we were, uptown girl, podunk girl and artsy girl hanging together, having fun and watching an appropriately mismatched, but talented, band. The drummer looked like Ty Webb, the bass player like a trendy jazz accompanist, the lead singer like a hulking (but cute) lumberjack and the hillbilly-hip-grunge lap steel guitarist (who apparently is quite accomplished judging by the "discography" page on his site) like Dwight Yoakam meets Vincent Gallo. They looked like they played in entirely different bands but they sounded great together.

And that, the bizzare confluence of craziness, the huddled masses, the friends thrown together from all stages of life is what makes NYC so great. Next time, I'm bringing my family.

Haven't Got Time for the Pain

What's better than heading to Redeemer Presbyterian on a Sunday morning for the best sermons ever preached? Why, discovering that the west side service is right next door, that's what!

I would trudge through hell and high water to get to Redeemer. Blinding snow. Tempests. A plague of locusts. Frogs swarming upon land. Anything. But yesterday, as I passed the Ethical Culture Society on Central Park West, I realized that I could literally roll out of bed and head over in my jammies. So I did. (Actually, I put pants on. As an aside, some fashionistas that we saw yesterday while out and about at the Bryant Park Holiday Fair didn't bother wearing any pants. Color me old but I still think pants are useful especially when your dress, er sweater, doesn't cover your booty. Moving on . . .)

Much to my chagrin, my favorite preacher was not preaching this morning; however, the Reverend Scott Sauls gave a great, great, great sermon on suffering. Not about mild suffering like the kind endured when one stays out way too late at The Gingerman and Rattle N Hum with dorm mates from college (hypothetically speaking, of course) but about deep, groaning, life suffering like the kind endured when you repeatedly implore, "Is this it? Really?" and wonder why, when you have so stinkin' much, you are still not happy. And, as we all know, this is one of my favorite subjects.

One of the not-entirely-new analogies given was that of a father holding down his daughter during her first well baby visit at the pediatrician's office. As she's given her shot, she cannot help but feel betrayed by the very man she trusted. But she, at too young an age, cannot know that this pain that she's enduring is ultimately for her health and well being. Likewise, we can feel betrayed by a God who allows suffering or we can strive to be thankful for all the good in the world that we're incapable of seeing or understanding.

As Thanksgiving is this week, I'm choosing the latter. We closed with the hymn, "Now Thank We All Our God" but I'm singing Carly Simon right now.

Til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love,
how to open up and drink in all that white light pouring down from the heaven

God is amazing.

Crazy Train

Here I am, podunk girl, at my girlfriend Laura's apartment overlooking Lincoln Center and, in the distance, the Hudson River. Breathtaking.

I jumped in the subway this a.m. to be entertained by a flamboyantly gay, young, black guy who was wearing a straw cowboy hat and was serenading the train with non-stop, comedic shtick. He escorted me to a seat and insisted that I relax. He then told the woman next to me that she should remain standing because her ass was too large already. While a few people were averting their eyes, many were laughing their heads off.

Just before I exited, he made his way back to me and said, "You're very beautiful" so I responded, "Thank you very much."

He then started whooping, "Ladies and gentlemen, this woman just proved me wrong. White women do speak! You, my friend, are the first to speak to me on this train!"

All this before 9:00 a.m. Could be a long and interesting weekend.

Big Smile

The other day, I purchased this sweet little print at the Studio Mela shop on Etsy because it made me happy.



Do you know what else made me happy? My address was handwritten on the package in the middle of a cartoon girl's speech bubble and below it the following was printed:

let me say thank you. with my whole heart.
i hope you love what's inside because a nice person like you deserves a really big smile.

OMG, right? If only every purchase could be so heartwarming. If only our new furnace carried a little sticker telling us how happy it is when it gives our family warmth. Hey, maybe I'd be filled with bliss to know I'd spent thousands and thousands of dollars this year alone on new windows, siding, kitchen counters, subway tiles, floors, an up-to-spec chimney, front porch, etc. if only we got adorable little notes from the contractors spreading the love. Surely my cousin Peter could have given me a giant bear hug me after he remodeled our kitchen and told me how much he appreciated our business, no?

Instead, we had a beautiful, touching, emotional experience when Son #1 made a simple request from our ass-crack plumber last Sunday on my behalf, "Excuse me sir, but you might want to pull your pants up."

Just lovely.

Merry Christmist

Move over Cabbage Patch Kids, Tickle Me Elmo and Playstation 3. I got up at the crack of dawn this morning and stood in line for this year's "must have" holiday gift: limited edition H1N1 vaccines! And I got 'em -- in the new, designer mist! (Well, I gained two winning lottery tickets that allow entry to the fun festivities.) The kids'll be soooo excited when they get to go to the pediatrician's office on Saturday.

Who says that Christmas can't come early?

DocAdvisor

According to a recent New York Times article entitled "Looking Abroad for Health Savings,"

• A heart operation that might cost $130,000 in this country could cost $18,500 in Singapore or $10,000 in India.
• Estimates of the number of Americans traveling abroad for treatment — “medical tourism,” some call it — vary widely, from 75,000 to 750,000 last year. But many experts consider it a growth industry.

Given the proliferation of user-created content on sites like TripAdvisor and SpaFinder, I think it would behoove us to create a similar site guiding us to the best-of-the-best doctors worldwide.

Better yet, what about introducing an insurance carrier that significantly reduces its monthly (or annual) premiums by coordinating your care with low-cost, high-quality international options? Sure, that would mean even more jobs leaving the U.S. (and, in this case, those associated with highly qualified, well trained professionals) but, really, paying less than a tenth of the cost for a commensurate surgery (and saving $120K per procedure) might just alleviate our nation's escalating health care costs. Or, at the very minimum, provide a serious wake-up call to our big insurance firms.

As always, I'm sure there are major flaws in my logic. Feel free to point 'em out. If it takes a while for me to respond, it's because I'll be in Vietnam getting a face lift.

Friday the 13th

In lieu of giving in to the "bad luck" of the day, I thought I would capture thirteen things that make me happy (in no particular order and not an exhaustive list).

1. Snuggling with my boys
2. Sunshine (on my shoulders . . . )
3. Travel (for pleasure v. business)
   
4. Dancing wildly
5. Cupcakes
6. Cocktails with my girlfriends
7. My husband's cooking
8. The holiday market at Union Square
9. Birds (e.g., sparrows, finches and sandpipers)
10. Church bells, candles and incense
11. The smell of fresh pipe tobacco
    
12. Christmas (e.g., trees, lights, songs, festivities, presents)
13. Stinky (our passionate, incessantly hungry, bulimic, black cat)

Oh. Did I say thirteen? I meant a baker's dozen plus one . . . 'cause you can't help but look at these cuties from a bygone era and feel real joy. (And no, it's not Bowie, Henrik Lundqvist, Paul Rudd or John Cusack, so there.)

God Save the Queen

A friend of the hubby posted on his Facebook page last night a listing of many of the bands he loved in the 80s including the B52s, Pretenders, Ramones, and so on. The funny thing: He included Dokken. Dokken, you ask? (Well, I ask. Maybe you ask?)

My mom and I had the pleasure of seeing Dokken one night many moons ago. We had driven to Pittsburgh for the wedding of my mom's best friend's son. The reception took place on a chartered dinner cruise up the famed three rivers (i.e., the Allegheny, Monongahela and Ohio -- thank you Google). The pier was chock full of bizarre-looking people that could have been your stereotypical Aunt Mildred. My mom would pose me next to women who were wearing powder blue lamé dresses, matching eye shadow and stiff, bouffant hairdos just so she could take their pictures without looking too obvious. These women were clearly destined for another boat so timing was of the essence.

After a very nice dinner, the reception kicked into full gear with a DJ flown in from Akron (i.e., a friend of the groom's family). Dancing mayhem ensued including a crowd pleasing slam dance to Ian Hunter's Cleveland Rocks, of course. The whole night felt somewhat like the scene in Sid & Nancy when the Sex Pistols were cruising down the Thames on a river boat playing God Save the Queen and the British police stormed the boat and arrested them. For me, it was the perfect reception. My mom, on the other hand, was immensely grateful when the boat docked.

Little did we know that a surprise was waiting for us. Dokken was playing a free concert in the adjoining festival tent that night so we stopped by. Yeah, me and my mom in our wedding garb amidst a gazillion bikers donning leather vests. Who looks more bizarre now? We only stayed for a few minutes because the music was intolerable and even I had had enough. Apparently, we weren't alone.

The review in the Pittsburgh paper the next day that went something like this, "If you like monosyllabic grunts, then this was the show for you." Well stated!

I'd much rather have seen this show:

The Honeymoon is Over

I'm in the process of renegotiating our telecom/Internet contract and sourcing competitive bids from vendors, just in case.

Time Warner Sales Guy: I'm here to make you look good in front of your boss.

Me: Wow, you're much too late for that.

No hippychick, no hip hip hip hip hip

Last night, my hairdresser, Robert, re-introduced me to a long-lost friend. While gently pulling my long hair in the air with his left hand and holding a brush in his right, he said:

"Hair . . . brush. Brush . . . hair."

I find a modicum of relief in the fact that gorgeous, famous, wealthy chicks (i.e., the Olsens) -- with stylists forever at their sides -- also appear to suffer from this same ailment except that, with them, this messy style is a) clearly intentional and b) in line with their hippie chick appearance.


Photo from Olsens Anonymous.

As much as I would prefer looking like a gypsy than a management consultant, I think I need to get to know my brush a little better. Maybe I'll take it to lunch or possibly out for cocktails later. Who knows where this could lead?

I certainly don't want to be the area's front runner on this fashion trend.

You, Your Sex is on Fire

Just when I thought the Weezer Snuggie was hilarious, I immediately discovered that the Kings of Leon have released their own line of clothing -- just in time for all of your holiday shopping needs. This may have trumped Weezer except that they're serious . . . yup.

I love the headline on the article: Kings of Leon Make Flannel Fashionable. Really? So does that mean that all the guys around here were trend setters? I'll be darned. Who needs to travel to the shows in Milan when we have heaps of fashion forward men right here at Thirsty's? Give yourselves a round of applause boys and go buy yourselves a beer!

Hey, remind me not to take tips on what's stylish for men from these guys.



Two hipsters flanked on one side by a 1980's denim suit/bad hair combo and the other by Garth's brown-haired twin who is wearing, if my eyes don't deceive me, a velour hoodie and a gray Yemin-plaid scarf with matching, double dangle-ball necklace. Rad.

Yeah, if my eyes don't deceive me, there's something going wrong around here.

Rockin' the Suburbs

Yeah, okay, so the title of this post is quoting Ben Folds but it seemed somewhat apropos. Y'all don't know what it's like to be young, middle class and white. You see, there I was watching ye olde flat screen last night when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a perfect, spoofy-yet-real commercial for a Weezer Snuggie! BONUS: When you order, you get their new CD (a $15 value) for free.

Man do I love these guys! Pure marketing genius.



On a semi-related note, someone posted the following little anecdote the other day on My Life is Average:

"Today, I saw a commercial for the Snuggie. I thought it was stupid idea but I couldn't change the channel because I was under a blanket and I didn't want my arms to get cold."

My alternate title for this post was WWBHW (a.k.a. What Would Buddy Holly Wear)?
I don't care what they say about us anyway, I don't care about that!

My Retirement Castle Awaits

My oldest brother turned 50 in July. In preparation for the week long, bacchanalian festivities that never took place, my kids and I invested $0.35 in a beautiful glass mug at the Volunteers of America. It bears a lovely painting of a horse on one side along with lyrics and musical notes on the flip side for The Old Gray Mare (she ain't what she used to be).

We sadly never sent it to him because a) his gorgeous house outside of Chicago was on the market and we didn't think he would want more crap to pack but really because b) Son #2 took an immediately liking to this garish glass and didn't want to part with it.

He's very giving, I know.

The other night he told me he was going to keep it forever.

Son #2: Mom, you can borrow it in 50 years, if you want.
Son #1: No she can't! She'll be dead. Mom, you don't plan to live until you're 95, do you?
Son #2: Oh right. Yeah, and if you're not dead, we'll definitely have you in a nursing home by then.

Once again, feeling the love.

I Wanna Wake Up in a City That Doesn't Sleep

On nights like last night and days like today, I really miss living in NYC. And I miss the Bronx Bombers' main fan: my Grandpa Jack.

I love hearing cheers coming from all of the neighboring apartments and adjacent buildings when the Yankees score. I love hearing Frank Sinatra pouring out of the PA system at the end of a game in Yankee stadium. I love the ensuing mayhem on the streets when a World Series title is clinched. And I love me a good ticker tape parade.

Although the Yanks won the World Series championship three times while we lived there in the mid-to-late 90s, I only saw the parade once: in 1996 when I was working downtown at American Express. Thousands of us from the World Trade and World Financial Centers lined the streets but, for whatever reason, my girlfriends and I were up close-and-personal. There was so much white confetti in the sky, on the streets and covering our bodies that it looked like a blizzard. It was also really friggin' cold that year so the overall effect was a bit like New Years Rockin' Eve. So. Much. Fun.

There's nothing quite like it.

Yay Yanks!

Shake It Up

Refinery 29 has just published "Six Perfect Outfits To Shake Up Your Fall Dressing" which includes one of my favorite fashion items of all time: the tight, leather motorcycle jacket. I love women that can carry off that look -- especially those chicks who are simultaneously toting little kids. It feels a bit Chrissie Hynde/PTA President/soccer mom/anyone-other-than-myself.

But, I have to say, true to its headline, the rest of the looks may shake things up a bit but, uh, not necessarily in a good way. For example, after dropping over $1,400 on new clothes (i.e., how much the ensemble below costs), I sincerely hope I look better than this:



Heck, I think I look better than this already. Ah, kids these days.

Detroit Schlock City

This is not your father's Oldsmobile.



But it sure does look like one, right?

Does Volkswagen think their target market (i.e., me) rounded the bend on middle age and now wants to merge onto the highway going 20 mph?

As the proud driver of both a Jetta and Passat (and recipient of the VW promotional email containing the above image), I'm just not ready to trade up to a Pink Champale colored sedan and drive for 50 miles with my left turn signal on. I don't care what cultural anthropologists may think: I'm also not ready to wear mid-calf, black, trouser socks with high-waisted shorts while mowing the lawn.

I understand the need to attract new audiences but toward what demographic exactly is this geared? That small percentage of the population that is disenfranchised with the perceived poor quality of the US automakers but still wants an ugly car? Someone seeking German engineering coupled with a retro 1990s Detroit design?

That someone clearly ain't me.

Free Range Telephone Poles

How is it possible that I'm back in this office so quickly? Why can't every weekend be filled with fun and candy? Like double cherry pie? Like disco lemonade?

First off, I read a book that the hubby borrowed from the library entitled Year of the Cock: The Remarkable True Account of a Married Man Who Left His Wife and Paid the Price. A total page turner! And by page turner, I mean that you can flip through, without reading, about 100 pages of absolute jibber jabber where this dude is pathologically obsessed with his penis. Constantly standing in front of the mirror, measuring, tugging, etc. and describing it all in exhaustive detail. Thanks but no thanks. While the "cock" reference is perfectly in sync with the Chinese zodiac, I really wish there was a Year of the Douchebag: The Lame but True Account of a Total Dip Shit Who Lost His Mind, Wife, Palms, Young/Hot Girlfriends and Any Sense of Decorum. With all that said, this tale confirms that men with small penises do, in fact, buy Porsches. Ew.

Beyond that, the weekend was filled with taking Son #1 to swimming class and sitting poolside for an additional hour while he played water polo with the other kids, creating cute little Halloween pumpkin crafts (I'm so stinkin' domestic!!), handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters as my ninja and alien boys went door-to-door collecting even more lard-ass-inducing loot, going to church and going on a hike with the Cub Scouts at the Cumming Nature Center where I felt like I was fully immersed in an Audubon painting. Specifically this Hudson River School painting that I stumbled upon but with fewer leaves and more beaver lodges.

What I learned? That prior to the obsolescence of land lines, entire forests were planted to farm telephone poles. And they're breathtaking now.

(Photo from the Finger Lakes Visitors Connection via Ontario County.)

What else I learned? That GPS is completely unreliable. (Note: I already discovered this on my way to D.C. and my way home from Saranac Lake but this time was the worst.) It told me to take a left on a non-existent street. Just trees to the left. Trees to the right. I was also guided deep into a continuous cycle/circle of U-turns. It later led me up a gravel driveway that ended at a house and proceeded to tell me to take a left. My father did that while drunk many years ago and his car wound up in our living room -- so I decided not to follow in his footsteps. I didn't know this family and they might not appreciate it as much as we did at the time.

Anyhoo, nothing says "leadership" and "parenting 101" quite like driving 700 miles an hour on winding, country roads and bellowing expletives while a little scout sits quietly in the backseat occasionally piping in with comments like, "Wow mama! That was a sharp turn!" as he slid sideways. Thank God for seat belts. And for troop meetings that start notoriously late.

All of this leads up to today: Little Monkey's eighth birthday! Stock tip of the week: before the official birthday party next weekend, buy shares of GameStop and all things Tony Hawk. If last night's family party was any indication, there's a whole lot of dollars being invested in these brands.

Once again, happiness prevails.

Pow! Bang! Crash!

I just received a package of financial statements that my client rendered in Comic Sans. It's a bit hard to take a P&L seriously when it's coming from Wolverine.

Maybe I'll design my bar charts out of hearts (where trending is favorable) or possibly employ some sad emoticons (where the data appears less advantageous).

It's best to know your audience.

Fashion Challenge

I was thinking of attempting to buy my clothes for next 12 months from only one fashion-backward, mall store, like Sears or JCPenney, to see what I could come up with. I thought that, over the course of the year, I would possibly a) save some money due to the dearth of options, b) look absolutely heinous even by local standards (or lack thereof), or c) rise to the challenge and throw some *great* looks together on the fly.

Then I ran across the Winter '09 collection by Juliette Hogan (via Down & Out Chic). So pretty!

Professional yet feminine, the look above consists only of a simple cardigan, pencil skirt and blouse in muted colors. Shouldn't be too hard to replicate, right?

So I decided to compare against the online Sears catalog to see if they had anything remotely of that caliber.



Wow! A lime green, short-sleeved suit with white buttons and contrasting stitching? You betcha.

This could be fun.

Functional Silos

Yesterday, I offhandedly said to my co-worker Jenn, "I've been eating my Lean Cuisine every day for weeks with a spoon 'cause I'm too lazy to go out and buy more forks."

She replied, "OMG! I've been eating my soup everyday with a fork because I ran out of spoons."

Pretty friggin' stoooopid for two women who consult with organizations on communication, teamwork and process optimization.

Ageless Beauty

According to a recently published study revealing the secrets* to looking younger, I'm hosed.

Bad news: Sun, smoking, alcohol and stress can add years to your face

Good news: Additional weight fills in and softens wrinkles

As a stressed out, cocktail imbibing, ex-smoker with a strong proclivity toward sunny beaches and/or hammocks, I'm not poised well. Once again, there goes my modeling career. However, as luck would have it, I can somewhat offset the effects of aging simply by continuing to overeat. Yay!

Bring on the cupcakes!

*Are any of these illuminating research findings really a surprise?

H1NE1?

Son #1 was reading a library book last night on wizardry and decided to read my palm. Not that I believe in this stuff but my lifeline fades and splinters mid-palm for a good quarter of an inch, regains strength and continues until it reaches my wrist. Since I'm quickly rounding the age bend toward 45, I'm thinking I've gotta be entering the fractured, mid-palm stage of life right now.

And given that I've been sick with what I'm calling "the plague" for over five weeks and, once again, have tissues stuck up my nose today at work (i.e., stunningly gorgeous, as always), I'm thinking this is the beginning of the end. Or at least the beginning of the prolonged "life support season" of my apparently fragile-but-lengthy existence.

Thankfully with all of the (justified?) pandemic paranoia going around these days, my kids have really long, thick, lifelines. I just pray to God every night that they remain safe, healthy, happy and filled with wisdom to make the right choices in life -- especially if I'm no longer around as God continues thinning the herd.

On a related age note, we watched the Wanda Sykes HBO special over the weekend. She, too, is 45 years old and makes a few great jokes about her aging body (and her bulging midsection's demands for bread and alcohol). Sounds familiar. She even delivered the following zinger:

“I used to pack an extra pair of panties in case I got lucky. Now I pack an extra pair in case I sneeze.”

Afterward, she dropped to the floor pretending that she had a Kegel-induced charlie horse. If only it wasn't so funny . . .

Who Killed Bambi?

I believe this falls squarely in the "ask and ye shall receive" category.



Found at the Kickerville Long Lake gas station! And it can be yours for a mere $140.

That's all we really are is squirrels!

I'm driving up to Saranac Lake today for work and I'm hoping to see a lot of these on the way.



Gotta love Crappy Taxidermy!

Ganondagan

I took my little scouts to Ganondagan last night. It's the hilltop site of a former Seneca community that once housed 150 communal longhouses and over 4K people. Today, there lies a reconstructed longhouse in the midst of beautiful, rolling hills with hiking paths through the woods.

Our guide took us into the longhouse and tried to direct our imagination back to life in the 1600s. As we were seated on the bottom bunks that lined the walls of the house and faced the firepits, she talked about how the structure was built out of elm bark, selling pelts to the traders, herbal medicines, marriage between different tribal families, hunting at the age of 12, etc.

My kids were bored, bored, bored. Much akin to our dreaded ride aboard the Sam Patch last summer, our family apparently doesn't like to learn about the area's rich history in our spare time. In retrospect, since most of my childhood was spent in abject fear of my parents foisting another achingly dull museum tour on us (with my dad eternally chiming, "some day you'll regret this," under the misguided assumption that we would one day grow up to be cultural sophisticates), I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Like mother/like sons.

At the end, a few kids asked questions such as, "It's cold in here. Didn't they suffer from hypothermia?" but after a few minutes of Q&A, one kid finally raised his hand and asked, "Is this thing almost over?" Thankfully, he wasn't one of mine.

Unlike the scouts, I loved it. I could have stayed all night. I wanted to try on the deerskin dress with the fringe and wrap myself in a pelt. I would love to have taken off my shoes and felt the hard, cold soil against my feet. I wanted to light a fire and . . . yeah, okay, I wouldn't know how to cook anything. How did they survive without takeout?

But here's what amazed me the most: the men would walk to places as far away as the Mississippi River to hunt and gather skins to be traded. That's 1500 miles round trip, sans GPS, and they would find their way back to that same, obscure hillside in the middle of nowhere. I would get lost in the woods in two seconds flat-- nevermind trying to figure out which hill, of all the gazillion hills in upstate NY, my family lived on.

Can you hear me now?

Free Advice

I just got a call from a sales rep who wanted to set up a 30 minute web demonstration with me to view their research database. He began by saying, "It's the perfect tool for your organization."

How does he know what's best for our organization without having a preliminary discussion?

So I told him how we conduct research, the access we already had to competitive tools and the varying types of projects for which we employ secondary research.

Because he had his talking points and his script, he didn't quite understand what to do with that information that I had given him. With no ability to deviate from his intended path, he again tried talking me into watching his demo. Not gonna happen: not on my billable hours and certainly not on my personal time.

I dropped to the bottom line: how much does your database cost?

He responded by saying that, since it's newly introduced, it's being aggressively sold for only $12K per year. So I asked him, for that much money, why we should invest. I was expecting a benefits-related sale but he restated that it is the best tool for our organization. Oh really?!

I told him that he was wasting his time with me and then gave him some free (read: unsolicited) advice: 1) ask probing questions to find out more about any organization's needs before pitching them, 2) target larger companies that are more likely to have budgets to support this solution, and 3) provide a back-of-the-envelope cost-benefit analysis to justify the expenditure.

If my billable rate is $1500/day and his solution can save me eight hours of research on a per-client basis, I can breakeven after only eight projects.

Here's where he could have potentially engaged me in conversation*:

• The quality of the data I currently employ -- often from myriad, conflicting sources and frequently a source of confusion
  
• Concerns around the ability to find critical pieces of data needed to ensure the recommendations we're offering, and the assumptions on which they are based, are solid
• The potential ramifications/consequences to my clients of a misguided strategy
  

Nah. Instead, he thanked me for my time and hung up.

I'm now left wondering why his company either didn't hire more qualified sales reps or provide adequate training for those on board.

What a waste of time and money.

*Note: not strong concerns. We're extremely careful and conservative with our assumptions.

Two Guest Entries

I've been looking at all the gorgeous women with skin-tight, high-heel, over-the-knee boots this year and realizing I'm not edgy or sophisticated enough to get away with it. I want to blame age -- but as my girlfriend Laura attested, many wearers of said boots are older women who are still rockin' it. Oh well.

Given our climate, Laura recommend these rechargeable, heated boots from Columbia Sportswear for me instead. S-E-X-Y.



Practical. Very practical. My mother would be proud. And they'll come in handy when I'm playing driveway hockey, going sledding or tracking Yeti.

*******

On an unrelated topic, the newest entry to the blog roll on the left side of the screen is A.S.S. This link comes from my brother Kevin and features many unsavory acronyms. This should keep us entertained.


I'm thinking our old student newspaper at the University of Rochester's William E. Simon Graduate School of Business Administration, The World According to Simon, would have been prominently featured on this site.

Sunday Morning

I threw out a huge box of cassette tapes a while back but the hubby must have found some more of my collection including a really old Andy Warhol tape. He placed the tapes on the seat of my car as a little surprise.

Much like the period of time after I originally purchased it, I can't stop listening to the Velvet Underground. Can't stop.

It's just the wasted years so close behind . . .

Etiquette Smetiquette

My coworker and I are in the midst of scheduling conference calls with a number of international Olympiads. (Don't ask.)

My first two calls yesterday, just to get on their calendars, went something like this:
1) I can't talk right now; I'm in the middle of a competition (voice: agitated)
2) I can't talk right now; I'm in the middle of a clinic (voice: whispering)

I asked Jennifer, "Why are these people even answering their phones? Don't they use voice mail?"

Immediately thereafter, she called a guy who said, "Can you call me back later? I'm in the men's room." Then he continued to talk to her for a few minutes.

Has the world gone crazy? I have no problem bringing the phone into the bathroom when I'm chatting with my girlfriends (!) but I don't typically answer it when I'm performing in front of a panel of judges. My medals are too important to me.

Hey Mambo

When I was little, I was into all sorts of performance arts-related stuff that has since fallen by the wayside. I took summer acting classes at Nazareth College, performed in all of our school plays (including an ill-fated production of Gilbert & Sullivan's The Mikado which may explain why I hate musicals today) and took modern dance at the University of Rochester. My first dance classes, however, took place in our town's original, one-room, school house. At the end of one session, we painted sheets and put on an eclectic show for our parents. Our "art work" was later hung in a now-defunct gallery that sat alongside the canal next to the Del Monte Lodge.

Even though it is located less than a mile from our house, I was in the Mile Post School House last night for the first time in over 30 years for a cub scout meeting. It definitely took me back in time. I wanted to clear out the tables, chairs and chalk board and start dancing wildly. Thankfully, my professional sensibility and wraparound, black dress kept me in line.

At the end of the night, we learned that each parent has to conduct one cub scout meeting per year. People were stating their preferences such as, "I'll lead the Webelos Outdoorsman activity." I remained silent knowing that I have pretty much nothing to offer the group until Tommy's dad chimed in, "Hey Mrs. R., you gonna get these kids their M&A badges?"

I drove home while thinking: how did my life come to this?

I just wanna dance.

Bringing Home the Bacon

80's version: You got peanut butter in my chocolate!
Today: You got chocolate on my bacon?

Like cherry vodka and Pixy Stix, these are two things that I love independently but I'm not so sure I want to try together -- especially with the not-so-delicious sounding name of pig candy and the $38/lb. price tag.



From Serious Eats.

As an aside, before writing "cherry vodka and Pixy Stix," I had written "bourbon and brownies" but then decided that actually sounded promising. Now I know what I'm doing this weekend!

Chez Iron Chef

Why doesn't the Food Network open an Iron Chef restaurant in NYC (or LA, Las Vegas, Rochester, etc.) where the menu changes every week and features the six platings which each of the chefs prepared on the show that most recently aired?

Our family watches Iron Chef on a routine basis and I always want to try everything -- even the vile sounding/looking (but apparently delicious) blood sausage with blueberries.

People that otherwise want to try new restaurants may continually be drawn back to the Iron Chef Cafe because the menu would rarely be the same twice (except between regular seasons when the establishment could revisit some of the old favorites) and different, top-ranked chefs nationwide or worldwide would be the originators, albeit not preparers, of each dish.

What a great way for up-and-coming chefs to learn from the masters and for us, plain folk to have an amazing culinary experience.

Just a thought.

Reaching New Audiences

One of my favorite local radio stations is WBER: the only station that matters. (As tag lines go, it's a bit too pompous and aggrandizing but, hey, a minor issue.) The station is on my preset which allows me to quickly scan to other great stations at the far left of the dial if needed, namely WITR and WRUR. The DJs fully engage their audience members, have heaps of CD and concert giveaways, play the Beasties every Friday at 8:00 a.m. and continually seek feedback on what should be played on air through their Prospect Song of the Week. (Aside: a bunch of songs that failed in years past are on my iPod. What does that say about my taste in music? Either it's awful or . . . I can just pretend that I am, or was, avant-garde. Let's just go with the latter. See below for substantiation/rebuttal.)

Anyhoo, one thing that keeps grabbing me lately is an ad that they're running for the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra. It's skillfully written to draw in what might, on the surface, appear to be divergent audiences (i.e., classical music vs. The Chemical Brothers). The copy, however, draws the connection, "sharing WBER's love for live music." And the closing line negates any preconceived notions that listeners may have about the RPO, "No suit required." I'm loving the RPO marketing folks that decided to pitch their brand, and become a "proud sponsor of," an alternative music station!

So, three "oldies" that have been rejected by listeners but I still love are below. Come on people, you gotta agree: these are great songs, right??

Ghetto Gifts!

My co-worker Jennifer and I just drove past Juan's Ghetto Nick-Naks (sic). Colorful storefront. Awesome name. And it's just up the street from Effen Haute*. Two birds/one stone! How on earth did I not notice it ever before?

Now I'm burning with curiosity to know what Juan sells in there . . . seriously. Any guesses?

I may have to stop next time I'm in the (neighbor)hood.

*Effen Haute is not, as it turns out, boarded up. It was open for business today. Thanks for all your concern.