All You Do to Me is Talk Talk

My boss just escaped a meeting in her office, came into my office, shut the door and started working, talking, working, talking.

Boss (referring to the people camped out): I don't know about you but I have a hard time working when there are other people talking in my office.

Me (looking up from my keyboard): Just wondering, do you happen to see any irony in that statement?

Oh, Snap!

What all men should wear under their skirts, er, pants.



From the blogger on Jezebel: "I dare you to imagine every man you see today is wearing one of these items under his clothes. This includes the dudes you work with and people on TV. (Barack Obama? Larry King?)"

Oh no. Poor Thomas, a client from Philadelphia, who's coming in at noon. Noooooooo!

Actually, when compared with the other disturbing images in that posting, the skirted men's underwear is rather tame. I dare you to look. And then check out the Sears catalog from 1972 and International Male from 1986. Riveting!

Many thanks to my sister for an auspicious start to the day.

The Ghost in You

One of my old college housemates added a "five bands I've seen in concert" list to his Facebook page which included George Clinton, The Dead, The Pogues, Iggy Pop and Sonic Youth. I responded that I had seen three of those bands, also, but asked why he omitted the Black Flag concert that we went to together! It was a memorable evening not only because Henry Rollins delivers an intense stage performance but also because the mosh pit took up the better part of the bar.

No one was safe.

My girlfriend Berrie had to wear shorts the next morning to breakfast in the dining hall because her legs were covered with bruises and she couldn't get her pants on. I spent the whole night dodging 200 lb. men who were dive bombing the audience from the stage.

Those were the days!

SU had great concerts in the early 80s from huge shows in the Carrier Dome to smaller venues such as the Landmark Theater, the Jabberwocky and the Lost Horizon. In four short years, I saw The Who, my main man Bowie, the Grateful Dead, The Clash (Buffal0), Elvis Costello (Rochester), Joe Jackson, The Psychedelic Furs, Otis Day and The Knights, Cindy Lauper, The Cult, The Thompson Twins, etc. I wonder if there are any I'm forgetting . . .

It's amazing that I graduated given the amount of fun I was having!

My First Dictionary

I just added another blog to my favorite sites: My First Dictionary. Disturbing yet funny!

Doin' Time

Relaxing on the hammock. Kids are jumping on the trampoline next door with the sprinkler below it. Thermonuclear winds are blasting through the neighborhood.

Summertime (for a day) and the livin' is easy.

Sublime - Doin' time
Uploaded by lessvek

A Girl Can Dream . . .

Mini-weekend: Day 11

It's cold and windy today yet this weekend is supposed to be 80+ degrees and sunny. I hear the hammock calling my name!

While on the topic of bizarre fluctuations, I ran across this little tidbit below as I was doing a bit o' research yesterday on the NYS Economic Development budget. One of the "major initiatives" that NYS is planning to close the budget gap is to reduce tourism and marketing funding.

Funding for tourism and marketing programs, including “I Love New York” Tourism, Local Tourism Matching Grants, International Trade, Explore New York and Business Marketing will be reduced or eliminated. Even after these actions, $17 million will be available to support various tourism and marketing programs, such as “I Love NY” Tourism Advertising, Local Tourism Matching Grants and International Trade.

So let me get this straight: we're cutting funding for tourism programs like "I Love NY" in order to ensure that money is available for tourism programs like "I Love NY"? Is there such a thing as peek-a-boo funding? Now you see it/now you don't?

I Love NY. I Love NY not. I Love NY. I Love NY not. I Love NY. I Love NY not. I Love NY. I Love NY not. I Love NY. I Love NY not. I Love NY.

In related news: Virginia is still for losers. It's so embarrassing to have a typo in your slogan, no?

Killing Me Softly

I just finished reading Drinking Problems at the Fountain of Youth. Ugh. The topic of aging is SO blinkin' depressing. Especially when (to misquote Roberta Flack or Lauryn Hill depending on your age-related frame of reference) every single chapter is "singing my life with her words." Yet, somehow, Beth Teitell's writing style makes the read enjoyable. Who else shares in gory detail fun-filled stories such as her morning microdermabrasing-cleansing-clarifying-restoring-reversing-rejuvenating-regenerating-refining-replenishing-renewing-brightening-tightening-toning-lifting-lightening-hydrating-protecting-defending-defining-defying-correcting-concealing-smoothing-plumping-minimizing routine?

To make matters worse: I'm still a soap and water girl who uses an inexpensive moisturizer. This may explain a lot. Argh.

Here are a few of the many tidbits that made me laugh (nervously):

• Age is the new fat
  
• Fighting wrinkles is like gambling; the house always wins
• Every wrinkle your friend freezes, every jowl she tightens, every crease she plumps, only throws your own imperfections into greater relief
• The dearth of stores called "Forever 51" is sort of a tip-off (when shedding light on our lack of fashion options)

So if you want to read a witty set of essays on botox, facelifts, posture, clothing, pores, wrinkles, crows feet, hair color, makeup and how to look "natural" in three hours or less, this may be the book for you. For me, it was like passing a trainwreck: I wanted to turn away but I couldn't.

With that, I came across a quote from Paul McCartney yesterday that made me feel better. "Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young."

Sure I'm getting droopy but maybe, just maybe, my creativity will soar. I'll gladly take that over looking 21 forever.

Stop Making Sense

Son #1 just called to tell me about his swimming lessons.

Me: What are you doing for the rest of the day?

Son #1: I don't know.

Son #1: Wanna know what just happened in my brain?

Me: Sure!

Son #1: Part of my brain said to me, "She just asked you a question. You should give her a better answer than that." Then another part of my brain responded, "But I really don't know what we're going to do today."

I think we might have the next Bob Newhart on our hands.

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

Just to prove there's a market for anything personalized and novel: MatriMonyMony wedding choreographers.



As the text on their homepage states, "We won't wear you out with months of dance lessons. We'll teach you one amazing dance based on your personal style."

How fun would that be? It opens up so many choices beyond the Louis Armstrong and Nat King Cole classics!

But what to choose?
Something soulful yet offbeat like the Velvet Underground's "I'll Be Your Mirror"?
Funny and irreverent such as Social Distortion's "Ball and Chain"?
The swooning, heart pounding, wall of sound with The Ronette's "Be My Baby"?
Or the elegant, simplicity of Dave Edmund's rendition of "Baby I Love You"?

No matter what, I learned one thing at our wedding years ago. If you ask the band not to play "The Chicken Dance," they still will. It's a party favorite and, to its credit, at least it's not as degrading to the bride as the wedding standby, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." I think that number only works well when your bridesmaids are wearing open back, plus size, cocktail dresses that prominently display their full-back tattoos.

I might just pick the following . . .

Futbol Americano

Juana, our beautiful cleaning lady at work, recently moved her family out of one of the worst areas of our city to an apartment complex in the burbs. Her kids switched schools and are thriving. There's a cafeteria with a million and one choices for lunch. They've made tons of friends, have been invited to birthday parties and, for the first time in their lives, can play outside. It's a world of difference.

The other night, her oldest son (who is ~12 years old) came home and announced that he wanted to play football.

Juana was visibly shocked when recounting this story to us. "What do I do? Football is for gringos!"

Me Jane

I went out for dinner and a mai tai the other night with a girlfriend from my old neighborhood who I haven't really spent any time with in almost 30 years (yikes!). Her status update on Facebook later that night said, "Enjoyed reconnecting with my past ~ and hopefully enriching my future."

She must have stopped by the library on her way home . . . ?

Speaking of enrichment, I met up with the hubby and kids after work at B&N last night. Son #2 wanted to see Peter Brown, the author and illustrator of Chowder, who had also spoken at their school earlier in the week. Afterward, the kid was racing around desperate to buy yet another book.

Note: We have millions of books. We visit the library weekly. And we place orders with Scholastic Books through the school (which annoys me: do my kids really need to go shopping at school? answer: yes, apparently). It just never ends.

Last night, Son #2 was looking for the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series that he's enamored with lately and came across a shelf with just a handful of copies of those we've already read. His face registered disappointment. A moment later, he spotted another entire shelving unit filled to the brim with the series and ran over. Upon seeing it, I said, "Whoa, there are tons of them here" to which he responded, with more sarcasm than I would have thought possible for a seven year old, "Uh, yeah, it's a BOOKSTORE."

Duh.

Golden Years

The sun is out. I'm behind my desk. No mini-weekend.

In other news, the recurring topic of the week: menopause.
What the . . . ?

Out with the girls on Friday night where the conversation turned hilarious re: the night sweats, the inability to sleep through the night, sleeping on top of a stack of towels, hot flashes, running from meetings drenched in sweat, and many more disgusting things that really aren't fit for print (but are great fodder for GNO). And it wasn't just one chiquita sharing her horror stories: it was all of us.

Wait, aren't we too young?

Last night, again. My girlfriend, who just turned 45 last month, was telling me that she's done. Done!

Sure, I've read about the joys of aging. Women finding their true selves. Quitting their corporate jobs and becoming artists. Getting the kids out of the house and discovering their true passions. Feeling sexier than ever. Really? Right now, I'm just feeling blah.

Run for the shadows in these golden years . . .

SpotOn

Following is a confluence of random thoughts about the state of the advertising industry:

• I hear more people than ever before claiming to watch the Superbowl for the commercials
• People talk about the good ads after the Superbowl just as much as they discuss the game
• The first ad break during SNL features a spoof -- and most people, I would venture to guess given my lack of data, stick around to watch it
• Every other ad on TV, for the most part, is skipped thanks to TiVo/DVR
• Interesting ads are shared beyond TV via YouTube and email (case in point: the Heineken walk-in closet commercial or T-Mobile's dancers in a London train station)
  

So why not create an agency (which my neighbor immediately called SpotOn) that negotiates long-term positions for dedicated space on popular TV shows -- and then custom delivers a unique, memorable ad for that spot on a weekly basis. If executed well, people should stay during the break to watch a notable, new ad each week especially if the ad is tailored to match the show's content.

This idea first came to me when the kids were watching some cable program that showcased buildings blowing up, accidents on the race car circuit, etc. When they cut to commercial, it was for some nondescript product with a commonplace ad. Instead of "you had me at hello," it was "you lost me at the break." I thought, wouldn't it be great if the ad somehow kept the action going? Sure, not too many brands want to be associated with a fiery explosion but some might -- especially if the ad itself is clever enough.

As my girlfriend Kris' husband countered, "Isn't that what advertising agencies are supposed to be doing?" Why yes, yes it is. But I think the current model is tired and worn out. The current model understandably focuses on brand consistency across all forms of media vs. tailoring the viewing experience to the audience at hand. And too many brands are risk-adverse. If you're Procter & Gamble and you've invested millions in your collective brands, you're going to stick with advertising that fits the model. I get it.

However, some brands can and should take a chance. New entrants in the market. Old products that need a facelift. Commoditized products that need differentiation. The possibilities are endless.

While I don't think we could "own" the first spot during American Idol each week (may be a tad cost-prohibitive!), perhaps we could negotiate the first spot on Flight of the Conchords, Krod Mandoon or Late Night with Jimmy Fallon while we make a name for ourselves. Start small . . .

If the team at SNL can produce a new ad weekly, in addition to writing, rehearsing and performing a multitude of skits, I believe we can accomplish a lot with a small team of solid, local writers coupled with a talented director and production crew. With low overhead (i.e., we could operate out of a barn for all I care) and minimal upstate NY salary requirements when compared to the industry norm on Madison Avenue, we could charge our clients very little on a per-ad basis until we're well known and respected. And I guarantee that we can initially secure local "actors" who would jump at the chance of being in a national ad: for free. The bulk of our clients' expenditure would likely cover the network costs.

For companies that spend enormous sums for a lifeless 30 second spot, this new model should be a dream come true for select products.

And the beautiful side of this coin, from a business development position, is that since we would a) "own" the time slot, b) boast a captive audience over time and c) become known for our work, longer term, clients should come to us. To me, that's a revenue model that works!

It's a win: win situation. And it would be one whole heck of a lot of fun.

Round and Round

Pundit on TV: What comes around, goes around.

Son #2: Hey, she just quoted Ratt!

Under Pressure

I snuck away from my desk for an hour this a.m. to see my massage therapist. I went on a whim to see him for the first time maybe six months ago because I had an afternoon free and he had a cancellation. Nothing wrong, per se, just stressed and in need of a massage. I've been back a few more times for the same pseudo-reason. More indulgence than medical. Or more mentally restorative than physically therapeutic.

Today, different story. I've had what I thought was a pinched nerve in my upper back. I've also been unable to breathe for a few weeks due to my "chest pains" which I attributed to stress. Apparently, they're both related with one compensating for the other. The primary back/shoulder issue is what he called "anterior scapular rotation." (Or something like that!)

So instead of a full massage, he focused on applying pressure to specific areas affecting my range of motion and ability to breathe. All upper body: chest, ribs, neck, shoulder blades, upper back. Long, burning pressure combined with slow arm movement until the fire subsided. New area, one cm away, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'm probably going to be pretty darned sore tonight but I'll tell you one thing: I can already take a deep breath. Cannot wait to be back to "normal." There's a light at the end of the tunnel.

Green Alligators and Long-necked Geese

Last weekend, I met a couple at my mother's house who is about to leave on a trip to Ireland. They were talking about the long, winding roads with hedgerow or cobblestone walls on either side. The vast number of sheep in the road where traffic comes to a halt. The remote areas where English is barely spoken. The street signs pointing in a million directions toward towns you cannot pronounce.

I suddenly wanted to go to Ireland. I want to stay in little inns, drink Guinness in old pubs and eat fresh fish pulled from the sea that morning.

The first time I stepped foot on Ireland was Easter of 1974 when I was nine. I remember the endless green scenery, my dad driving on the wrong side of the road directly into the path of a large tour bus (almost annihilating our entire family), picnics on the side of the road (during which my sister was mortified) and one inn where we put money into the bed and it shook (ah, nothing screams family vacation like a pulsating bed!).

I also remember our American cheeseburger-oriented family entering one B&B that served prix fixe meals where a little boy was running down the hall filled with excitement, "Mummy, mummy, they're serving salmon and lamb. Salmon and lamb!" At the time, we were all thinking "WTF?" and began sulking. My poor parents. At what may have been the same inn, my father swore at the dinner table and the entire restaurant turned to look at him. I think he had difficulty slicing a particularly rough cut of meat and it landed on the floor. The next morning, during breakfast, it was still there. Yum!

And lastly, I remember my brother Mark and I calling out the name of our hotel in Cork for days, The Arbutus Lodge, but we stressed the long vowel: Arbuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutis.

I posted about my second trip to Ireland, actually just to Dublin, last year. That was merely a long weekend when we were living in London that served as an extended drinking binge vs. a cultural visit. Fun, yes. Memorable, perhaps, depending on the brain cells at any given moment.

My last trip was during the fall of 1986 when I was with two Irish girlfriends from Drogheda. We had just spent what little money we had traveling through Europe and ending up in Lagos, Portugal where we ate fresh rolls every night filled with cheese and mustard. It was our only meal of the day. By the time we arrived in Ireland, we were penniless and down to eating just the mustard out of the jar. I stayed for less than a week at their parents' house but it was glorious. We went to Dublin for the day shopping and sightseeing (i.e., they now had money again thanks to their parents) but, for the most part, we stayed in and around Drogheda. We went out for tea, attended a church service with their parents, hung out with their friends, went to the blistering cold beach and had ploughman's lunches at pubs in the countryside.

One friend lived across from the butcher in town where she could hear the little hooves of the animals click-clacking up the stone streets in the pre-dawn hours, hear their bleating as they cried out and saw streams of blood running down the drain outside after they were killed. It was the first time I grasped that there were real animals hiding in my food . . . not that I ate lamb anyway. Not even mint can help that flavor.

I now yearn to go back and revisit that trip from 1974. Right now. Travel all over with my family and see the sights -- most for the first time. I wonder if, in today's age of Playstation 2 and Nintendo DS, my kids would be even more jaded than we were. Would I be driving around Ireland looking for water slides and hotels with X-box? I hope not. But I'd like to find out.

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

Much of Saturday was spent in an ongoing cycle of "he said that I have the worst memory," "he called me stupid," "he stepped on my foot," "he's annoying me" and on and on and on. The only respite from the constant stream of fights and telling on each other was when I sat between the two kids during Monsters vs. Aliens 3D. Instead, I had to fight my anxiety over Son #1's constant flow of verbal beeping throughout the movie which I'm convinced is Tourette's given that he also has a million other ticks that go along with it. We'll leave that diagnosis to the professionals. I'm hoping I'm wrong.

Yesterday in church, the two kids were fighting over who got to snuggle with me and pushing each other off my lap. Son #1 cleared his throat approximately 700 times. When church ended and I was in the Fellowship Hall having (rather attempting to have) a latte with Meg, Son #1 tried to keep Son #2 away from me by putting his arms around me and, in the process, spilling piping hot coffee all over my hand. I started to say, "God D -" and stopped myself not nearly in time. It hurt like hell and my hand immediately turned bright red. An older gentleman in a suit came over with a napkin and I quickly recovered. About two minutes later, Son #2 came over, shook my hand to get my attention and said, "mama, mama, mama, mama, he just said . . . " and the remainder of the latte spilled all over my other hand, arm, pants, floor. I was fit to be tied. I threw the empty cup out and stormed out of church. We are NOT, I repeat, NOT going to Maggie Moos today.

I made them ride home in silence. When Son #1 spoke up and said, "well, none of this would have happened if you didn't have coffee with Mrs. J." I freaked and let a blood curdling scream out. "That's enough. Your rude behavior is not MY fault." I continued with a thick, loud stream of "I'm sick of your fighting, I'm sick of fighting with you every week to go to church, I'm sick of . . . " (Note: That should make them want to go to church now, right?)

My heart was pounding. My blood was boiling. The kids were crying. And I thought, "I'm taking my stress out on them." I've been having chest pains for two weeks and now I thought my heart was going to explode right out of my chest cavity.

Instead of going home, I drove to Tinker Park and said, "We're going to go for a walk in the woods and you're going to focus on the things you love about each other. We're not leaving until each of you comes up with 10 things that you genuinely love about your brother." We walked in silence until Son #2 piped up, "I love it when he lets me play with him." Good start. Followed by much continued silence.

They could each only come up with three things. Not one was compelling.

We walked past a half dozen deer along the trail who did not even glance in our direction. We stopped and listened to the bull frogs. And we walked the labyrinth which has meditation stones placed throughout with words such as "obedience," "reverence," and "honesty." When we got to the center stone, I made us hold hands in a circle and I prayed that we could open our hearts and be more loving. I reiterated (as I've been saying for weeks now) that the world is a difficult place where people can be cruel; our family should be a place of respite from all of that (not a place of stress). We need to bolster one another -- not tear each other down. I apologized for my primal scream and I told them a million things that I loved about both of them.

Can we go home now? Yes, and I'm checking myself into the psych ward STAT.

Separated at Birth

Is it my imagination or does Bernie Madoff look like an aging version of Alexander Hamilton?



Given the state of our economy, is this what Obama is handing out in our stimulus package?



In an unrelated note, how the heck do people get normal sized images on blogger without pixelation?

Mini-weekend: Day 10

Wow, ten weeks and going . . . well, strong might not be the right word. But going nonetheless.

Today, I spent over two hours at the Elizabeth Wende Breast Clinic. I have to say, if you need to spend so much time in a lounge awaiting test results from a fairly painful squish-your-boobs-into-pancakes set of exams, this is the place to do so. Nice, white cotton robes. Fireplace. O Magazine. Big tank of tropical fish. Hot teas. Back massages. If I didn't know any better, it would have felt like a few hours at the spa.

I followed it up with a trip to my chiropracter -- who I love, love, love. He's a professional miracle worker and also very interesting, motivational, spiritual, compassionate, funny, intellectual, musical, etc. One time, I was walking out and I said to his wife Dawn, who was working the front desk, "I love your husband." She replied, "Yeah, you and about a million others. Get in line!" We both cracked up.

Today, in the waiting room, a business man walked in who was worried about missing his flight. I offered to switch appointments with him since I was in no hurry as it was my day off. He gratefully accepted, asked where I worked and (of course) knew my boss. Small world. Small town. Small favor. Hope he made it to the airport on time.

Lastly, I had the pleasure of meeting with a furnace sales rep. I didn't realize how much I needed a new furnace. Now my wardrobe is complete. What's another $3K in this money pit? When I went to sit with my new friend Alan at Chase, he shared horror stories with me of clients who have $100K in credit card debt. I rarely take pleasure in others' misfortunes but it did help me to put my situation in better light. New furnace, new front porch, new siding, new windows, new countertops: not optimal but at least it's not being spent on crack whores.

We'll have to win the lottery to afford that kind of luxury.