Chase What Matters

For the past two years (or somewhere in that neighborhood), Chase has employed the tag line "Chase What Matters" which always reminded me a little of the old American Express "Do More" campaign in that it felt aspirational. While it's a clever use of Chase as a verb, it's otherwise not quite as compelling to me. (Mind you, as an ex-Amex girl, I may be biased.) If I understand correctly, if I bank with Chase, I will have the right resources behind me to follow my dreams. Sounds good, right?

With that said, there is a Chase commercial on the air lately that drives me absolutely batty. I want to smack the smug ass ad agency executive who developed it. It features a guy who is trying to talk his wife/girlfriend into using their Chase points for a vacation for two. He's dreaming of walking along the French Quarter while a jazz band serenades them in the background, boating along a palm tree-laden coastline and dining in an elegant restaurant overlooking a panoramic cityscape. But nope: he cannot chase his dreams because his wife already blew through all the points on one, I repeat, one dress. (And I wonder: where the heck is she planning to wear that thing? Not to the Cub Scout camp out . . . )



In this case, the husband should chase what matters: divorce. Imagine the points he can accrue by charging all his attorney's fees to his Sapphire card. Imagine the trips he could take then!

I think Budweiser should follow up with this same man and film the empty 12 packs that begin littering his coffee table when he finally allows himself to get that stupid, I've-been-duped grin off his face and actually digest the fact that his wife would make such a selfish purchase without consulting him.

Enjoy the in-house "staycation" with your beautifully dressed wife, sir. And don't forget to thank Chase!

Fly the Kid Friendly Skies

When we went to Aruba last month, we booked our tix at the last minute. As such, we couldn't select our seats. At every gate, we (along with countless other families) had to beg the airport personnel to be seated with our respective kids. With our family, we didn't all have to be together, but we felt that each kid should preferably have one adult next to him -- especially Son #2 who puked upon landing in FL last February. Not exactly fair game for a random stranger to have to deal with that mess; as his mother, it even grossed me out.

My mom and I were musing that, instead of having passengers pre-select their seats and forcing others to angle for better positioning, airlines could reduce the stress for both passengers and personnel alike by simply applying a seating algorithm based on a) individual preferences coupled with b) companion requirements (e.g., passengers that require assistance and/or parental oversight). By optimizing the variables that are fed into the computer, favorable seating can be assigned at the gate with negligable distress. Isn't that the benefit of simple technology? So why not employ it?

Instead, as my girlfriend Left Coast Mom shared on her Facebook page, British Airways has just instituted a "fly next to your children" fee. I love the opening line here:

"British Airways has broken new exciting new ground in the race to make flying as awful as possible: they have announced a fee (ranging from £10-60 per passenger) for advance seat selection, explaining that this will be the only way that families and other groups travelling together can be assured that they'll be sitting next to each other. I wonder what happens if you don't pay it while flying with a two-year-old in her own seat; do they seat her at the other end of the plane from you and explain to the strangers on either side of her that they're responsible for her well-being for the duration?" (Source: Cory Doctorow for BoingBoing.net)

Our sentiments exactly. Except that it's BA who I was otherwise fond of.

Why, when airlines continue to post losses, are they determined to make flying more difficult for passengers? Blockbuster learned the hard way that imposing fee after fee after fee doesn't increase customer satisfaction -- it just erodes the base of loyal customers so that better products and services, when introduced, face little resistance when attempting to lure customers to switch. Duh.

More on this less-than-favorable change here. There's gotta be a better way.

Every Precious Dream and Vision Underneath the Stars

After posting yesterday about reaching for the stars, I was singing The Whole of the Moon all day.

You stretched for the stars and you know how it feels
To get too high, too far, too soon . . .

When I got in my car to go home, it was on the radio. What a great, great, great song.

I'm Still Reaching for the Stars

Thanks to my happy-go-lucky, 6' tall brother for more uplifting news!

A recent study published in the journal Economics and Human Biology indicates that tall people live better lives and are happier, on average, than their height-challenged counterparts -- which, for women, means those of us who are 5'4" or shorter (i.e., me).

Whoa doggie. Looks like I've inherited the disadvantaged, les miserables, shortie gene. Shocking. This may explain why I'm always searching for that elusive state of being called "happiness." It's right around the next corner, for sure, apparently killing time with my taller friends.

According to a related article on Bloomberg, "the findings support a hypothesis put forth in 2008 that tall people are more likely than shorter people to have reached their full cognitive potential." The research concludes that the findings are almost entirely explained by the positive association between height and both income and education.

Did I defy the odds with my super impressive graduate degree and highfalutin salary? Without them, would I be down-and-out, devoid of laughter and utterly despondent? Darn it all. If I were just a bit taller, perhaps I wouldn't have to think so hard on a routine basis and, instead, I could fill my days with glee.

Is it any wonder that Gary Larson picked the shortest guy in the class for the cartoon below?



To think this was published >20 years before the research confirmation. Ah well. Does this mean they have to lower the glass ceiling even further for me?

Deliver Us From Email

Our family's latest Sunday ritual involves whining the following line repeatedly: Do I have to go to church?

Last Sunday, I said to Son #1, "Maybe you could attempt this week to listen to the sermon because it's usually pretty interesting."

He responded, "I tried that last time. It was so boring that I began praying to God that he would knock me out. Hit me over the head. Anything so I could black out and then come to again when it was over."

It served as a nice reminder to me of why God doesn't answer all prayers.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da

I sent emails to everyone I know with kids in the Cub Scouts to see if any of the wives were going camping this past weekend. Responses ranged from "you couldn't pay my wife to sleep in a tent" to "no way, I use that night to celebrate the quiet house and drink wine with the other women." But every answer, bar none, said that lots of women go. It's just that no one could name any names.

Sure enough, there were a few women at the campfire -- namely the few that were with me to sign our kids up last week (i.e., all newbies). But alas, in the morning, there were none. They all friggin' left. All but me, that is. Was it because it was less than 40 degrees Faherenheit outside? So cold that it was impossible to sleep? Or was it because men can easily pee on trees and women have to go into a filthy, feces encrusted, stink-hole of a wooden shelter to go to the bathroom? Maybe it was because even after the kids went to bed, a few of the men stayed by the fire and sang campfire songs thereby rendering sleep impossible. Perhaps it was the thousands of geese that, unbeknown(st) to me beforehand, squawk all night long. Apparently it's just roosters and other little birds that awaken at dawn. Geese are partiers man.

The whole scene was surreal. Our tents were pitched in the forest. With the darkness and smoke, the experience took on a bit of a Lord of the Rings mystic quality. Missing: One Viggo Mortensen.

Dinner, on the other hand, was a culinary smackdown. Each kid placed whatever he wanted in a tinfoil pouch (e.g., hamburger, potatoes, mushrooms, corn, onions, taco seasoning), folded the ends and placed the pouch on the fire. Voila! A fully cooked meal with a minimal effort and a whole lotta fun.

I think the best part for the kids, in addition to being with their friends, was playing on a giant tree that had fallen in a storm. Its upended roots alone stretched a good 12' in the air so there was plenty of climbing to be done.

Ah well. Chalk the weekend up to yet another new, kid-related experience. Happy ever after in the marketplace . . . la la how the life goes on.

We're Too Cool to Fool

My mom and I went to the Clothesline Festival at the Memorial Art Gallery last weekend. It's remarkable how a) the artwork doesn't really change year-on-year and b) a lot of the entries probably shouldn't be called art. (Note: I thought it was called the Clothesline Art Festival but it's not. Did they remove the "art"? Or was it always sans "art"?) Anyhoo, it's just fun to stroll around outside on a warm, sunny day with my mom and people-watch.

We came to a stall where a photographer was displaying pictures from all over the world. I commented on one and he responded, "That was taken right here in Webster -- where life is worth living."

I said to him, "Love that. Is that the only town in the area that coined its own tag line?" and he said, "No, Irondequoit has one: Home of the Irondequoit Mall."

Compelling. And no longer true.

As I was driving to a client this week, I noticed that the town of Chili is "Home of Little Guy Soccer." Wow. What on earth? With a big claim like that, it just has to be something that other towns don't have (i.e., like the 1,300 kids ages 5-12 in the Pittsford Mustang Soccer Club), so can it be (fingers crossed) midgets? Inquiring minds want to know.

I think I want to start working on a tag line for Pittsford.

Some of my initial thoughts include:
Pittsford. Puts you there where things are hollow.
Pittsford. What you like is in the limo.
Pittsford. What you get is no tomorrow.
Pittsford. What you need you have to borrow.
Pittsford. Nien! It's mine!

But I think my favorite is:
Pittsford. I reject you first.

Thoughts?

Under where?

Along with traditional necessities (e.g., sleeping bag, insect repellent), the list of items to pack for this weekend's Cub Scout camp out includes "Spair Socks & Underware." One item missing from the list: a tent. Hmmm.

My favorite part, however, is the list of what NOT to bring:
• Bows & Arrows
• Sheath Knives
• Axes, Hatchets or Mauls
• Stoves or Liquid Fuel
• Fireworks
• Drugs or Alcohol

Oh well. I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend for the crystal meth-meets-hatchet celebration. Darn 'dem strate laiced skoutz.

Hay-ulp! Hay-ulp!

I brought my two, new, manly recruits to the Cub Scouts meeting last night. Whereas I was expecting order, there was chaos.

Parents: What nights are the meetings for the fourth grade den?
Scout dude: You would have to check with Dave.
Parents: Who is Dave?
Scout dude: He's the den master for fourth grade. He's not here tonight.

Parents: Is there any concern about kids with food allergies during cookouts?
Scout dude: I'm not sure . . . if you let us know ahead of time, I'm sure we could accommodate them with some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Scout dude (reiterating throughout the night): It is strictly prohibited that a scout sleep with any adults other than his parents.
Me (silently after the first utterance): I get it. My kids can't sleep in Tommy's tent regardless of how well we know and trust his dad.
Me (silently after the second): Okay, maybe someone missed the first statement.
Me (silently after the third): Uh, yeah, I think we got it.
Me (silently after the fourth): Dude, you're starting to freak me out . . .

Me: If my husband isn't into this, would it be strange for a mother to join the scouts on the camp out?
Scout dude: Not at all! Just raise your hand when you get there and say, "help!" Somebody will lend you a hand to put up the tent.
Me: You're telling me to play the "chick card"?

Onward to important business. Say, who wants to buy some popcorn??

Headin' to the Betty

I decided to cease drinking for 40 days in a bit of a self-imposed, spiritual quest. I felt convicted that if I'm seeking clarity from God, I need to respond in kind. I'm fairly certain that it would be difficult for Him to provide keen insight if my mind is dulled by Pinot Noir.

Like management consulting, the best work in the world (i.e., God's, of course!) will go unheeded if there is not a dedicated receiver at the client site (i.e., my addled brain).

So I'm cleaning up my act with the hope that I can gain some lucidity regarding my so-called career. Whereas, to co-opt a term that my pastor uses, there's a bit of a "God on demand" quotient in this pursuit, I understand fully that there is no guarantee that I will achieve anything more than my current state of angst-riddled ambiguity. But I have faith. And there's no foreseeable downside to this effort that I'm aware of.

It's been only 10 days thus far and counting. Yet here's where I find it alarming: like going without a cigarette when you first quit, I have recently found myself craving a glass of wine or a dirty martini. Worrisome, no?

Last night, I went out to dinner with my girlfriends and for the first time -- since high school?!-- I didn't have a single drink with them. Every once in a while, throughout the evening, I would get a pang of desire followed by internal bartering (e.g., just one sip will be okay). Thankfully I didn't cave. And we had a blast.

At the end of the night, my girlfriends suggested that if I really want some spiritual insights, I should begin smoking peyote.

Instead, maybe I'll have a peyote smoothie.

Future Entrepreneur?

As I was kissing him goodnight last night, Son #1 told me that he wanted to begin investing. He then said, "Wouldn't it be great if there was a young investors website where companies that sell things to kids could post their new product ideas, like what's coming out next in Spore, and we could read all about it and decide if we want to put money into the company? That way, we would make money if it did well and they would know pretty much immediately if it sounded like a bad idea."

And I thought, why yes, that would be a great idea. As he's only nine, it would clearly require parental oversight and controls but still, it would be educational, fun and possibly lucrative.

This morning Son #1 was reading a book entitled War in Iraq: Weapons of the 21st Century because he wants to join the military some day (with a particular interest in becoming a sniper). Then he commented, "The military should have free summer camps with spy games and other activities for kids. That way, they'll encourage a lot of us to learn what it's like and possibly choose to join when we're old enough."

And I thought, why yes, that too would be a great idea. He would have an absolute blast (no pun intended) and it wouldn't cost us a dime. If executed well (no pun intended), the military could stand to gain high-caliber recruits with a somewhat minimal investment over time.

The ripe mind of a fourth grader. I just pray that if he joins the military, he remains safe always.

Paper Flowers

A friend just sent me a link to a beautiful wedding-related blog called kiss the groom which posted these sweet pictures of paper flowers from the Martha Stewart collection at Michaels.



As we all know, I'm no Martha Stewart; however, I was thrilled to think that the little girls across the street allowed me to semi-channel her for my girlfriend's baby shower in D.C. last month. They armed me with 50 giant, handmade flowers with which to decorate the house.

Why looky here: multicolored, paper flowers hanging from the candelabra, dangling from the ceiling and pinned to everyone's dresses. Not quite as elegant as kiss the groom but, dare I say, equally as festive.



In an semi-related topic, check out the bright pink Dior shoes on this bride from that same blog. These fall into the "Damn, I wish I had thought of that" category. Next time . . . (when we renew our loving vows, of course).

I Wanna Be Your Dog

While the following story doesn't rankle me as much as my interminable Home Depot experience, my Dell hell, my two separate Delta experiences that I've never even chronicled (yet), or this Maytag debacle my brother found on Dooce, I have new found issues with Verizon Wireless.

Specifically, or at least initially, I was annoyed by the fact that the battery on my new phone won't hold a charge. I only got a new phone because my last one died, refused to recharge and, as a result, I lost everyone's numbers. But, I simply don't like the phone that I chose. I picked it out of necessity, out of a lack of time to think and out of a desire to not have to purchase all new accessories because, invariably, the cables on different brands/models are different.

Lo and behold, I can't easily swap batteries at Verizon. Instead they took my phone and placed it on a 1.5 hour test call which, in their words, "only went down a bar" apparently indicating that my phone is okay and I'm smoking crack.

Me: I rarely even use the thing. Look up my usage. How is it possible that I have to recharge it every day?
Service tech: Do you text a lot?
Me: I rarely text at all.
Service tech: Do you have poor reception at work?
Me: No.
Service tech: Do you store it in a locker?
Me: No. No. No. Not only do I not store it in a locker, it's a brand new phone. I'm comparing it to my last phone of the same brand which did not have to be charged constantly.
Service tech: Well, the new batteries are not as good as the old batteries.
Me: Did I just hear that correctly? And there's nothing we can do about that?
Service tech: That's right.
Me: Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're telling me that I'm SOL?
Service tech: Not in those words.
Me: Can I get a new phone?

Nope. Verizon won't let me trade in or up for another two years. It's how their crappy contracts are written. To hell with customer satisfaction.

But wait. Here's the kicker! I got a call that night (just a few short minutes later) from Verizon offering a new contract to raise my minutes.

Me: Why would I want to raise my minutes?
Call center lady: You had a sharp increase in minutes last month.
Me: Wow. How is that possible? I was out of the country for a week and phone-less in a conference room in CA the following week.
Call center lady: It jumped from 300 last month to over 400 this month.
Me: Well, let's just assume that was a blip and I'll raise my contract if it continues.

And a minute after I hung up, I realized what had happened. They were subverting the minutes used for my TEST call to talk me into a new blinkin' contract.

So. Messed. Up.

Killer Hand

Over the past couple of weeks, the kids have started to play poker with me. Since I'm not the best player, they still have a lot to learn; however, it would appear that they have a lot to teach me, as well.

Case in point, the other day I dealt five cards to each of us. When it came to his turn, Son #2 only put down one card.

Me: Dude, you cannot need only one card.
Son #2 with sarcasm: Ya huh.
Me with maturity: Nuh uh. I can't wait to see that perfect hand of yours. (As I deal him his one requested card.)
Son #2 placing his hand down: Ace high! Take that.

And there it is: 10, jack, queen, king and ace.

Take that doubting Thomas.

Viva Niagara

The kids and I met my old housemate Berrie and her family down in honky tonk town for the first half of Labor Day weekend. "Underneath the ground where the fun is found."

Niagara Falls is the land of bipolar fun. From the sheer majesty of the falls to wax museums, arcades and haunted houses, it has it all and more. 4D movies. Jet boat tours. And a Hard Rock Cafe that no amount of coaxing can convince a seven year old boy that it's really not all that and a bag of chips.

Bright lights, small city. As we were walking back to the hotel at night, Son #2 exclaimed, "I feel like I'm in Vegas."

We packed as much as possible into two short days:

• Donning blue rain gear for the Maid of the Mist and begging the question, "do tall people really need to stand in front of children and obstruct their views?" Have a heart folks.
  
• Roaming for ages through the Butterfly Conservatory which was my favorite attraction. My soul was aching for a butterfly to land on me until a new, tiny, orange friend decided to rent some space on my pink purse for a few minutes. Thanks little dude.
  
• Taking a circa 1935 elevator (ugh) down a cliff to the White Water Walk to be greeted by category six rapids and a stone wall upon which tourists stick their gum -- just lovely
• Sitting outside at a sidewalk cafe, Antica, and gorging ourselves on delicious pizza
  
• Swimming at the hotel pool and taking in the 10 p.m. fireworks over the falls from Berrie's room
• Limiting the kids to three attractions. They chose Brick City (a room filled with Lego sculptures of Niagara Falls, a 10' tall replica of the CN Tower, an AC/DC concert, the Taj Mahal, etc. as well as wall-sized Lego art), the Guinness World Records (crappy, walk-through, "book" with replicas of things like the world's tallest man) and the Mystery Maze (another "must miss" adventure)
• Enjoying the view, one last time, from the Niagara SkyWheel: a gigantic ferris wheel over the falls
  

Yesterday we spent the afternoon on the boat at my brother-in-law's cottage. The kids are finally at the age where they love taking on air and being ejected into the lake from the inner-tube. It scares me a little to watch but is also a source of constant screams and laughing which is much-needed.

So far, a great weekend. I don't want summer to end.

Summer! Finally!

It's never too late for summer to begin! Yay! Four-day weekend!



(Insert jazz hands here.)

Doubt within Doubt

Whenever I'm in the waiting room at the doctor, I pick up O magazine and search for any article written by Kelly Corrigan. Her writing style and interesting family anecdotes always engage me.

In this piece picked up by CNN, she discusses her parents' faith alongside her doubts. Inasmuch as genuine faith cannot really be understood by outsiders, it's really easy for nonbelievers to claim that faith and reason (or logic) are mutually exclusive. At least it was for me. Close book. End of story. It took a perfect storm of personal experiences, coupled with sermons from a hyper-intellectual pastor, for me to grasp that intelligence and faith can co-exist. (Or maybe I'm just telling myself that to make myself feel better!) However difficult it may be at times, I'm glad that my faith journey continues.

Given all of my initial concerns about a relationship with God, I haven't yet been asked to travel on the short bus singing Kumbaya. Nor has God prompted me to give up everything and serve in a mission in Kenya. Neither seem likely at this time but as Romeo Void once sang, "Never say never." I'm open to anything.

Maybe I'm reading between the lines too much in the aforementioned article but, to me, it sounds like Kelly is embarking on a faith journey of her own. While intellectually she may be where I was years ago on this topic, spiritually she appears to be much more open minded than I ever was.

"Regardless of where I am on the spectrum from atheism to theism, I'd rather my girls be grounded in something, even something that seems too good or crazy to be true. This is why, when the girls ask me about God, I say that people believe all kinds of things and no one really knows, including me, but that I hope."

But that I hope . . .

I hope that she finds what she's looking for.

"From there you will seek the LORD your God, and you will find Him if you seek Him with all your heart and with all your soul." (Deuteronomy 4:29)

Cabin Fever

Happiness, for me, could come in the form of a tiny, one room cabin. Lakeside. Honeoye Lake preferably because it's teeny, sweet and charming--and just a hop, skip and jump from the house.



I saw this Cavco Cabin on the Tiny House blog a few weeks ago and loved it. Sadly, they don't currently sell them in NYS. Mind you, I can't currently afford it (or the land), either.

My other option would be an Airstream trailer. I don't care how small it is. Unlike the new build McMansions on Canandaigua Lake that are no longer cottages but more like garish monstrosities, I just want a little getaway that doesn't take itself too seriously. I could decorate in cowboy kitsch or junk gypsy and serve mojitos nightly.

However, now that Sherman's Travel named the Finger Lakes region the number one lakeside retreat in the world (beating out Lake Como!), I may never be able to afford my lakeside luxury-light. As Rochester magazine quipped, I'm sure George Clooney will be searching for his newest villa here shortly. Maybe we could be next door neighbors . . .

I wonder if he likes grilled cheese sandwiches and sangria?