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.