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.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

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 . . .