Do You Realize?

The big question that's haunting me lately: Is there a God? No, wait. I have that one covered (to the best of my knowledge).

Just thinking/writing aloud, should I fork over the money to go see the Flaming Lips at the CMAC Performing Arts Center this summer? Especially knowing that no one will go with me?

I loved Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots soooo much. I played it incessantly. I even named the dwarf Japanese maple in our front yard Yoshimi when I bought him. Since then? Not so much. Austin City Limits? Boring. Wayne, the lead singer? A bit over the top. Crowd surfing boy in the plastic bubble. Bunny suits. Freak parade. Possibly a blast live? Or am I too old for such antics?

Wilco and Cracker aside, I'm not that into live shows lately. Yet, if Beck, Weezer or Liz Phair would come to town, I'd jump at the chance to see them. Or Sparks. Or Cat Stevens (aka Yusuf Islam). Maybe because I love heaps of their songs. But the Flaming Lips?

Help!



And then there's this that sounds like Cat Stevens to me!

What a Surprise

Ended my fabulous week off with a bang. A rum punch to the head. Last night of vacation spent at Thirsty's with a bunch of out-of-town friends who came in for the weekend. The last day of vacation spent on couch. Floor. Bed. Couch. Bed. Bathtub. Bed. (Never again.) But it sure was fun while it lasted . . .

Sadly, it came directly on the heels of a wonderful, full day of meditation at the Rochester Zen Center. I should have quit while ahead.

Relax. Party. Crash.
Lather. Rinse. Don't repeat.

This week: sorting through 100+ resumes to interview for a local GM position. Attending meetings. And fielding calls from a million clients (okay, maybe four) who desperately need to talk to me as their management consultant shrink. "Yes, it will get better. I promise."

Today, sunny and warm. Yesterday, however, snow. Snow in Rochester? Wow, what a surprise. How quickly summer's over.

Staycation

There. I used it. Staycation. Thanks to JetBlue, I never want to leave my yard again. Instead, this spring break, we're hanging out with our two new friends: Tiger and Milky (as clearly named by little boys).

Very sad to "replace" Stinky so soon but everyone, bar none, told us it's the best way for kids to heal. So we're healing and bonding and, hopefully, falling in love.

On the Rocks

Son #2 has a neighborhood friend who he hangs with a lot. Cute kid. His parents are both prominent professionals in the community. Yet last time Monkey slept at their house, the family didn't have dinner until 11:30 p.m. (Steak! He was very excited to tell us the next day.) Last night, he was supposed to be sleeping over there but at ~8:30 p.m. they changed their minds and came here. No dinner yet.

Is that strange? We're not European.

Monkey called home one Saturday ~10:30 a.m. and asked me to pick him up. Why? Their whole family was still asleep and he was bored. I can't imagine the last time our family slept past 8:00 a.m. (and that's sleeping in). Then again, we usually eat dinner before midnight. Color us crazy.

I discovered this jewel in the basement this morning.

Just now this little neighbor boy was chatting with me about how he can't wait to be a teenager. Why? The parties.

Me: What do you think happens at those parties that you can't do now?
Him: They have fun.
Me: You don't have fun at parties with your friends?
Him: Not that kind of fun.
Me: What does that mean?
Him: Teenagers get to drink.
Me: What do you want to drink?
Him: Beer.
Me: Why?
Him: Because it's fun.

Sh*t. Does it really have to start this early?

Him: My mom drinks wine every night. She says it's fun and it's supposed to be good for you. We call it "Mom fuel."

Ugh. Methinks I should tone down my evening wine so my kids don't start to think it's cool somehow. Or maybe I should just embrace it . . .



UPDATE: We just received a call from his house at 3:10 p.m. asking if he was here. I put him on the phone. This is what I heard.
"Yes, I'm here."
"I did tell you."
"Yesterday."

I guess they just noticed that he was missing for a day.

American Idiot

What idiotic mom takes her eight year old son to a Green Day concert? (You really don't have to answer that.) But thanks to the Citi card pre-sale option, he and I are now proud owners of two seats under the shell at the Darien Lake Performing Arts Center. For Son #2, August couldn't come any sooner.

Our little guy may be one of the world's biggest Green Day fans. He has been into the band for years as initially evidenced by this post from 2007. At one point, the hubby recorded Green Day Live at Irving Plaza for him but subsequently had to delete it after the kid, probably four or five years old at the time, watched it at least 1-2 times per day and drove us absolutely bonkers.* After that, we would find him sitting quietly in the basement listening to the band on his computer -- ear to the speakers.

*Note: That nightly void has now been filled with three seasons of Criss Angel DVDs thanks to Aunt Sue & Uncle Kevin. 

Every time we get in the car, to this day, he asks if I can play a Green Day CD. Just the other night, he asked me to come downstairs while he sampled Green Day tunes for me. He's discovered their version of  I Fought the Law and has been listening it along with other versions including The Clash and the Dead Kennedys (who sing "and I won" as he pointed out to me). I contend The Clash version is the best; he clearly disagrees.

In a semi-related note: Joe Strummer was a hottie. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. London Calling? A gift from Kevin when I was in HS. The man knows his audience . . .

Until We Meet Again

Goodbye little Stinkers.

The other night Stinky's breathing became more labored but she was still purring and snugly. The next day, she began to deteriorate quickly so the hubby called the vet who thankfully makes house calls.

Yesterday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school early and headed home to say goodbye. It was sunny and warm so we found both hubby and cat outside in the garden. Stinky was sniffing the flowers, gnawing on the grass and roaming around. As she was rubbing against the pine tree in the side yard, I sat down beside her and began to pet her. She then laid down in the warm sunshine next to the tree and simply hung out with us as we all continued petting her. It was very peaceful.

When the vet and his assistant came, she wasn't even scared. Without even getting up, she let them pet her. We agreed to give her the shots outside: the first in a vein to numb her and the second in a muscle to put her down. She put up a bit of a fight with the first shot so I placed her on my lap. I then held her, pet her and whispered to her as they put her to sleep.

It was the perfect ending for the perfect cat. Sitting in the warm sunshine surrounded by her family who loved her.

We buried her by the ring of pink flowers that is just starting to come up -- along with her Stinky bowl that I painted with my girlfriend Darlene in NJ one weekend many moons ago. I couldn't bare to ever see it again.

And then the kids and I read Psalm 23 aloud. She will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Goodbye my little love.

1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,

3 he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.

4 Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, [a]
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.

5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.

6 Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.

ArtAwake

What a fun, sun-filled weekend. Hammock. Basketball. A little light cleaning.

Late Saturday afternoon, my mom, kids and I went to ArtAwake: an art/performance art gathering in a beautiful, vacant, old bank downtown. We went to see the opening band, 441, which is a bunch of 13 year old boys (i.e., a girlfriend's son and friends) who played rock hits like Led Zeppelin along with their own tunes that I preferred. Mad talent for middle school boys. There was food and wine. Interactive spaces for music and photography. People dressed in white who you could paint. (My kids declined; they're much too cool for that.) All-in-all, it was a nice diversion from the everyday tasks of life.

Afterward, we got delicious, pulled pork sandwiches at Sticky Lips then the kids had a sleepover at Grannie's while I went to see the hubby's band at Abilene. So. Much. Fun. There were heaps of bands playing elsewhere that night so the crowd was pretty light but we had a blast -- especially later when we had the dance floor to ourselves. My torn ligament was healing nicely so I tried to cement my feet to the floor and awkwardly dance in place; however, that gave way as the more fun songs were played later in the evening. Dancing without moving your feet is difficult and not so much fun, I've discovered.

It was pretty hot in the bar so we kept escaping to the patio out back to cool off. It was either that or take our shirts off -- which prompted us to ask ourselves if we had nice enough bras on to bare it all. (No, thankfully. And the ringleader of such activities had just left early so we weren't going to take up the reins in her absence.)

As a result, we started reminiscing/laughing about a night out maybe <20 years ago when a bunch of us went bowling at Clover Lanes. As the stakes got higher throughout the night, one thing led to another, and we were challenging each for extra points with daring feats of stupidity (e.g., five points if you take your shirt off). The night later became dubbed "bra bowling" as the men's Christian league beside us left quickly and the young man who was using the bowling lane equivalent of the zamboni to clean/buff the lanes before closing, fell over his equipment. Serves him right for staring at us and walking backward at the same time. D'oh!

I need to walk into town and hit Embrasse-Moi in case the occasion presents itself again soon. Must look my best.

Be Very, Very Careful

I'm beginning to think that the National Weather Service has Rochester on a default mode of "hazardous" and they need to remind themselves to update the profile manually if on the off-chance it's, say, sunny. Otherwise, what would explain this?

Maybe they know that blazing sunshine is a hazard to our eyes which have now grown accustomed to winter darkness. Or perhaps they would like us to prepare for hammock-related accidents. It could happen.

The Christian Brothers

I've been subscribing to the American Catholic "Saint of the Day" e-newsletters. Yesterday's email profiled St. John Baptist de la Salle, the man who founded the Brothers of the Christian School (a.k.a. the Christian Brothers).

When I was a junior in high school, I went on a class trip to Mexico with one of my BFFs, Mary, along with a bunch of nerds from our Spanish class and one gutter-mouthed girl, Laurie, from the other high school in our little town. (Note: She was a blast but we all came home 10 days later dropping the f-bomb like an everyday sentence enhancer -- not so acceptable in polite society such as under my mother's roof.)

Our parents made the mistake of signing permission slips that would allow us to drink. The premise was that we could have a glass of wine with dinner. The reality was that we now had unlimited access to booze. Hey, our parents signed a form! Who could argue with that logic? When we arrived in Mexico City, the first thing we did was buy as much beer, tequila, Kahlua, etc. as we could possibly carry back to our hotel. We had the elevator to ourselves and yet it made one stop en route to our room. The doors opened and there stood our teacher. Wide eyed. Aghast.

She asked us to remain in the hotel if we were planning to drink that much alcohol so we complied. Thankfully, there was an entire school of southern, preppy boys from the Christian Brothers Academy there to keep us company. They were all grounded for getting drunk and throwing beer bottles out their hotel windows. Perfect company!

Interestingly enough, yesterday's description of St. John Baptist de la Salle stated that he established "schools for young delinquents of wealthy families." Apparently, at least in the early 80s, his work continues. He should be proud.

The rest of the trip was just as much fun. Sure we ate at great restaurants, were serenaded by mariachi bands, saw all of the sites, went to the ruins, visited museums and haggled for embroidered shirts at the flea markets but when we arrived home, the only thing we could talk about was how Mary peed all over the floor of the hotel elevator because we were laughing so hard.

We went on a side trip to Taxco where we roamed the cobblestone streets, shopped for great jewelry, danced around the campfire with pinata remnants on our heads and encouraged our teacher to drink worm-soaked tequila with us on the bus. (She did. Straight from the bottle.)

We ended up in Acapulco where we watched the cliff divers (great!), ate dinner at an upscale restaurant on the beach where rats (I kid you not) scurried in the dark around our ankles, and we almost drowned in the rough seas (seriously awful -- one member of our group was hospitalized after almost losing her life and we flew home without her). It was here that our teacher gave up on us entirely and took off with our handsome tour guide, Poncho, for the remainder of the trip.

Lo que paso en Mexico, queda en Mexico.

The Acceleration Trap

This month's issue of the Harvard Business Review has a good article about businesses that consistently take on more than they can handle. We're working on a Strategic Plan for a local firm that falls smack dab into this category. They're a perfect blend of "there's nothing we can't do" bravado coupled with roughly 90% of the senior leadership team actively looking for new jobs (behind the scenes) because they're completely burned out.

We're walking this client through a well-defined process of clarifying their strategy, focusing on key priorities, filtering all new projects and terminating nonessential tasks. It's common sense when looking in from the outside but when you're firmly enmeshed in this type of behavior (i.e., demanding a high level of urgency on a daily basis), it's hard to break the mold.

I know because here, at the best job ever, I would respond in much the same way as the survey data cited in this article. Specifically, >80% of trapped company respondents agree to the statement, "I work under constantly elevated time pressure" and they a) don't see a light at the end of the tunnel of intense working periods or b) regularly get a chance to regenerate.

Because our activities are all client-facing (i.e., we don't assume any nonessential, internal tasks), we cannot terminate projects. We can, however, filter out the time consuming, hand holding projects with needy clients that don't pay well and focus on bigger fish with deeper pockets -- but then we lose sight of the small mom and pops with whom we love to work.

Helping small companies to succeed is often more rewarding than attempting to tackle the pathological dysfunction that's inherent in so many large organizations.

So where does that leave us? Hire more consultants? Maybe but then we have to manage more people and manage the culture. Right now, we're lean and mean and we get along famously. Should we establish more realistic deadlines with our clients? Not a bad idea but we've already set the ridiculous expectations that we're now managing to. "Sure, we can summon the forces of nature. It would be our pleasure."

The most realistic ideas for our company to adopt from this article would be to systematically insert periods of calm in order to recharge our batteries and take a moment to reflect and feel proud of accomplishments.

Yeah, that'll happen.

Stinky the Cat

Our much loved cat, age 16, is on her death bed. Illness: cancer. Prognosis: dire.

I'm going to miss her beyond measure and I don't want to let go. 

Without Stinky, I may finally get a full night of sleep. No more midnight-to-three-AM face licks. I will no longer have to cover my head with my comforter for peace. She won't be around to scratch the comforter until I give in and let her smother me with affection.

Without Stinky, I may be able to read a book without her climbing onto my chest -- not my lap -- and snuggling against my neck thereby making my arm movements (and page turning) virtually impossible.

But I don't want to sleep or read. I just want her to live forever. Without illness or pain.

Son #1 cannot stop sobbing. Actually, none of us can. He was asking me tons of questions last night between tears including "How can I possibly go on without her?" (not sure) and "Can't she just make it until I turn 10?" (four weeks? unlikely).

He's also calculating how many years until he sees her again in heaven.

I'm discovering that facing the death of a beloved pet is, as always, very difficult but managing it with a grief-stricken kid is absolutely heart wrenching. God help us.  And God bless little Stinkpot. May she go quickly and painlessly.

Fish Sticks

I'm wondering what's the best way to respond when one's oldest son says, "I heard an inappropriate joke from Tommy today; you don't want to hear it."

My first inclination is to agree. Please don't share it at the dinner table. Instead, I went with my second, stronger (more quizzical) tendency. Specifically, what on earth is deemed "inappropriate" to a nine year old boy? In other words, what the heck are these kids up to?

No puhleaze, tell us . . .

Son #1: "Do you like fish sticks?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "Do you put them in your mouth?"
Son #2: "Yes."
Son #1: "So you're gay for fish?"

Me: "Do you even know what's supposedly so funny about that joke?"
Son #1: "Yea, it sounds like he's putting the fish's balls in his mouth."

Close enough for (dis)comfort. Well, now I know.

Son #1: "Want to hear a better joke that's not inappropriate?"
Me: "Sure."
Son #1: "What do you do with an elephant with three balls?"
Dad: "Walk him and pitch to the rhino."

Redeemed. Somewhat.

I Feel Pretty!

Sunny, high of 74 today! Sunny, high of 83 tomorrow! Sunny, high of 82 Saturday!

It's too good to be true. Hammock. Hammock. Hammock.

I came downstairs this morning feeling a bit unsure in a body-hugging, spring-has-sprung dress after a long winter of comfort eating. Upon seeing me, the hubby exclaimed, "Wow, have you lost weight?" followed immediately by, "Oh, April Fools."

Since we've been together for 23 years, I knew enough to suspend belief after the suspicious compliment and therefore wasn't too disappointed when reality came flooding in. Such a pretty face, such a pretty dress, such a pretty smile, such a pretty me!

For the first time, the kids are totally into April Fools' Day this year. Given that they're still little, the pranks are pretty mild. Son #1 stole all of Son #2's boxers after he fell asleep last night so he would have to go to school commando today. Son #2 was planning to tell Son #1 that I promised they could go buy Bok Choy Boys after school -- and get his hopes up all day just to have them dashed around 4:00 p.m. (Note: Maybe the bunny will bring them?)

My favorite prank, however, is an oldie but a goody that Dave, the boy next door while I was growing up, instituted (he was part neighbor/part brother to me given that he lovingly picked on me more than my own brothers often pinning me down and dangling spit loogies over my face). Every April 1, he would come into our house and tape down the hose on the kitchen sink so that my mom, God bless her, would get soaked.

Those were the days, huh Mom?!