During our all-too-brief stay at the Boar's Head Inn a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading, cover to cover, the latest issue of Garden & Gun magazine. Seriously.
Initially, I was a bit perplexed about the alliterative but contrasting title. Are they preemptively targeting post-apocalyptic survivors? Is there a wide audience for these two subjects (among many) that I know nothing about? (Others include: Needlepoint & NASCAR, Scrapbook & Spittoon and Ironing & Inbreeding).
Anyhoo, I just have to tell y'all that I really enjoyed the magazine and I keep going back to their site. Beautiful photos. Southern libations. City portraits. Interesting articles.
Although I'm no Southern Belle, maybe I'm inclined toward gracious living . . . Next thing you know, I'll be sending away for my NRA membership, booking a flight to Savannah, drawing myself a bath, driving Miss Daisy or maybe just drinking more bourbon. So many options.
I'll just start with the bourbon and see where that takes me.
On Friday night, I dragged the hubby to see the Flaming Lips at CMAC. True to form, it was a sensory explosion of lights, lasers, giant colored balloons, streaming confetti and beautiful, but deafening, sound. The giant, multimedia, onstage screen showed everything from trippy Woodstock-like images to footage of naked chicks dancing -- including the band emerging, womb-like, from a larger-than-life woman's light-emitting genitals. (You don't see that every day.)
As expected, the lead singer and major cutie, Wayne, crowd-surfed in a man-sized, plastic bubble. I have to believe that this is probably easier, or more dignified, when not rolling up/down a hillside. He was falling on his face a bit. (All in a day's work.) Legions of people were dancing on stage in orange, prison uniforms or orange dresses except the man in the over-sized, furry bunny costume who was more tastefully dressed. I heard later that the dancers were hand-picked locals which would explain why they barely had any rhythm. The talent scouts should have consulted with me before casting. I could have rounded up some babe-a-licious friends who can shake their booties with style. Next time: call me. (Insert pinky to lips/thumb to ear.)
The crowd was a mix of hippies (read: prep school kids) and middle aged suburban folks (read: us). As a result, the air was a delicate co-mingling of pot smoke and bug spray. The hubby offered me a dollar for every black person in the audience; I would have been better off spotting the misguided youth who were being escorted (or wheeled) out by security. Hey kids, save your drugs for a concert where the psychedelics aren't part of the actual show.
Aside: If I were the older dude wearing silver goggles and the suit/hat affixed with a case of Cheetos, I would have run for my life after the show when the munchies got the best of the audience. Just sayin' -- pick your outfits wisely.
For those of us who made it through the show without passing out like the slacker in the Batman cape next to us (or, in the hubby's case, feigning sleep), I'd say it was money well spent. (My husband would disagree. He wants both his $ and his eardrums back.)
I'm thrilled that they played their hit, Do You Realize, during the encore and a just a little sad that they didn't play Fight Test. The hubby is thrilled that it's over and a little sad that Wayne kept stating, rapid-fire, "come on, come on, come on" to get people engaged or "thank you, thank you, thank you."
But I had fun. So, to the Flaming Lips, my husband who joined me and my mom who watched the kids, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
A Jack Johnson song was playing last Saturday at the Crow's Nest as we ate lunch on the patio and watched the boats pass by.
Perfect music for a perfect summer day. Sunshine. Tubing. Swimming.
Now I can't stop listening to him as I sit in my sunshine-y office and write pages upon pages of copy for a client's website. And I love, love, love this client. So maybe I can inject a warm summer breeze into the mission critical, MIL-spec, JIT, lean six sigma gobbledygook that I'm spewing?
Cause you and your heart
Shouldn't feel so far apart
You can choose what you take
Why you gotta break and make it feel so hard
As my boss is considering (nay, planning) a move to CO to be closer to her eldest daughter, I have a year to reinvent myself. Find a new job. Open my own business. Become a rodeo clown. Perhaps move to a new city.
A year of soul searching. Prayer. Divine intervention. Miracles.
The July-August 2010 issue of the Harvard Business Review contains an article entitled "How Will You Measure Your Life?" with this golden nugget:
"People who are driven to excel have this unconscious propensity to underinvest in their families and overinvest in their careers—even though intimate and loving relationships with their families are the most powerful and enduring source of happiness."
I want to thrive. Professionally. Personally. Help people. Touch people's lives. Make the world a better place. Pollyanna Pittsford. (I just wanna dance.) And I want to be with my family more than I am now.
Hey Weezer, if you're wondering if I want you to, I want you to!
And by that, I mean "play longer."
Sure I had a 7:30 a.m. meeting the day after your show but that didn't mean that I needed to be home, in bed, before 11:00 p.m. Especially when your show didn't kick-off until 9:15 p.m. Egads.
Regardless, I am grateful that my friend Paul and I made the trek out to CMAC in Canandaigua last Sunday night because the Weezer concert was outstanding. Those little nerds can rock. The Weezer Snuggie wearing crowd loved 'em. We loved 'em. Every song is a hit. Photograph. Island in the Sun. Buddy Holly. Perfect Situation. Beverly Hills. The Sweater Song. And on and on. Such amazing talent including frontman Rivers Cuomo's ability to jump repeatedly from a trampoline to the drummer's platform like a little wood nymph.
What I learned:
If you touch your thumbs together to make a W with your two palms outstretched and then lower your pinkie and ring fingers, you can rock out Weezer-style. Peace out wingman.
Weezer fans are in a class of their own. I guess that's where the term "fanatic" comes in. The girlfriends of the dudes in front of us were rendered superfluous. Pushed aside mid-concert as these guys put their arms around each others' waists and swayed. They fist and chest bumped between each and every song. And they sang every single lyric with finger pointing emphasis. (Apparently it's not impolite to point menacingly and scream at rock stars.) They were more excited than little girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. I felt bad that Paul was stuck with me when he could have experienced extreme male bonding with another species of male that even Jane Goodall would enjoy studying. (Next time they're sighted, I plan to put a tag on their ears. Here we go.)
In closing, I don't intend to quit my job and follow them anytime soon. It would conflict with my Wilco and Cracker tour plans. But I'm really glad I went.
In another have-kids-lose-privacy moment, I hopped out of the shower today to find Son #2 sitting on the toilet, lid down, waiting for me. Shocking for me today. Worth a lot of $ in therapy for him 20 years from now. His problem/not mine.
"Hey mom, can I invite Robert over?"
"Sure."
"If he comes over, try not to walk around the house naked, okay?"
What the . . . ?
Oh yeah, I'll have to remember that. Note to self: try to restrain yourself from removing all clothes in front of eight year old boys. I just hope it's not as difficult as it may sound.
Here's where I should put a clip of a Bare Naked Ladies song but I despise them so I'm giving a nod to a much preferred Ramones tune that's also somewhat appropriate. And Grannie will love it too -- not as much as her love for Dokken but you can't have everything.
Packed the kids in the car the day after school got out for the summer and headed on a little road trip. Two of my girlfriends had babies over the past year and I needed to meet their sweet little girls. And while in the area, loosely defined, why not stop and see everyone else I love? Five stops in five days: a whirlwind tour of the MidAtlantic.
I packed the usual stuff for a traveling family: toothbrushes and swim suits. Nintendo DS coupled with hours and hours of Green Day DVD concert footage to keep little rockers occupied (and me insane). Son #2 packed his skateboard and helmet and announced while we were driving that he was planning to hit a bunch of skate parks in Philadelphia. Oh really? Don't get your hopes up . . .
Stop #1/Baby #1: Jacque & Sean (long-term friends from my NYC days) and their growing brood of gorgeous children in West Chester, PA including the always smiling baby Callie. We hung out, went for lunch and a swim at their country club and then Armageddon began. The sky turned black . . . the wind began to switch, the pool to pitch and suddenly the hinges started to unhitch. Thankfully we got to the car just in time. On the way home, Jacque tried to show us their beautiful town but street lights were out, branches were flying into the street, trees were falling down on top of cars (literally), thick planks were flying off of building sites and mayhem ensued. Um, maybe we should just head home? So we went back to the house, Jacque made cosmos and later they treated us to a giant, charcuterie-laden dinner at the Four Dogs Tavern. Delicious.
I've decided that, with its rolling country hills, thriving town center, nice restaurants, old row houses and picturesque farmhouses, I could live here. Oh and what else is in West Chester you may ask? Why a Skate Park, of course. For a mere $5 (all you can skate), Son #2's wishes fulfilled. Both boys agreed they could live here, too. (Backup plan #1 for my next so-called career.)
Stop #2: My college roommate Berrie's house in Media, PA -- a mere 20 minute drive. Another sweet little town; another great little family. Here we went to their pool and Berrie packed a picnic dinner. We experienced a minor setback when Son #2, who refuses to take swimming lessons while his brother is actively pursuing his Junior Lifeguard certificate, went off the diving board and then doggy paddled his way back to the edge. Both kids were then approached by the lifeguard who made them take a swimming test which Son #1 passed and Son #2 failed. So much for that diving board-related fun. He proceeded to sit in my lap crying and refused to go back into the pool for hours. As luck would have it, there was a slide in the shallow end that finally coaxed him back in. Fun reinstated.
Stop #3: To visit my brother Kevin and his family in Charlottesville, VA. They're in the process of buying a house, and currently in a nice little apartment, so we stayed at the ever-so-swanky Boar's Head Inn where they are members. What did we do there? Shocking but true: we went swimming. And then what? My Jackie-O-esque sister-in-law and I took Son #2 to, yes, a skate park. Free skating. Free pads. Hotter than hell.
What else was really nice? My other brother Markie, his wife and cute baby Sully drove up from NC to see us, too. We went to dinner at a Wild Wings joint and generally just hung out. Now that Son #1 is ten (!), he refuses to order off the children's menu and is mortified during basically every event in life. That night the trigger was the plastic cup and straw. Instead of taking matters into his own hands, he begins stewing and you can see the anger building. Here, let me take that up to the bar and get you a glass. Calmness reinstated.
Stop #4: My girlfriend Kristy's house in Northern VA (a really good friend from our short but interminable life in the area). She and her Fabio-esque hubby (who just cut his hair short!) had just thrown a big party the night before so we arrived and immediately launched into a giant helping of five-star, Iron Chef worthy leftovers complete with margaritas. And then? Ah yes, into the pool where Kristy tried to teach me how to dive. Later, as the kids played Guitar Hero, she and I sat together chatting and detoxifying in her dry sauna -- just like two old ladies waiting for a bus. It was just perfect.
Stop #5/Baby #2: Last stop, Kim y Alex's home in DC to meet the lovely baby Madeleine. Here we hung in their fenced-in backyard and had a barbecue. Drank champagne. Called the cops on the juvenile delinquents next door. The usual. The next day was hot, hot, hot so we stayed inside and played with the baby. We listened to baby songs and danced. So stinkin' cute. Right when it was time to start the long trek home, the skies darkened. We ran through the pouring rain to get to the car. Armageddon #2. Fire trucks and sirens everywhere. Massive floods pouring down the streets. Cars asunder. Pavement upheavals. Police blockades. Traffic jams. Perfect timing. It took almost seven hours for a 5.5 hour drive.
Next time, I'm renting a house on the beach for a week. If anyone wants to see me, they're welcome to visit.
We had a bit of drama in our house during the last week of school when Son #1 dis-invited me from the fourth grade poetry slam. Why? Because I embarrass him. Nothing I do, per se, just my entire being and presence thereof (i.e., nothing I can change short of moving to Guam which I am considering). The next day he apologized and asked me to come but it was a bittersweet event for me. I wanted to cry the entire time because I was a) grateful to be there and b) acutely aware that I wasn't really wanted or needed. Thankfully, the hubby was his usual hilarious self, quipping quietly to me as each kid performed, so the day was not shot.
Another recent weekend my girlfriend Yammikins came to visit. We spent one day at Niagara Falls riding the Maid of the Mist and going on the Journey Behind the Falls. Very cheesy but fun. At the end of the day, Son #2 and I went to the haunted house that we were steered away from last year -- the woman manning the cash register had warned us that it was too scary for little kids. He complained the whole way home last year and insisted on going this year. So we did.
Pitch black. Narrow hallways. Dingy mirrors. Things that bump into your face. Costumed men jumping out. Noises. Touches.
Son #2 was freaking out. He wanted me to carry him. (He's eight; I'm not that strong.) After what felt like an eternity of holding hands and walking very, very slowly while Son #2 whimpered, I asked one guy who jumped out at us, "How much further do we have?" He responded, "You're about a quarter of the way through." Holy crap! We continued for another few minutes, frantically trying all of the exit doors that we located, until the next dude scared. us. "Would you be willing to help us out of here?" No problem. He walked us through the maze, flashlight on, garden hoses hanging from ceiling fully illuminated, telling us what was going to happen. "At the bottom of these steps, you're going to step on a mat and a big, loud, blast of air will hit you in the face." Even knowing this piece of information, and seeing the mat, didn't stop Son #2 from panicking.
When we finally exited, we needed to sit down for a minute outside with Yams and Son #1 because Son #2 told us that his legs were paralyzed.
Note to self: parenting means making decisions that are in the best interests of your children. Once again, I need more lessons.
I can't control my fingers I can't control my toes, oh no no no no no.
Sorry dude. Put me in a wheelchair. I wanna be sedated, too.
