Welcome August

So long July. We hardly knew ye.

Our day in pictures . . .

Son #1 with Billy  Idol-styled hair courtesy of high speed tubing on choppy waters earlier this afternoon. We called it quits not after Son #1 was thrown from the tube but approximately 10 minute later when both kids flew roughly six feet in the air, landed with a thud but somehow, miraculously, remained in the inner tube. 

Son #2 gazing at the lake and wondering how, against all odds, did his two loose teeth remain in his jaw after taking a beating while tubing. Behind the lens, me (tooth fairy on standby), wondering how, against all odds, did we all forget to make them put on their life vests after stopping at the Pier House for lunch.

The well-decorated shed behind the cottage bearing my bro-in-law's name and, I'm guessing, remnants of a few of the herd he so mercilessly turned into venison chili. (Yum! Sorry Tim.)

A tribute to a (clearly much loved) dog, Pa Pa's Boy, who died almost 100 years ago, marking the entrance to the driveway to the cottage. Most weekends he's donning Mardi Gras beads or a sombrero or basically anything festive. Today, he was naked. For whatever the reason, I love him.

Seabreeze

The boys and I scored free tickets from the boss to Seabreeze today: Rochester's answer to Coney Island. Hot. Sunny. Perfect. The busiest day of the year for the park. D'oh!

We rode heaps o' rides including my favorite, the Jack Rabbit, a roller coaster that, when it opened in 1920, was the fastest roller coaster in the world. It's wooden, rickety, still fast and reminds me of the days of my youth. Although they fly by at lightening speed, the panoramic vistas of the vast blue lake and white sailboats are stunning from a great height. 

I even went in the wave pool which is surprisingly fun. For most of the day, however, I relaxed poolside while the kids went down all of the slides and body flumes. Gone for hours I daresay.

Tonight: cookout and sangria at my girlfriend's across the street. Outdoor movies for the kids. 

Summertime and the living is easy.

St. Thomas More

My girlfriend's parents have a gilded frame replica of this painting hanging in their library. It took me by surprise the first time I saw it. One snowy Saturday, I stumbled upon the real painting at the Frick. Once again, total surprise. I stood and stared.

To my millions of readers, any idea why?

Old Dog

I baked a peach cobbler the other night.

Yes, you read that right!

I (subject)

baked (verb)

a peach cobbler (direct object)

When I brought it out, still piping hot and topped with vanilla ice cream, to the picnic table on the patio, Son #2 said to his friend Mikey, "This is the first time my mom has ever cooked."

I don't care if it was the easiest recipe on the planet. I baked a peach cobbler. Take that Rachel Ray.

Wait!

I want my weekend back!

Hey 19

The weekend is over and I'm plumb tuckered out. I spent most of Saturday with my girlfriend Mary first volunteering in the food tent at the 10 Ugly Men festival to raise money for local charities and later hanging in the VIP tent at a Steely Dan concert.

At 10 Ugly Men, we encountered the Pizza Nazi: a woman who, I'm guessing, was the volunteer coordinator and barked at everyone from volunteers to paying customers. Screaming at people who were cutting the line, "You may think you're cute but I'm not serving you without a plate." Really? Do you have to be that nasty?

We had a line a mile long for people waiting for food. We also had a line of volunteers at the end waiting to serve. The bottleneck was the center where the mac and potato salads were being doled out. Those of us at the end, in an attempt to alleviate the wait, were taking orders from people earlier in the line. "You cannot serve people meat this early. They have to pass the salads." Stoopid.

One woman said to us in a feigned whimper, "If she yells at me one more time, I'm leaving. I've been here since 7:30 this morning and I'm a volunteer for chrissake."

Another volunteer taught me how to make sure the condiments and napkin holders were always full as if it were the most challenging and critical job on the planet. Oh, the pressure . . .

So we moved from flipping burgers on a sunny day with temps over 100 degrees to sipping wine and eating prime rib on a very comfortable night under the stars. My favorite part of hobnobbing with the local elite was discovering how everyone shakes hands while reading your name tag. Hello! My eyes are up here! (I'm guessing, since I was a guest of a VIP, they were trying to figure out if I was somebody noteworthy. Nope.)

Steely Dan? Never a big fan and last night was no exception. They were lifeless much akin to the giant mechanical rat that plays on the stage at Chuck E. Cheese. Before the show, Mary warned me, "I'm only staying for four songs." Okay by me. The first song was so boring, I said to no one in particular, "Oh this is my favorite" to which the dude next to me started laughing.

At the end of the fourth song, I texted Mary in the seat next to me just to give myself something to do. "Let me know when you want to leave." She responded, "Now!" so we bolted. We felt like ingrates but we did have fun before the band started. Does that count?

Friendship: Having heaps o' fun with someone regardless of one's circumstances. Sweating to death, yet laughing, while serving drunken masses? Check. Dancing in our seats while listening to crappy jazzy jazz hits? Check.

Make tonight a wonderful thing.

My Little Researcher

The hubby always makes jokes over the phone when I'm headed home about getting the strippers out of the house. Last night, Son #1 was following suit by pretending that daddy really does have hot chicks over in the afternoons. Anything for a laugh in our house.

He then started laughing really hard and said, "Nah, he'd probably rather see you stripping." I responded, "Good Lord, not a chance. What would make you think that?"

"I read a study in Redbook magazine which shows that men fantasize about naked women over 50."

Well, that explains the t-shirt idea. I think it's time to censor the smutty magazines that Grannie brings over! Really, I was just interested in the oh-so-interesting articles about how to make Fast, Delicious, 30 Minute Dinners . . . pinky swear.

Sorry Guys

A few years ago, I bought a t-shirt that read, "My kid is a genius." I wore it to a function at our preschool just to see everyone's reactions in our hyper-competitive town.

Around the same time, my girlfriend was dating a guy who went to Vegas and purchased for her a t-shirt in the hotel gift shop that was black and bejeweled with the acronym MILF. Funny (not to mention thoughtful and flattering) but not really wearable unless you're somewhat egomaniacal.

Today, Son #1 came up with his own concept and called me at work. "I just told dad that I wanted to get you a t-shirt that says, 'Sorry guys. I'm married.'"

What a cutie, right? And it's funny! I think there's a market for that shirt.

Big Audio Dynamite

A few weeks ago, the kids were surfing some auditory website and were testing the hubby's and my hearing loss.

Them, "Can you hear this?"

Me, "Are you really playing a sound?"

I discovered that, in addition to all of my other complaints on this blog, my ears are aging, as well. Anything above a certain frequency, I cannot hear. As you may expect with a musician, the hubby's hearing loss is worse.

Now, it's being used as a form of torture. I'll be driving along, minding my own business, when I hear the ever-annoying plea from the back seat, "Cut it out. Stop that. I said cut it out. Mom, make him STOP."

It's Son #1 playing some screeching noises on his iPod just to annoy his brother knowing full well that I can't hear 'em. I need a miracle ear. Maybe, just maybe, in this case, it's better that I can't hear. Otherwise, I need some snake oil.

When all around you seems like hell, just one sip will make you well . . .

I Love Annie

Son #1 and I went to a retro 50's diner for a cheeseburger the other night. (One word review: Yuck.)

We were just hanging out, waiting for our food when his eyes opened as wide as saucers. "Was Grannie an actress when she was younger?"

I turned to look at the TV screen behind me where "The Lucy Show" was showing. "No, that's Lucille Ball. She's a famous comedian."

"She looks exactly like Grannie!"

He then proceeded to point out every expression. "Did you see that one?!"

I had never noticed the similarities before but he was right. Grannie, who is also really funny (but more sarcastic than silly), missed her calling.

Lucky Four Leaf Clover

When I was in elementary school, I went to camp one summer at the YMCA with a neighborhood girl whose sister was my sis' best friend. Their mom had just died and somehow she and I were coerced into attending drama camp together. I don't remember much about the acting portion of the camp but I do remember she found a patch of four-leaf clovers and wouldn't tell me where they were. I spent every lunch break outside scouring the hillside for four-leaf clovers to no avail.

To me, they're elusive. Like elves, leprechauns and fairies, I'm not sure they even exist. (Except for the tooth fairy. I know her pretty well.)

A few weeks ago, one of the little girls across the street, B, was bemoaning the fact that the other kids at school always come back from lunch with four-leaf clovers and she can never find any. She shared with me that she spends her lunch break looking and looking.

A kindred soul.

We agreed to walk over to the school playground this summer and together we would find some. Why not? I've been looking for them for over forty years now all alone. It would be good to have some company.

Just last week, my neighbor/girlfriend Ellie posted on Facebook that they have a patch of four-leaf clovers in their yard. I excitedly told B and she began bringing it up in conversation approximately every two minutes. So yesterday, she and I headed over to Ellie's and, alas, couldn't find them. The directions were clear: to the right of the weeping cherry tree. Maybe it's us? As my kids would say, epic fail.

When Ellie got home, she texted me: did you get some? When I responded, "no," she went outside, found one, took a pic and sent it to me. I headed back and Ellie pointed them out to me. And there they were: mixed right in with the three-leaf clovers, same plant, same branch, different clover.

Now I can't wait for B to get home from her grandmother's this weekend! Oh the joy.

This is my four-leaf clover. Can you see it?

Why don't you come over? I'll show you my four leaf clover.

Extreme Makeover: Weight Gain Edition

Last Saturday morning, I was in the locker room in the gym brushing my hair when Christine, one of my BFF's since childhood, came in. I said, "Hey!" and she, of course (always polite), said "Hi!" and kept walking. I continued, "By the way, I was thinking of going to the lake tonight and thought maybe I could pawn my kids off on you since you're driving down tomorrow." She stopped, turned around and said, "OMG, I didn't recognize you a minute ago."

(Note: She also asked, a moment later when discussing what to bring, "Do you like wine?")

Whaaaat? We've been friends for over 40 years. We see each other all of the time. I found it somewhat incredulous. (Answer: Yes, I like wine.)

On Sunday morning, I was drinking coffee on the front porch of my girlfriend Mary's main cottage and another friend from childhood, Anne (of previous post cigarette fame) with whom I had bunked the night before in the guest house, came over. She then asked me where I was.

Um, right here?

She said, "OMG, I thought you were somebody else." Really? In broad daylight? From a foot away? After having spent the entire night with me?

Later that afternoon, I was coming up the lawn from the lake and both girlfriends were in the hot tub. Anne spotted me and asked Christine, "Who is that walking up the hill?"

Christine felt vindicated. "See?! It's not just me."

Today, I'm sitting in a sausage dress with my buttons almost popping open encased in my own personal hell.

I guess the good news is that apparently no one will know it's me.

Five Finger Fourth Fun

What a fabulous, wonderful, sunny, awesome weekend spent first with my sis and her hubby on Seneca Lake (thank you!) and next at my girlfriend Mary's house on Keuka Lake. So. Much. Stinkin. Fun.

Tubing. Swimming. Hot tub-ing. Laughing. Over $3K worth of fireworks!

Dinner at the Switz. Clam bake and pig roast the next day. (Did you know that pigs come with their eyes still in their sockets? Did you also know that the eyes don't pop right out -- they require serious hacking, cutting, sawing, pulling? Did you know that my girlfriends puke easily? And they don't like eyeballs thrown at them? I learned a lot this weekend.)

I love, love, love my friends. They're hilarious, wild, smart, crazy, beautiful, genuine and kind. And so are their kids.

Rumor has it that I missed even more fun on the last night as my kids joined us earlier that day and I was worried (rightly so) that it would get out of control so we left at nightfall. Dodged a bullet. Good for them. Sad for me! I began to see it coming when Son #1 saw my girlfriend Anne’s cigarettes and asked her (in a sincerely shocked voice), “You SMOKE?” and she responded, “No! They’re your mom’s.” Thankfully he's quick enough to know when someone is messing with him.

Instead, we celebrated the Fourth with a neighborhood firepit and rum cocktails that I made and the neighbors dubbed the Five Finger Death Punch. We walked over to the soccer field to watch the fireworks from all the surrounding towns and country clubs. The kids then roughed it in a tent in our yard with their iPods.

I want this summer to last forever.