We're Too Cool to Fool

My mom and I went to the Clothesline Festival at the Memorial Art Gallery last weekend. It's remarkable how a) the artwork doesn't really change year-on-year and b) a lot of the entries probably shouldn't be called art. (Note: I thought it was called the Clothesline Art Festival but it's not. Did they remove the "art"? Or was it always sans "art"?) Anyhoo, it's just fun to stroll around outside on a warm, sunny day with my mom and people-watch.

We came to a stall where a photographer was displaying pictures from all over the world. I commented on one and he responded, "That was taken right here in Webster -- where life is worth living."

I said to him, "Love that. Is that the only town in the area that coined its own tag line?" and he said, "No, Irondequoit has one: Home of the Irondequoit Mall."

Compelling. And no longer true.

As I was driving to a client this week, I noticed that the town of Chili is "Home of Little Guy Soccer." Wow. What on earth? With a big claim like that, it just has to be something that other towns don't have (i.e., like the 1,300 kids ages 5-12 in the Pittsford Mustang Soccer Club), so can it be (fingers crossed) midgets? Inquiring minds want to know.

I think I want to start working on a tag line for Pittsford.

Some of my initial thoughts include:
Pittsford. Puts you there where things are hollow.
Pittsford. What you like is in the limo.
Pittsford. What you get is no tomorrow.
Pittsford. What you need you have to borrow.
Pittsford. Nien! It's mine!

But I think my favorite is:
Pittsford. I reject you first.

Thoughts?

Perfect Day

Under Pressure

Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night

Fashion: Turn to the Left

I bought a pair of cute little glasses at a trunk show at 20/20 on Third Ave. when still living in NYC. Today I was once again shopping for glasses given that mine snapped in half. The frigid air in my car last winter proved to be too much. And, contrary to the claims of men everywhere, duct tape is not a miracle panacea. I know because, fashionista that I am, I tried.

While I am soooooooo over little glasses fashion trend (over a decade is a bit long, no?), my choices around here are slim. Other options include looking like bloody Sarah Palin or adopting a Harry Potter-esque style. Right now, I'm leaning towards Mr. Magoo.

What I really want to know is: what eyewear is in style in Paris? Milan? And when are these trends going to hit the hinterlands of America? Can't a cute pair of specs make their way across the lake from Toronto in a bottle for me? Not that it matters. Around here it's de rigueur to wear crocs vs. Stuart Weitzman stilettos. I guess my eyes can be poorly dressed, as well.

We are the goon squad and we're coming to town. Beep beep.

Golden Years

The sun is out. I'm behind my desk. No mini-weekend.

In other news, the recurring topic of the week: menopause.
What the . . . ?

Out with the girls on Friday night where the conversation turned hilarious re: the night sweats, the inability to sleep through the night, sleeping on top of a stack of towels, hot flashes, running from meetings drenched in sweat, and many more disgusting things that really aren't fit for print (but are great fodder for GNO). And it wasn't just one chiquita sharing her horror stories: it was all of us.

Wait, aren't we too young?

Last night, again. My girlfriend, who just turned 45 last month, was telling me that she's done. Done!

Sure, I've read about the joys of aging. Women finding their true selves. Quitting their corporate jobs and becoming artists. Getting the kids out of the house and discovering their true passions. Feeling sexier than ever. Really? Right now, I'm just feeling blah.

Run for the shadows in these golden years . . .

Under Pressure

I snuck away from my desk for an hour this a.m. to see my massage therapist. I went on a whim to see him for the first time maybe six months ago because I had an afternoon free and he had a cancellation. Nothing wrong, per se, just stressed and in need of a massage. I've been back a few more times for the same pseudo-reason. More indulgence than medical. Or more mentally restorative than physically therapeutic.

Today, different story. I've had what I thought was a pinched nerve in my upper back. I've also been unable to breathe for a few weeks due to my "chest pains" which I attributed to stress. Apparently, they're both related with one compensating for the other. The primary back/shoulder issue is what he called "anterior scapular rotation." (Or something like that!)

So instead of a full massage, he focused on applying pressure to specific areas affecting my range of motion and ability to breathe. All upper body: chest, ribs, neck, shoulder blades, upper back. Long, burning pressure combined with slow arm movement until the fire subsided. New area, one cm away, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'm probably going to be pretty darned sore tonight but I'll tell you one thing: I can already take a deep breath. Cannot wait to be back to "normal." There's a light at the end of the tunnel.

Ahhh Shopping Mall City

Son #1: I really like that one song about the woman who gets her purse stolen.

Me: I don't think I know that one.

Son #1: Yes you do, mama. The one that goes, "Ahhhhh wham bam thank you ma'am."

Me: Is THAT what that's about?

Son #1: Yeah, the guy runs up, swipes her once and misses, tries again, hits her with a thud, steals her purse and screams "thank you" as he's running away.

All these years I've been listening and never understood the real storyline. Who knew?

Ashes to Ashes, Funk to Funky

Every once in a while, I'll walk by someone who is outside "enjoying" a cigarette and thank God that I no longer smoke -- and that I no longer have even the slightest craving. Alleluia.

I guess that means that I don't need this.



To co-opt Joel Johnson's joke as my own, this ashtray would go great with my liver shot glasses.