Wednesday, June 8, 2016

You're Gonna Chew that Bubble Gum and You're Gonna Like It!

It all started very innocently.  Just another hum drum breakfast in the grey, dismal corporate cafeteria. The same breakfast run that I made every day.  I did not vary from my usual routine of - grab roll, split, insert in toaster, get "to go" box, put several pats of butter in box, grab plastic knife, return to toaster, retrieve roll and place in box. But on retrieval of the go to box, something stopped me in my tracks. I did something that I never do; I noticed the song playing on the giant 1990's style boom box that was sitting in the corner by the coffee machine. It is playing every morning, but I don't pay attention.  It is set to the generic, local top 40 station, which I completely ignore as I loathe the bland bland, repetitive songs that it spits out like so much chewed bubblegum.  It's just not my thing.

But this morning was different.  This morning I noticed the music.  This morning, it hit me in the gut like a shot delivered with the ferocity of an off his meds Mike Tyson. As I crossed the cafeteria to pay, I felt the warm sting of tears in my eyes. What in the name of all that is good and evil was happening to me? Then I stopped, took a breath and searched for this song in the creaky old rolodex of my mind (for those of you born before 1970, here's a picture of a rolodex).  It took a second, but once the correct synapses had fired, I realized that the last time that I heard that song, I was in Italy.

There is something about walking a cobblestone street, floating in and out of different boutiques and shops, where they all seem to be playing the same station.  You hear a snippet of a song in the coffee shop, step into the quiet of the street and the pick the song back up in the leather store a few seconds further. This was one of the songs that was playing in heavy rotation on Italian radio back in December when we were in Italy.

I recognized the song, it took me back to a place, it stirred an emotion, but I had no idea who recorded it.  Like most catchy pop songs, it had a frequently repeated refrain, in order to bore into your head like a demonic ear worm that sets up housekeeping for the long haul.  I went back to my desk and googled the refrain, and there like a bleached blonde, tattooed horseman of the apocalypse was the Biebs. WTF?

To paraphrase Verbal Kint, the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing an unwitting old woman that she was a Bieber fan. Not to say that Italy is the devil, far from it. But as if to put a bold underline beneath its intoxicating charm, it has romanced me into liking something that by its very existence and attitude I am vehemently against.  Pretty neat trick.  

I almost lost my positive feeling for the song when I viewed the above video, which is basically a Bieber soft core porn, produced for the benefit of Calvin Klein (many shameless underwear plugs). One view of it provided a clear confirmation that I will stay on the Bieber-hater train, at least while I have my eyes open.  But when I hear this song and close my eyes, I am wandering the streets of Sorrento at Christmas time and I forget all about Biebs and his Calvins and go back to the place that I love the most, and it brings a little tear to my eye.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Dog Appreciation...or Something Like It

I am sure that you have (not ever) wondered why I don't do more doggie appreciation posts.  I had done many kitty appreciation posts in the past (here, here, here), but we also have two canine inhabitants in our house and I haven't written much about them.  Now before this devolves into some sort of cat-person vs. dog-person debate, let me say that I am Switzerland on that topic. I love em' both and do not discriminate.  As a matter of fact, allow me to paraphrase Dr. King when I say; I look to a day when dogs and cats will not be judged by their species, but by the content of their character.
And there in, lies the rub.  At least one of my dogs is an asshole.

Meet Buzz
...lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye.

Buzz came into our lives three years ago after a trip to Las Vegas (aka, the root of all bad decisions). I am fairly convinced that six days in Vegas was about four too many as I came home with a brain so addled with food and drink (and drink and drink and drink) that I actually thought that getting a puppy was a good idea.  We went directly from the airport to the adoption center.  My noggin was so fogged over that I didn't even flinch when they mentioned that the pudgy little puppy that was sitting in my lap might be part Great Dane.  Nope, stripped of my better judgment and desperately in need of an Advil, I signed the adoption papers and brought home what grew into 55 pounds of anxiety wrapped in a blanket of crazy named Buzz.

Our primary concern upon bringing home Buzz was how our QCR (Queen Canine in Residence) Brownie,was going to take to the new addition. But that fear was completely misguided, because Brownie makes Mother Theresa look like Regina George.  Brownie, who made a best friend out of our cat, Spike the Hotness Monster, who offered him regular nuzzle snuggles and happily shared the napping spot in the ray of sunlight that hit the living room rug in the late morning was NOT going to be our problem.  Silly humans.

Meet Saint Brownie, our cat loving Shepherd, Basset, Lab Mix.

Ain't nothin' like a little inter-species lovin'. Brownie and the Hotness Monster mid-snuggle.

The real cause for concern was Buzz's mouth almighty. Like a toddler, Buzz was experiencing the world through the sense of taste.  But unlike a toddler, he did not grow out of the phase when he reached adolesence, rather he upped his game and moved on to the hard stuff.  Below is an example of how he chewed a metal "Beware of Dog" sign, as if to put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence. Pretty sure he is part goat.

And these.  Are you clocking the size of that foot?  Almost as big as his cinder block of a head.

And, more importantly, the jiggly grey matter inside of his mammoth cabeza.  Dysfunction junction.

And then there's this. No words, really.

So let's summarize up what we have shown in pictures -

1) Jaws of death -  He has the grazing habits of a mountain goat.  He chews tin cans, paper plates, mulch, shoes (particularly likes stinky sneaker insoles) pens, pencils and glass.  Yeah, he chews glass and anything else he can steal.  Which is really the heart of the matter. Like Jimmy Conway in 'Goodfellas', what Buzzy really loves to do, what he really loves to do is steal.

2) Meat Hooks - Giant paws plus a penchant for digging makes for a backyard that looks like a minefield.  And god forbid he paws you with one of his huge mitts, you end up black and blue. It's like going eight rounds with Clubber Lang.

3) Fear and Anxiety - A candidate for doggy Prozac if ever there was one, Buzz is afraid of EVERYTHING.  He won't go outside in the morning unless Brownie is by his side.  He stands at the open back door shivering, eyes darting to and fro for fear that monsters like the wind and squirrels and leaves might attack at any moment. A hot cup of crazy.

So, you might wonder why, after three years of paying to replace my kid's friends shoes, iPhones, gloves, scarves and other possessions that Buzz interpreted as snack food, why we still have him.
I don't have a lot of good answers around that question.  Except that my husband loves him.  Really has a soft spot for him, which is both sweet AND scary in its intensity.  I mean, I love him too, but he gets on my last nerve because he hogs my side of the bed and he always brings disorder to any place that is clean and he eats our shoes and he does this weird thing when he's tired where he shows you his crotch (see above). I mean, ew, who does that?  

When I really stop and think about it, it comes down to 10%.  Because while Buzz spends about 90% of his waking hours in the creation of chaos, he is the first to greet you at the door with a desperate outpouring of love and relief that you are home and when he slows down for the night, he is snugly and affectionate and ridiculously sweet. That 10% keeps me going and keeps me sane as I shovel up the kitchen garbage for the third time today or drive off to the shoemaker to have new heels put on my favorite boots.  I guess 10% is enough when its 10% of pure love. Or maybe I'm the asshole.

Friday, April 1, 2016

Office Archetypes

As I am about to reach my 10th anniversary with the company that currently employs me and with greater than 10 years at my prior company long behind me, I am acutely aware that every office has their archetypes and that recognizing and navigating them is about 75% of my effort in any work day.

I will list a few of these archetypes here.  See if you can recognize them.  Better yet, see if you recognize yourself in them.  Note: These archetypes cross both genders.  But for naming purposes only, they are defined as male or female.

EGO MAN - Ego Man is usually a tyrannical bully, if in a position of power.  If Ego Man is simply a coworker, he will be the worst coworker you ever had.  As a boss, he leads by fear and intimidation, keeping the weak and huddled masses that work for him, constantly churning out widgets with perfection and precision.  Every minor imperfection in the widgets is called out publicly as the only thing that keeps the minions in line is a public display of his disdain.  He tolerates no mistake as it will reflect poorly on him and his beloved departmental metrics.  He will cut and slash all personnel that run afoul of his demands.

HAPLESS HENRIETTA - Hapless Henrietta is the downtrodden serf of the department.  She is mousy and does not stand up for herself, which makes her easy prey for EGO MAN, who will run over her with the bus, back it up and do it again, just to make sure she is sufficiently covered in tire marks.  Hapless Henrietta approaches you tentatively and timidly as she has had so many brutal encounters with Ego Man that she is like a shell shocked war veteran. She trembles visibly when asked to speak in meetings and usually talks to the table when she does speak.

NICE GUY EDDIE - Nice Guy Eddie can't say no. He is so vested in smoothing out the jagged dynamic caused by Ego Man that he always says "yes" as a peacekeeping method.  As a result, Nice Guy Eddie is overwhelmed and under-appreciated.  He has double or sometimes triple the workload of his coworkers because people come to him as a path to least resistance to getting things done.  He makes it easy on everyone but himself.  Nice Guy Eddie is usually lost to burn out and ends up leaving corporate america and taking a job scooping Italian Ices.

FAVORITE SON - This guy is usually a manager.  He has many children, but the only one you hear about is his sports star son. He lives vicariously through this superstar, following him around the country, sharing every shred of coverage that he gets in the paper and peppering the staff with stories of the spectacular athletic prowess that the child showed at an early age.  Every encounter/question that you have with Favorite Son is answered with an extremely unhelpful sports analogy.  Because he can only value one thing at a time, he will have one favorite employee as well.  It is likely that the favorite employee will be the one that makes his job easier, leaving more time to talk about sports and his little superstar.

Recognize any of these?  I suspect you do. And it is likely that you see yourself in one of these types. I don't want to tip my hand but I might know a little something about one that rhymes with Shmyshe Pie Shreddie, but I'll leave a little mystery there.

The only satisfaction that I take from this is knowing that Ego Man probably has a mircropenis and and likes to wear diapers and be humiliated in the bedroom.  A chronic bed wetter, his overbearing mother probably aired his dirty sheets to humiliate him out of pissing the bed.  This only extended his problem past childhood and kept...ok, Dr. Diary could go on all day analyzing and theorizing, but I wont.  I could.  But I won't.  I could do a character assassination of epic proportions here, but as a Shmyshe Pie Shreddie, I'm just gonna let it go.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Oh Where Oh Where Have My Freaky Keywords Gone

Back in the day, I used to be able to look at analytics to see what kind of bent-freak searches drove people to my blog.  It was a damn carnival ride I tell ya, and I got many laughs and many posts out of it. Who could forget this moldy oldie from yesteryear?

Nowadays, I do not get this stat, save for an occasional mention at the bottom of blogger's own baked-in statistics page.  When I do have this information, my heart leaps with glee, proving that I need a hobby really badly.  Today was such a day. I had a single keyword search in my list.  ONE keyword search, but admittedly, it was a good one.

Today I found this:

Thank you Blogger Stats for restoring my faith in the fact that this is a freak nation and that there are legitimate nutballs out there.  Better yet, thank you for proving that my efforts at keyword labeling are still bringing the heat.  I can't wait to tag this post and see what it brings.  Blogger, you made my day...and I can't ever say that, should take the same joy from that comment that I did from the above.

I can go to work happy.  Again, not something I EVER say. It's the little things...

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Taking a Guided Tour in Rome

We took a food tour in Rome and it was fantastic.  For a tour description and pictures, take a look over here -

Wednesday, March 9, 2016


Image Courtesy of Tri-State Surgical

I have been clumsy my entire life.  If there is a better word than clumsy for my complete lack of physical grace, I don't know what it is. It just fits.  It paints the right picture. It has a succinctness and brevity that I do not. It's just dead-on-balls accurate. It's also the reason that I spent last night in the Emergency Room.

But, before we share our most recent exploits, let's look at some past 'beauts that cannot be ignored:

- I have broken a toe the morning of at least 50% of every party I have ever thrown.  Usually in the course of cleaning the house, I will impale a toe on the metal opening of the vacuum hose, walk into an immovable object or fail to lift my foot high enough to get it over the edge of the tub.  The tub wall alone has probably broken my ring finger toe (is that even a thing?) five or six times. As a result, my toes look like a lumpy, wavy collection of peanuts in the shell from all the breaks and heals. Pretty. 

- I fell out of a moving car once. to leave it at that. 

- I have a trick ankle that gives out on the slightest unevenness in the pavement.  I once stepped on a pea sized pebble crossing Broadway and 46th street and my ankle just quit.  I face planted in the road and the contents of my purse skittered into oncoming traffic. Since it was NYC, people just walked over me like a human throw rug.  The same trick ankle downed me in front of Tompkins Square park, where an uneven section of sidewalk threw me down onto my knees, ripping my jeans and my knee and sending blood streaming down into my boot.  Luckily, clumsy was hanging out with boozy that night and I didn't feel the wound until the AM.  I slayed some Concrete Blond at Karaoke that night (Sing Sing, I am STILL sorry), in front of one drunk old lady and a Russian immigrant with an ABBA fetish.

But last night's gaffe was truly spectacular.  One of those couldn't repeat it if you tried tricks that you wish someone was recording.  It lays out like this...

I had just sat down in the living room after dinner with a couple of Milano cookies (mmmmm, Milano) and a glass of milk.  I was about to go in on those cookies when I shifted in my seat and managed to spill milk down the front of my shirt.  I got up to head toward the kitchen for some paper towels and my destructed jeans (the kind with the pre-ripped slashes and strings in them) caught on the corner of the end table and pulled it over.  The amber glass urn that was sitting on top of the table went sailing in the air, crashed, and a big hunk of it came down on top of my foot.  I thought it was the table hitting my foot, but when my sock filled with blood, I realized I'd been cut.  

Five hours in the Emergency Room and five stitches later, I left the hospital.  Not in terrible pain or even terrible embarrassment.  That's the funny thing about being clumsy. At some point you lose your shame. It's similar in child birth.  Initially you want a drape over your lap, but after your seventeenth internal exam amidst the sharp kick of labor pains, you'll let the janitor give you an exam if it will help get the baby out.  So, hobbled and humbled, I got my first set of emergency room stitches.  Let's just hope that I don't catch them on something when I go to the city this weekend.  That would be embarrassing.