Wednesday, December 30, 2009
My husband is the youngest child in a large family, with more than 10 years between him and the next youngest sibling, so he has adult nieces and nephews that are as close in age to him as his brothers and sisters are (and infinitely more fun). This year, one of the cousins decided that it would be fun to meet in Atlantic City, a couple of days after Christmas for a cousin’s get together and they were kind enough to invite my husband and I. Now, technically, we are their Aunt and Uncle, but neither of us has ever been referred to with that title. We are addressed by our first names, which is the way we like it. And knowing how I do love the Borgata and have a comped room waiting for me like an impatient lover, we said YES!
This stay they were overflowing in the Borgata, so they offloaded us on the Water Club (thank ya Jay-sus!), which was nothing short of spectacular. Oh Borgata, you are a sexy beast, but your sister the Water Club is a hotness monster. The Water Club has a beautiful bar in the lobby called the Sunroom (http://thewaterclubhotel.com/hotel/sunroom.cfm ) The sunroom has 25 foot ceilings, a glass, greenhouse roof, a 12 foot long gas fireplace and indoor waterfall. It. Is. The. Shit. PERIOD. The drinks are all top shelf, the staff is friendly (if a little slow) and the atmosphere is chill. There is only one problem, we were there on its opening day a couple of years back and we came perilously close to being thrown out.
The Sunroom is presided over by a hot-shit chef from NY City named Geoffrey Zakarian. There is a bar menu that he designed that I would describe as “Self-important Mediterranean”. GZ himself was onsite for the first couple of days to make sure that the staff didn’t hose up his Almond stuffed Olives or Organic Pretzels with Purple Mustard, and he was visibly stressed. Between running around with a Sharpie signing cookbooks for VIP visitors, giving tours, instructing the wait staff and generally hovering helicopter-style, GZ was in no mood for his first set of paying customers to be us.
We were visiting AC with another couple and we had spent a long morning and early afternoon gambling and we were burnt out. My friend Mare went up to her room to have a nap, leaving me to go have a couple of drinks with the boys. It was the first day of the Water Club being open, so we decided to go over and check the place out. They were offering room tours and pool/spa tours, but we could tell from the sleek, modern elegance of the lobby that the rooms were beautiful. We just wanted a drink or seven.
We rolled into the empty bar and ordered up a round of drinks – Rum and Coke, Cosmo, Gin and Tonic. One round led way to a second round and a third, then a fourth. By the time my friend woke up from her nap and rejoined us, we were five drinks in and getting goofy. After this, it gets hazy, but I know that there were more drinks, an introduction to the harried GZ, stolen hand towels from the swank bathroom and the clear marker of having had one too many drinks – my friend’s husband started to draw a crowd as he threw down pints of beer in a single gulp. At this point, we were rowdy, loud and had racked up a bar bill over $600. The size of our bill may have had something to do with our staying in good graces as long as we did. Eventually the bartender tipped us off that GZ/Mgt was getting a wee bit antsy with our presence. Luckily this message coincided with us having had our fill. No harm. No foul.
By the time we re-gathered for a late dinner, we had slept off some of the afternoon’s libations. With clearer minds, we rehashed the day’s activities and could totally understand how our behavior might not have meshed with the vibe of the bar. Because of this, my eyes dart left and right every time we walk into the Sunroom since that day. I fear that I will lock eyes with the great GZ and he will recognize us as the marauding band of drinkers that brought the class level down in his establishment on the very day that he was out to impress the masses and the investors. It didn’t stop me of course. I dig the sunroom and their Cosmos are divine. I had a couple-a-three over the weekend, but I stopped there. I don’t want to incur GZ’s wrath or ever risk being banned from the Sunroom. That would be a crime far greater than me stuffing my bra with pilfered hand towels and waking up from my nap wondering why I had a bust line that would make Dolly Parton blush. Good times. Good times.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Noelle over at Elastic Waistbands and Comfortable Shoes has done two things:
1) She chose a name for her blog that is probably prophetic for my next thirty plus years of life.
2) She gave me the Happy 101 award.
Then Sarah over at The Anti-Journalist gave me the same one! Sarah is a new blogging pal and has the prettiest blog design. You have to check it out, it looks like Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. Mmmmmmm. Now I'm hungry. Thank you Sarah. Now I will have to trudge out in the frozen tundra to get a cup of gelatto. Thank god my neighbors already know that I am crazy.
TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
I know that my last post was about my crazy uncle Ronnie, but I feel the need to go back to the well on this topic. Thanks to all the great comments that I exchanged with all of you, I was flooded with memories that I need to put down in writing. So here's another one-
As I mentioned in my last post, Uncle Ronnie is a gun enthusiast. Last Christmas I got him a Winchester tin sign to hang in his garage that classifies all the different calibers of ammunition. Well, you'd have thought I gave him a friggin Renoir. He oohed and aaahed and gushed over this stupid thing like you can't imagine. Now to get the gravity of this behavior, you have to understand that he has never been sensitive about any one's feelings, ever. It is not uncommon for him to say things like "I didn't know you could give that as a gift." or to tell you that the food that you served him was a "grave disappointment". So if he's acting pleased, he's genuinely pleased. He is not armed with the social skills required to fake it.
The reason that I purchased that sign, was because of his love of guns and because of the time that I spent with him in his bullet factory.
Somewhere around 1971, Uncle Ronnie started purchasing bullet making machinery. This included loaders that put buckshot into empty shells, a gunpowder dispenser and a priming machine. The priming machine was really cool. It would tuck the little, nerd candy sized nib of gunpowder packed brass into the bullet casing. The primer is the little circle at the ass-end of the bullet that that the hammer of the gun strikes to start the explosion that propels the lead slug out of the brass bullet casing. OK, I am going to stop right here. I just read that sentence and scared the crap out of myself. Do you understand that I am imparting bullet making knowledge that I learned at the age of 8? Is this effed up, or what?
Uncle Ronnie also had a lead smelting pot and slug molds that he used to form his own lead slugs. That's right boys and girls, my brother and I used to sit up in his bullet making room drop lead ingots into a pot molten lead. Now I know why I can't do math.
Anywho, Uncle Ronnie would assign us a job, like reloading shotgun shells or whatever, then he would get us all set up and he'd leave to go clean his guns (which he does obsessively). Yup, he left us alone in his attic, surrounded by gunpowder, molten lead and dicey, 80 year old electrical wiring.
One day when we were happily loading shotgun shells, the machine jammed up. We called to Uncle Ronnie, but he was engrossed in attaching a new site to one of his rifles and he did not come upstairs right away. Left without shells to load, we got bored (like andy 8 and 5 year old might) and we started poking around on the work bench, looking at all the bullet supplies - the shiny, brass bullet casings, the rainbow of different colored shotgun shells, the various weights of buckshot, etc.. In my investigation, I came across a box of primers. They looked like candy, all lined up in jewel-like green plastic box. I took one out and inspected it under the work lamp. It was so tiny and cute. It hardly seemed dangerous to me.
Just then, Ronnie came up the stairs. When he saw that I had the box of primers out, he got very upset. He started telling me all about the function of a primer and that it was small, but very powerful. Almost like a tiny cap of dynamite. And with that he took the box and put it away. But I still had a primer in my hand and after getting the lecture from Uncle Ronnie about not handling them, I was afraid to show him that I had one out of the box.
Ronnie got to work unjamming the shell loader while I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to think of how I could get rid of the primer in my hand. I decided to throw it on the workbench when uncle Ronnie turned away. I waited until he wasn't looking and I threw the primer toward the workbench. Well, in one of those "you couldn't have done that if you tried" moments, the primer landed in the pot of molten lead, just as Ronnie was bending over it to put in a new lead ingot.
All of a sudden we heard a muffled explosion, like a **BOUF** noise and Ronnie turned to look at me with molten lead spatter all over his glasses. "What did you throw in the lead pot?" he demanded. I looked down at my feet and sheepishly responded "a primer". This answer completely set him off and he started ranting and raving about how unsafe that was and what damage it could have done and what a fire hazard it was, etc.
Luckily, Uncle Ronnie did not sustain any injury in the accident. He managed to get the lead spray off his glasses and to get the tiny bits of lead out of his hair. The silver (or lead) lining to this story is that from that point forward, he always made sure to supervise us when we were in his bullet making factory and we remained safe and sound. That is until Christmastime when he let me play with his new pocket knife. . .
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
A couple of weeks back, there was a "guess the coins in the jar" contest over at Nanny Goats in Panties. Have you been there? It's the best, nay, the only place to see goats in lingere AND read some really funny stuff. Anyway, I eyeballed the jar, which looked to contain about 135.00 to me and lo and behold, the dang jar had 129.66. My guess was the close enough for government work and I won. I am shocked.
So what did I win? A copy of the book "Marrying George Clooney". I can't tell you if it's any good yet, as I have not recieved or read it yet, but I will be certain to post a book review upon finishing it.
Thanks to all this talk of panties and the ongoing stream of consciousness in my head, I am reminded of one of the (unintentionally) funniest sites on the Internet. Run, don't walk to Manties.net. This site is totally serious about outfitting men in frilly scanties. When I tell you that they have the days of the week underwear, ruffled briefs and silky thongs, that barely covers the half of it. Conversely, the underwear itself is custom built for men and created to cover all of "it" (if you know what I mean) while giving a distinctly feminine look and feel.
One year I sent my brother a pair of Forrest green, ruffled briefs as a joke. Manties has been a family favorite website ever since. That was way back in the early half of this decade, so apparently the website is surviving on the strength of the rabid demand for frilly nutslings. Holy Ed Wood Batman! Check it out.
What about you? Do you have a funny website that you and your friends or family chuckle over? It's the holidays. Why not share?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
1) You will never have so much as an ounce of cellulite on your ass.
In closing I would also like to thank MiMi at Living In France for the Rockin Blog award. Thanks MiMi I was very excited to recieve this. Now that I have my very own button, I feel a little more like maybe I do rock, a little.
Monday, December 7, 2009
It seems that someone has put a bug in his ear that his thick, naturally wavy hair would look good if he flat ironed it. That someone, I have determined, is female. So as a result, the quiet, peaceful pre-dawn hours of the morning, have been pierced by the drill Sergent like orders of a 13 year old. Being that I don't want a pre-dawn visit to the ER for any flat ironed body parts, I have accepted the challenge of straightening his hair for him.
Last night, after a lengthy discussion about Japanese Hair Straightening and chemical relaxers - what they do, how they work, the damage they cause, etc. The boy asked me to flat iron his hair "as a joke". Well, not 30 seconds after I had delivered the punchline on that joke, texts were sent, Facebook status was updated and a new photo uploaded. Hilarious, right?
So here I am, sleep barely out of my eyes, listening to the little boss man tell me - " Don't swoop it to the left, I don't want it emo." "Why is it sticking up over there? I want it down." "How's the back? Is the back straight?" And while I was almost overcome with the impulse to flat iron his tongue as he was barking orders, I realized that this time that I could spend, bonding with him over hair, along with the fact that I have the skills to do so, is a gift. It's a gift because this child is usually nothing more than a moody mirage, flashing thorough a hallway, scarfing down the contents of the refrigerator in the middle of the night or asking for a ride hiter and yon. So I'll take the gift. Even though I probably won't appreciate it anymore by Friday morning.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Bloggy Blog Designz is having a super Holiday Giveaway!!! They are giving away blog designs and all kinds of goodies. Plus ALL entrants will receive 25% off their purchase through the end of the year! Be sure to check out their website for more information, or to enter yourself. Take a look at their portfolio and packages to see what you want for Christmas ;) With 14 giveaways in all and a 25% discount, everyone is a winner! http://www.bloggyblogdesignz.com/
PS. A slightly belated thank you to Susan over at Susan Fobes Family Formula for the blog award below. Many thanks Susan. I encourage anyone on my blogroll to grab this award and make it your own as you are all more adorable than a duckling and a baby bunny sharing a muffin.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
This evening's meeting was lovely as it always is when meeting with my daughter's teachers. She's doing well and involved in lots of extra projects and blah, blah, blah. The only thing that she mentioned to me that had me a little concerned was that she is already starting to see crushes develop and love notes being passed in the classroom. She clarified that my daughter wasn't part of the love note passing, but aren't 10 and 11 year olds a little too young for this, I wondered? Then I remembered my first crush.
When I was in kindergarten, I had a friend named Bobby Nicholls. One day when he and I were playing house, I kissed him on the mouth and immediately declared to my mother that Bobby and I were going to get married. Later, as we grew a little, we continued to pal around but there was no further discussion of marriage.
One day in the spring of 5th grade, Bobby showed up at my front door and asked me to come out on the porch. He told me that he had some presents for me. He began by pulling a small bottle of liquid out of his pocket. "This is the world's most expensive perfume." he said, handing it to me. I held the bottle up to the light and watched the amber liquid swish between the curved hips of the crown shaped bottle. Then he pulled a big gold brooch out of his pocket. It had ornate, antique looking scrolling circling an oval, quarter sized pearl in the center. This pin, he explained had a core of diamond dust sitting beneath the giant pearl. I gasped as I ran my finger over the pearl, trying to see if I could detect the diamonds within. Then he proclaimed me his girlfriend and he ran off before I could offer my agreement.
I went into the house and took my treasures to my room, not sure what I should do with such valuable goods. The most obvious choice was my jewelery box as it held my other worldly possessions - my gold bangle bracelet, my gold "S" chain necklace, an assortment of Wacky Pack cards, 2 packs of Topps Baseball cards (minus the gum) and a custom printed cocktail napkin from my cousin's wedding. I tucked my gifts into the box, afraid to use the expensive perfume or wear such a valuable piece of jewelery. I would visit them now and again, smelling the unusual floral notes of the perfume, but never daring to wear it.
About two weeks later Bobby's mom showed up at our door. The sound of her somewhat hushed conversation with my mother drew me down the stairs for a little eavesdropping. Turns out that Bobby had stolen her Windsong perfume and his grandmother's costume jewelery brooch and he cracked under a little light interrogation and told her where he fenced the goods. Mrs. Nicholls was very cool about the whole thing and told my mom that I could return her things in my own time. I was crushed, of course, but I returned he things the next day.
This was my first lesson in two important truths in life:
1) Men are liars
2) Windsong smells like shit
And in retrospect, it is a reminder that love can bloom early and sting hard. So I am donning my armor and readying the fort for the first time I find a little football folded love note in my daughter's backpack. And I will try to be sensitive and handle the situation with grace and understanding, like Mrs. Nicholls and my mom did. However, if I should run across any sexting on any one's phone in this house, I am buying a stun gun and I will not think twice about using it.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
There's something you should know about me Internet. . . I'm not like other girls. Or boys for that matter. At least not when it comes to graft.
Back in the nineties, I was working for a large New York bank in their Credit Card Marketing division. I was in a systems liaison role between IT and Marketing, and as such, I had no purchasing power or business influence in any way. My job was to make sure that software got developed and deployed to the Marketing Department's specifications. Yet there was one particular salesman who was so determined to keep and develop our business, that he tried to buy everyone on the Marketing team, including me.
This salesman, we'll call him Ira, worked for a large company that was a consultant to our bank in the loyalty marketing arena. They were experts in building customer relationships and had consulted to almost every enormous conglomerate you could imagine. The founder was a very strange but brilliant man who believed so deeply in the concept of quality in business that he wore the word around his neck in necklace form. Trust me when I tell you that you haven't lived until you've seen a 70 year old Norwegian man sporting rapper bling in the office. This thing was so huge, it would have made T Pain blush.
Now before I go on, you need to know that many of the Marketing people that I worked with were VERY open to accepting what ira had to offer. Broadway show tickets, concert tickets, expensive dinner and gifts of every imaginable kind. So when I had to go out to Minneapolis to babysit a systems installation that this company was doing on our behalf, his expectations had been set by those that came before me.
The first day that I was in Minneapolis, Ira hunted me down in the office and offered to take me to dinner. I politely refused him, citing my exhaustion from the trip, but Ira, I learned, does not take no for an answer. He called me, visited me and sent me messages via other employees that he wanted to take me to dinner. Eventually too tired to argue anymore, I said yes.
Ira picked me up at my hotel at 7:00 that night. When I asked him where we were going, he told me The Mall of America. I am certain that I made the poo face when he said this because he immediately started selling me on the mall - it was enormous, had many great restaurants and even an indoor roller coaster. Well whoop de doo! All I could think was if I were back at my room I'd be two spoons into an ice cream sundae and a pay per view movie by now.
In his defense, Ira did pick a lovely restaurant and we made bullshit small talk about Beaujolais and ice fishing (if you know anyone from Minnesota, you know that the talk invariably turns to ice fishing). After I rejected the steady stream of drinks and desserts that he offered he asked me if he could buy me something in the mall. Of course, my answer was no. I just wanted to go back to the hotel. Finally he said, how about we go to a movie. Again, my answer was no. But again, Ira wasn't hearing it. He asked again. Now I was officially pissed. I truly hate to be harrassed, as my kids are well aware and that was the final straw. But before I could tell him to shove the entire movie theater up his ass, I had what I can only describe as a stroke of evil genius. "Sure Ira, let's go to the movies."
We walked up to the movie theater and Ira purchased the tickets. "What is this movie about?" he asked, mentioning that he had never heard of it. "I really don't know." I said, lying through my teeth. As we sat waiting for the movie to start, Ira was still offering to take me to this store or that to buy me whatever I wanted and again, I politely refused. Mercifully, the house lights dimmed and the movie started.
The opening scene starts with a couple having breakfast in what looks like a southern California diner. They are very affectionate and clearly in love. They are kind of an adorable couple. The girl is very mousey, almost shy and the guy has a thick English accent. They call each other pet names, look lovingly at each other, order refills of coffee and then begin to talk about robbing the diner. Before you know it, the mouse and the Brit are up on their feet waiving guns in the air and yelling the following:
Pumpkin: All right, be cool, this is a robbery.
Honey Bunny: Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every mother fucking last one of you!
With this, I can feel Ira's body tense up. Then Misirlou comes blasting out of the speakers and the opening credits roll. Yes, I took Ira to see Pulp Fiction. With every scene - the foot rub conversation, the Ezekiel speech, the overdose scene, bring out the gimp, Marvin's head in the back of the car, Ira's butt clenched a little bit tighter. And as his sphincter went into overdrive, my heart sang with increasing levels of glee.
When we walked out of the theater Ira seemed a little shaken. He sighed heavily and asked me what I thought of the movie. I answered him honestly - "Ira, that was the most amazing movie I've seen in ten years. I thought that was some of the most incredible dialogue I've ever heard." He was still visibly shaken and told me that he thought it was terribly violent. I just shrugged and started walking through the mall. Ira caught up to me and asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I politely refused and mumbled under my breath "What I really want is a wallet that says Bad Motherfucker". "What was that?" he asked. "Just saying thank you for the lovely evening. Can you take me back to my hotel? I'm tired.". Strangely enough, this time, Ira didn't argue.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The other problem that I have with lying is that one of my two kids has very finely tuned perception and is apt to call bullshit on me in every case where I try to use mom logic (ie. If you eat broccoli, you will grow big and strong) or little white lies (Fuggs are just as good as Uggs, they are made by the same factory). She cuts through my baloney like a laser, calls me out on it (usually in public) and makes me look dumb(er than I really am).
But there was this one time that I got over on her and my son in such a beautiful way that it goes into my personal lying hall of fame. This lie also had the added benefit of absurdity, giving me pants-pissing fits of laughter every time I think of it. Are you ready? I somehow managed to convince my children (9 and 6 at the time) that my husband, their father had been a world famous break dancer named Boogaloo Shrimp.
Now, those of you that remember the 80's will recognize this name as a mash up of the two main dancers from the movies Breakin and Breakin 2 Electric Boogaloo - Shabadoo and Boogaloo Shrimp. These were no ordinary movies either, they were celluloid stinkers of such epic proportions that somewhere, some film teacher has to be screening them to film students as a cautionary tale.
I told my kids that he used to travel the country going to break dance competitions and that I would follow him from town to town, doing his hair and putting together his wardrobe. I knew I had them early into the story because they leaned in and listened with rapt attention, never pausing to fight even once. Then they asked questions, which I answered confidently and with great detail. I have to say, I was committed and I said my fiction with convition.
After that, I sat back for the payoff, which to me was just having my husband come down the stairs and say "So I'm a break dancer named Boogaloo Shrimp, huh?". That would have been enough to make this whole thing worthwhile. But no, the reward was far greater.
I guess I had forgotten that children being what they are, love to brag about their parents to other children and that those children turn around and tell their parents about the cool thing that they heard. So fast forward a couple of weeks and we are at a neighborhood barbecue. I walked up to the grill and as I put my plate out for a hamburger, our neighbor says to me (without a trace of irony) "So hubs used to be a break dancer? " I froze up, startled at the question and as soon as I looked him in the eye, I broke into a fit of hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard, I forgot about my hamburger and had to walk away to compose myself.
It wasn't until later in the evening, when I caught my husband giving me the stink-eye from the corner of the yard, that I realized that the bomb had finally been dropped on him. Seems he had spent the better part of the barbecue explaining to people that he was never this -
I'm pretty sure he still hates me a little for that one.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Before we go bowling, let me thank a couple of lovely ladies for recent awards:
I got the My Friend award from Speaking from the Crib and the Beautiful Blog Award from Jen over at Woolgatherings and Lessons in the Art of Slow. I thank both of these wonderful gals profusely and recommend that you check them out, on the slim chance that you are not already familiar with them. They are awesome in every way.
- It's tall, so it may not fit easily on your shelves.
- It's heavy terracotta, so it takes some effort to haul around
- It only comes in green.
Now here's the kicker - it's on sale at Kohls.com for 17.99. It was originally 29.99. This is a pretty good price point for a bowl of this quality. If you are looking for the ideal bowl to serve a Vesuvius sized portion of mashed potatoes in on Thanksgiving, look no further. Here's the link to see it at Kohls.com -
Now that I got that out of my system, I am pretty sure that you won't be seeing any product reviews from me for a long time. I promise.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
First off, let's talk about the mothers. Help me baby Jesus if I did not see some ridiculously inappropriate looks on these women. The sequined newsboy hats, the false eyelashes and the the over-smoked eyes looked painfully desperate and costume-ish. I understand that they are trying to fit in, but by doing that, they stood out like a priest at Flashdancers.
Then there was the middle aged guy who came by himself. That just screams shady late night uncle. His whole look was very 'I still live with my mother and dry catskins in her shed' . I tried hard to steer the girls away from where he was sitting. My least favorite of all were the clueless parents that didn't seem to realize that they were at the event with 15,000 other people. It's great that they brought their adorable, curly headed moppets to see the show, but as soon as you put that adorable curly headed moppet on your shoulders, she becomes a globe-headed, stage blocking pain in the ass.
Then of course there was Miley herself. Who chose to use this tour to assert her sexuality in a series of hotpants and bustiers. There was nothing wrong with these costumes per se, I just think that some of the moms of younger girls were twitching with each crotch-busting costume change. It looked like poor Miley had to pick wedgies all night. One thing that I will say for the girl is that she sang every note. It was easy to tell that she wasn't lip syncing as she hit a couple of bum notes, changed the key of a couple of songs, huffed and puffed through the more vigorous dance routines and giggled and shared inside jokes with her dancers mid-song. For a sixteen year old on an arena tour, she was amazingly capable. I just think she has a long way to go in terms of making an emotional connection with her audience. It seemed a little like she phoned it in (not that the kids noticed one bit).
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
- Number of people that panhandled me for money: 2
- Number of people in Penn Station wearing Metallica tee shirts - 17 (then I stopped counting when I realized that there was a Metallica concert at the Garden)
- Number of people that audibly passed gas in my general vicinity in Penn Station - 3
- Number of people that silently passed gas in my general vicinity in Penn Station - Who the F knows, the whole place smells like a fart
- Number of times my daughter complained because we had to wait on a line - 23
- Number of texts I got from my son while he was at the movies about how *funny the movie 2012 was - 2
- Number of times I was insulted by a rude waiter - 1 (lower than the NYC average)
- Number of times I cried watching the Lion King - 1 (the opening of the play is very beautiful and moving)
- Number of times we got yelled at for having our "Electronic Devices" out in the open before the play started - 3
- Number of times we gave a shit - 0
- Number of tweets that I managed to get out while at the Minskioff Theater - 0 (they have a lead shield in the roof to prevent all such enjoyment while waiting for the play to start)
- Number of puddles my daughter failed to avoid while walking back to Penn Station in the rain because there was not a cab to be had from 46th street to 34th street- All of them
- Number of glasses of wine that I have enjoyed while writing this post - 2.5
*Ok, I know nothing about this movie, but I am pretty sure that it's not a comedy. What happened to you John Cusack? You used to be edgy and cool and a little nerdy (but in a good way). I swooned for your cool underachieving Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything. I laughed at your nerdtastic Bryce in Sixteen Candles. I was thoroughly amused by your angsty Woody Allen impression in Bullets Over Broadway. And you committed the coolest movie character of all time (next to Jules in Pulp Fiction) to celluloid as Martin Blank in Grosse Point Blank. How in god's name did you allow yourself to be in a whistling, tap dancing, flaming turd of a disaster movie (just a guess) like 2012? I am going to go watch Say Anything and cry.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
I sat at my desk and hopped from blog to blog, reading and commenting, reading and commenting until again, there was movement in the yard. This time the movement was not fleeting, it was consistent and spoke clearly of a live presence out there. Finally distracted enough to look away from what I was doing, I saw an immense grey bird, walking the edge of my pool. I did a triple take and rubbed my eyes, because I could not believe the size and shape of this creature. It had long legs with webbed feet like a duck, a long goose-like body with compact wings and a neck that had to be at least 18" long. Atop his neck, a tiny head with a long bill.
As he walked gently along the pool ledge, his head slowly bobbed atop his craning neck. Then he turned his head and body and faced the house, looking directly at me looking at him. I tried to wake my husband to get him to look at this alien creature in our backyard, but he and the worthless dog were uninterested in our visitor. HELLO? There is an EFFING THREE FOOT TALL BIRD walking along the ledge of your pool! You might want to drag your lazy asses out of bed to take a look. Nothing. Being that they weren't going to get up and look at him, I decided to grab the camera and try to get a picture.
I ran down stairs and found our camera on the counter in the kitchen. I looked out the kitchen window and saw that he had gotten off the pool and had gone to the top of the hill. Just the perfect location for me to quietly sneak a picture out of the sliders in the den. Just as I got to the sliding doors, he drew up his long legs and took flight. He needed a minimum of flaps once he stretched out his wings and what I estimate to be at least 25 pounds of bird was gone, just like that.
Knowing that there are wetlands about 4 miles away, I googled for wildlife at the local beach and sure enough, there he was - The Great Blue Heron. I think it was my first time seeing one. It was certainly the first time seeing one in my backyard. There is something magical about seeing a bird or animal misplaced in an environment like your backyard. You almost have to ask yourself - Did I really see that? I hadn't had my first cup of coffee yet, so I guess I can't be sure. But one thing that I am certain of, I will never ignore a piece of paper flying past my window again.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Check these fun ladies out -
Doot over at a Nut in a Nutshell - Giveaways and all sorts of fun over at her place.
Amy, over at Goodby 20's Hello Botox - She's driving distance from New Orleans, but I won't let my jealousy over that fact keep me from recommending her blog. She's a total doll and the winner of my 100th blog post spectacular. That's right, she got the vinyl gloves. Be jealous y'all!
From what I can tell, these next two ladies don't do awards, but they get a "highly recommend" from me and a total pass on the participation in the award tagging. Hell, you ALL get a pass on that if you don't want to do it. I don't want to pressure anyone, just share the bloggy love.
Wendi Aarons - A brilliantly funny lady and a hell of a writer.
Smacksy - LPR is having all sorts of fun being mom to an adorable and precocious three year old and she has a wicked sense of humor about it all.
OK, I give up. . . I don't want to choose. If you are on my (only semi-up to date) blogroll, please grab this award. I love you all and I'm tired and I have a pork loin to marinate. Have a great Sunday.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
In a word, Halloween was OK (is that really a word? Probs not.) The thing that was harshing my mellow was the constant race against the clock. I wish I'd had more time to clean and cook, but thanks to an exploding transformer (thanks for the PCB's LIPA!), I lost four valuable hours of cooking time on the 30th. But I'm not (too) bitter about that. What really had me bitter is when my son, who told me that he was bringing four kids home for Chili Dinner, brought home FOURTEEN shaving cream covered hormone cases. If I didn't think it would only result me having to make a run to the drugstore for Imodium, I'd swap out all his Hershey Bars for Chocolate ExLax. It's moments like those that make me regret my decision not to use spanking as a form of punishment. Live and learn.
Welcome to the crypt. Pay no attention to Thing in the corner, he's shy and would prefer that we close the door.
So now the mad dash toward Christmas begins. I'm an unrepentant planner and usually have at least 50% of my shopping done by now. No such luck this year. If I get a little tense and wonky with my posts over the next six weeks, please understand that I get terrible Christmas fever. I lose myself in a haze of shopping, cleaning, baking and family obligations. I apologize in advance for any manic behavior or nonsensical posts about non-parielles, wrapping paper, silver sanding sugar or punishment of naughty elves. About the only thing that I can promise is that I WILL be unhinged. Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride. Oh, and HO! HO! HO! (No offense).
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Luckily, almost every act was pretty entertaining, so the time passed quickly. The school's theater director, a former Broadway musician had managed to put on a great show. It is amazing to me what this guy can accomplish with a mostly amateur cast. Every play or event that he stages is a full costume extravaganza and includes a band of professional Broadway musicians. In addition to running this event he directs the annual school play, runs an all-ages after school theater club and an all-ages summer theater camp which also culminates in a full dress revue of Broadway numbers. My daughter participates in the after school theater program and the summer camp and for years I have been trying to convince my son to join her. But he has always been too cool for theater and refused to join. Despite some truly humiliating begging on my part and valiant attempts to bribe him, he preferred to spend his summers sleeping until one, ordering in Chinese food and loafing.
At the very end of the show, the entire cast, almost 200 strong, took the stage for the closing number and their final bow. Then the ensemble left the stage in the gymnasium and headed for the auditorium to be picked up, still singing and dancing up the hallways of the Jr High School. My husband and I had positioned ourselves for a quick exit and we followed the directly behind the the mobile show, into the auditorium.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
For a month now, my husband and I have been building a trap door to hell for our front lawn. We stretched black fabric over a wood frame and faux finished it to look like rusted out metal. Our plan is to prop it open with a severed arm (a rubber one because the local med school can't be bribed to supply a cadaver arm. Kill joys.) and put a strobe light, fog machine and a CD player playing spooky sounds underneath it so that the eeriness just spills out on to the lawn. This is all just fine and dandy if there's no rain. Once it rains, the fog, the electronics, the flashing lights are all kaput!
And what about our rolling caravan of fun? We had planned to fill coolers with ice, beer, soft drinks and some pre-mixed martinis and drag the coolers in wagons as we took the kids trick or treating at night. Rain will ruin those plans as well.
And my costume? It probably shouldn't get rained on. My makeup most definitely won't withstand even a drizzle.
What am I going to do?
The only thing that I can think of is to harness the power of the Internet. So, if you are in reading distance of my words, let's all collectively wish for a gorgeous Halloween across the entire US. This is a non-denominational effort, so go ahead and pray, chant, light a candle, perform a sunshine ceremony, whatever you like. Me, I am crossing fingers, toes, legs, arms, eyes (even if my mother says they'll stay that way) and squeezing like mad in an attempt to cross my butt cheeks. I am so desperate for good weather, I'd eff a chicken if I thought it would help. Lord knows Ernie Anastos likes the idea. . . .