Wednesday, December 30, 2009

We Only Get Kicked Out of the Classy Joints

How do you spell holiday fun? Like most red blooded Americans, we spell it AT L A N T I C C I T Y. Ok so, we aren’t red blooded. As a matter of fact, if you cut my husband, he bleeds Yankee blue and I bleed whatever the color of shopping is. And I am sure that most folks don’t go to a casino to celebrate Christmas with their family, but the day that I wake up feeling like most folks, is the day that I ask the Dr. to check me for a pulse.

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 ( ) 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

I'm Back and I'm Blocked

I am back from Blogcation and I can't for the life of me, remember any of the things that I wanted to blog about. Stepping away from the blog was difficult for me at first and it's almost like my brain punished me by hurling a ton of great ideas at me while I was completely wrapped in holiday hysteria. Now that I finally have a moment to sit down and channel those ideas into actual posts, I've got nothin'.

This issue is pretty representative of everything that's wrong with my noggin. It's a swirling hive of ideas and creativity whenever I am away far from any media that I could use to capture those thoughts. For instance, the second that I step into the shower, I am filled with thousands of remembered items from my to do list as well as story ideas and memories from long ago. All of that great material seems to evaporate as soon as I am dressed. Same for the car. I can solve the nation's health care crisis between home and work, but the second that I step out of the car, I can barely remember my own name.

This holiday was particularly crazy, given the insanity that is going on at work. It did not let up for a moment and I was still on conference calls between baking and cleaning, when I was supposed to be off. I am pretty sure that come March, I am going to take at least a week off to regroup from this cluster F and and maybe even dedicate my week to a blog posting a day. Honestly, work taking me away from blogging made me bitter (in case that is not already clear), and since I don't like being bitter, I am bitter about feeling bitter, which leaves me caught in an endless loop of bitterness.

So, with more of a whimper than a bang and a whole lot of whining, I am back. We are going to meet the hubs out of state nieces and nephews for a late Christmas celebration today, so that will give me a long ride in the car to try to remember all the awesome blog topics that I have forgotten. Let's hope I get some ideas down before the cocktails start flowing. . . oh and the gambling. Let's not forget the gambling. What?! Doesn't every family celebrate Christmas in Atlantic City?

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Merry Blogcation

Even though I am far too insecure to believe that any of you will ever come back and read my blog, I am going to take a blogcation.

Work is extremely busy for me, which is putting a damper on my Christmas shopping, baking, wrapping and general enjoyment. Not to mention, cutting a major groove in my blog reading and writing opportunities.

I hope that you will indulge me this short break and I will come between Christmas and New Years with a renewed sense of blogging purpose and a slightly clearer head.

I wish all of you the happiest, healthiest Christmas and New Years possible. Please enjoy and have a drink for me. Lord knows, I plan to drink enough to toast each one of you individually.

All the best to you and yours!

- DG at Diary of a Mad Bathroom

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Saturday Awards

More about zombie Chickens in a minute. . .

As I sit here and hunker down for the oncoming blizzard, I have a few brief moments of quiet and clarity, where I can work on my awards post. I have been very lucky to have gotten a few over the last 2 or 3 weeks, but I am behind on posting them. I'm not ungrateful, just horrifically busy at work (the holidays are just the cherry on my Busy Sundae). So without further ado, here are the awards:

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.

Thanks Noelle for the award and the glimpse into my future.

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.

And then (this is starting to sound like a "one time at band camp" post) I went over and visited Masshole Mommy, and she had tagged me with this award too! Her blog name cracks me up! Please stop in and tell her that she's a lovely lady and not a Masshole.

For this award, I have to name 10 things that make me happy and give the award to 10 blogs. Those of you that have been here before, know that I get twisted about having to single people out, so I will give the award to my blogroll, because if you are on there, I read you and I love you.

Susan from Susan Fobes Family Formula, gave me the I Love Your Blog Award.
Susan is a High School teacher and therefore must be either a saint or certifiable. Pay her blog a visit and figure it out for yourself (I'm leaning more toward Mother Theresa than my Uncle Ronnie). Again, blogroll, help yourself!

Then, from the files of awesomely unusual awards, Insanity Kim at A Parent's Life to Behold, Insanity and Bliss gave me the Zombie Chicken award?!?!? This is so insanely special that it makes me want to watch Dawn of the Dead with all my barnyard friends. This one has no rules (how could it?), so I will just sit and stare at it because it's imbued with mystical-voodoo-covered-in-hot-wing-sauce powers. Cant. Look. Away. Go visit Kim and see if you get hypnotized by the magical chicken. And please help yourself to this award and display it proudly.

Baking/Cooking - I feel very anchored to home and family when I do this.
Blogging - Getting it down in writing is the only way for me to organize my thoughts. My head is usually a whirling (but deliciously spicy) gumbo of crazy, and the writing process slows me down, focuses me and gives me the clarity of thought that I don't normally have.
My family - Both blood relatives and my friends, which I consider my chosen family. I need them like the crack and jones for them when I am away from them for too long.
Work - I know. I know. This seems stupid. And there are so many things about working and my job in particular that I full-on hate. But working gives me a sense of accomplishment and opportunity to overcome adversity, which is a high that I can't match. I guess I like a challenge.
Girl's Weekend - Going away with my girlfriends is the most soul cleansing and restorative thing in my life. Just taking a couple of days a year to be with my chosen family helps me to balance out my life and recharge my batteries. Plus, we laugh so much and so hard that I can almost feel the stress peeling off.
My Son's Band - It delights me to no end that my son discovered music. I always wanted to play the piano as a kid, but my parents did not want to make that huge investment for something that could have ended up as a fly-by-night interest. When the band practices or performs, it's hard to believe that they are only thirteen years old. I am filled with maternal pride.
Broadway - I love musical theater and have seen more plays than any gay man you can name. Go ahead and try. I'll take the Pepsi Challenge with anyone. Bring it on!
Movies - I love movies. However, I don't get out to the movie theater that often unless there is a singing Disney pop princess involved. But I pay per view like nobodies business.
Spike the Hotness Monster and Brownie the Wonderdog - These two morons make me smile, lower my blood pressure and generally get under my feet. And, the interplay between them is truly hysterical. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
Lasagna - Oh sweet, sweet lasagna. How I love thee. My birthday dinner for as long as I can remember and promised to me on Christmas Eve. There is a Santa Claus!
Here comes the snow. . .

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Bullets Over Ronnies House

From the files of beating a dead horse . . .

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

There's One in Every Family

Last night was my annual Cousin's Christmas gathering. This is an event where all of the cousins on my dad's side of the family get together with their kids and have dinner and talk about the unique experiences we had growing up with my father's side of the family.

My father was the youngest of five children born to an Italian imigrant and his American born wife. His only brother, my Uncle Ronnie is 11 years his senior and the undisputed character of the family. Every year when we get together for Cousin's Christmas, the talk invariably turns to Uncle Ronnie stories.

The most succinct word that I can use to describe my Uncle Ronnie is "crazy". Not in a traditional, paranoid schizophrenic kind of way, but more of an elusive, multi-threaded and unique brand of crazy that is difficult to pinpoint with a diagnosis. He has always been the kind of uncle that would let the kids do anything they wanted, without regard for safety or sanity.

When I was a kid, my Uncle Ronnie was my favorite uncle. He would show up at our house on the weekends and he would take me and my friends for rides in his camper. He had one of th0se campers that mounted on the top of a pickup truck. Being that this was 1971, long before the days where people cared about silly things like buckling up their children in vehicles, Ronnie would load me and a couple of friends in the back of the camper and we would take off. My parents would happily wave good by from the front door, clueless as to the danger that we were in from the moment we stepped into the camper.

Left to our own devices in the back of the camper, a group of seven year old girls will try their best to play "house". This meant using matches to fire up the gas stove, filling a pot with water and black pepper (the only thing in his cabinets) and boiling up some "pepper soup". Aside from the matches and gas stove and boiling water, the other hazard that the camper had was guns. Not just a couple of guns, more like a rolling arsenal, complete with boxes of ammunition of every imaginable caliber. And if the mood struck him, we'd stop at a sand pit and we would fire those guns. What? Don't all seven year old girls know how to shoot a Winchester .30-30? Watching me shoot down cans and bottles with a sniper's precision would make Uncle Ronnie laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha.

One year when I was about 8, we gathered for a family Christmas celebration at one of my dad's sister's houses. This was the home of two of my favorite, older cousins, both of whom I idolized. While the aunts and uncles were busy putting dinner together, Uncle Ronnie took me and my older cousins to an office building complex to practice driving. For me to practice driving, not the older cousins.

I would sit on my uncle's lap and take the wheel and I would step on his foot, which was on top of the gas to accelerate. I had done this dozens of times before (probably since the age of six), so this was a pretty routine event. My cousins were in the back seat of the car as we drove down the main drag of the large office complex. I was doing fine, tooling along at a reasonably safe speed, until we rounded a bend and spotted two teenagers on ten speed bikes, pedaling down the middle of the road. My cousins immediately recognized these two as their next door neighbors. Neighbors that they had a beef with.

As soon as one of my cousin's yelled "It's the Lindemans! Get 'em!" I was overwhelmed with a desire to please them and my foot jammed down on top of Uncle Ronnie's, sending his Cherry Red Cadillac rocketing forward toward the unsuspecting bikers. Ronnie started stuttering, half yelling at me, half laughing as my cousins cheered me on from the back seat. Totally consumed by the mob mentality and the adrenaline rush of chasing down these teenagers, I broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Ronnie took the opportunity to grab the wheel from me and swerved the car to avoid the bikers as I gasped for breath and eventually peed in my pants from laughing so hard.

Ronnie returned us to my cousin's house and we went inside to eat dinner. Nothing was mentioned to the parents about the attempted run down of the Lindemans or the fact that I had peed in my pants. We never talked about it. . . not until years later at Cousin's Christmas, this last one and the fifteen or so that have come before it, where it is always the centerpiece of the conversation. And Uncle Ronnie? I'm pretty sure that he's still laughing.

Friday, December 11, 2009

How George Clooney Turns Panties to Manties Without Even Trying

You know how life is? Sometimes wack-ass shit happens to you and you have to shake off the body blow and regroup, and sometimes, but far less often, something cool happens . .
Like this:

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 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

Button, Button. Who's Got the Button?

Yes, yes y'all. Thanks to the lovely Jenna at Bloggy Blog Designz, I now have my very own button. Please, help yourself to it (It's over there on the left. See it?). If you see fit to display it on your site, you will have my eternal gratitude and freedom from concern that I would ever flat iron one of your body parts while you sleep. As a matter of fact, I submit that this button has magical powers and if you post it to your site, the following things will happen:

1) You will never have so much as an ounce of cellulite on your ass.

2) You will wield magical powers over men that compel them to clean up after themselves without being asked.

3) Your children will be wildly popular, athletic honor students that will get full ride scholarships to ivy league colleges.

4) Your credit card purchases will mysteriously disappear from your bill.

5) Your boss will get a festering patch of piles and will have to take an extended leave from the office, leaving you in charge to host a daily kegger and water balloon fight in the Board Room.

Not that I am saying that you should be superstitious or anything. But what if you don't take the button? What then? Could YOU possibly get the festering piles? Nah. At least I don't think it works that way. But you might want to take it just in case.

And before I move off the topic of the button, I would be remiss if I did not mention what a pleasure it was to work with Jenna at Bloggy Blog Designz. She was professional, worked fast and had a great collaborative style. I highly recommend checking her out.

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

Hairstyling with the Chickens

This morning a weary child stumbled out of bed uncharacteristically early and started the shower. Then the child towel dried and blow dried their hair in preparation for the flat ironing to come. That child? My son.

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

My Blog Needs Fiber

Hey y'all. Is your blog looking tired? Run down? Out of sorts? Well mine is. (I think I just called my blog constipated). Check out the blog re-do giveaway below. Good luck!

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!

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

And They Called it Puppy Love

Tonight was my daughter's parent teacher night at her elementary school. I have come to enjoy this opportunity to have a little one on one time with the teacher and to hear their perceptions of my kids. Now that my son is in Junior High School, the whole process has depersonalized and I've all but lost that connection with his teachers.

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

Gone fishin . . .

Grrrr. I am officially unwell. Woe be to the cootie that decides to invade my body as I am going to attack it with copious amounts of sleep and sloth.

I am actually not even feeling like reading and commenting on blogs (I know. WTF?), so I may go missing for a day or two. Please be patient with me.

Gotta go. I have cootie butts to kick.

Adios. Must. Sleep.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

This is What Happens When You Don't Take No For An Answer

Language warning on this post. Please come back next post if swear words make you uncomfortable. It's impossible to tell this story without them.

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

Spike the Hotness Monster is Annoyed at All of You

Wonder who pissed in his Meow Mix?
Thanks to the fabulous Miss Jo from Miss Jo's San Francisco who came out of the gate with a caption, I'd love to invite the rest of you to take a crack at a caption for this picture. We can't let this much attitude go to waste. Let's see what you've got . . .

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

The Only Lie I Ever Got Away With

I am not a good liar or even that interested in lying. Now, before you assume that I'm the type to give away surprise parties or reveal what's under the wrapping paper before you open the gift, I'm not. That's an impulse control problem. I don't have that. But, when it comes to a meatier more significant lie, I am as see through as tissue paper because I just don't do well with fabrication. I am far too forgetful to remember my own story and I end up tripping myself up at some point. Honestly, I probably don't lie because I am too ego maniacal to knowingly do something that will result in failure.

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

I Love My Bobby Flay Bowl

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.
Now, on to the bowl -

I am not one for whoring out products on my blog. There are many people that do this far better than I ever will and honestly, I'm a jaded and cranky woman. I don't gush about too many things. Which is why it is so critical that I tell you how much I LOVE my Bobby Flay serving bowl.
I was Christmas shopping in Kohls one lunch hour a couple of weeks back when I came across this amazingly deep, green glazed terracotta bowl. I immediately envisioned myself mixing things in this bowl without spatter, serving pasta or salad in it without overflowing the top and so on. Never one to second guess my purchase-sense I grabbed it off the shelf and took it home.

Luckily for me, this bowl lived up to every expectation that I had and then some. I have used it to serve salad, meatballs and spaghetti and a mountain of dinner rolls. I have also used it to mix cookies, quick breads and cake mix, all with great success. It is in all honesty, the perfect bowl for me. There are a couple of things about it that might be drawbacks to some:

  • 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 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 -

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

I Had Floor Seats to a Concert. You'll Never Guess Which One.

A couple of nights ago I took my daughter and two of her friends to see Miley Cyrus in concert. We were lucky enough to have floor seats, so that lent some additional excitement to the event. For the girls that is. For me it was a sea of annoyance and concern.

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).

Oh, and have you met her brother Trace? Yeah, he opened for her with his band Metro Station. They played their big hit "Shake it" at the end of the show, which all the girls seemed to know and love. The problem with Metro Station (outside of asking "Ladies, let me hear you screeeeeeeaaam" about 1oo times) is that they took to some serious flirting with the audience, telling they were the most beautiful fans in the country and dedicating songs to them, etc. Ummm, Trace, honey, just in case you couldn't see past the lights and pyrotechnics, those "ladies" are primarily between the age of 4 and 11. It's just creepy. You might wanna dial that shit back.

All in all, the girls had a good time. God bless that that little sixteen year old for making the kids happy and mesmerizing them into a state of actual stillness. I know I probably come across a tad cynical here, but I am realistic enough to know that the concert wasn't meant for me. I am not the target demographic (nor are you middle aged dude), girls aged 4-11 are and as a whole, they LOVED the concert. And really, that's all that matters.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I'm On CRIBS!!!!!!!!

OK, I'm not exactly on Cribs. I am a guest poster over at Speaking From the Crib. This is a tremendous honor for me because this is one of my favorite blogs. When I got the e-mail asking me to do it, I was all "Am I being punked?" and she was all "No for reals. Do you wanna do it?" And I was all "Of course I wanna do it, as long as you want me to do it." And she was all "Of course I want you to do it, otherwise I wouldn't have asked you. Are you mental or something?" And I was all " Mental? Hells yeah!" And she was all "Good, then you can post next week. As soon as you take your meds, write me a post." And I did.

Editor's note: This conversation was paraphrased with absolutely no respect for accuracy because that's how I roll (meds 0r not).

So click on the link above or the the cute little button with the behbe in the sidebar to see the post and while you're there, check her out and show her some bloggy love - read, comment, laugh, follow. This will be your natural course of events, I promise because she is a super funny lady! Anyone willing to shove not one but two fingers up her nose for a profile picture test shot has made a hard-core commitment to funny. I can respect that, even while I'm busy laughing my ass off. So go. Scamper off to the crib and have a party. I'll be right behind you with an ice cold six pack and some choice junk food. . . right after I take my meds.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Diary is Sticking It Supah Style

Because some of my favorite blogs are doing this sticky note thing and seem to be having so much fun with it, I decided to try. These are a challenge for your girl Diary, who as you have probably already determined, tends to be pretty verbose. I gave it the old college try. Here goes:

Well, that was fun and easy. I highly recommend checking out Supah Mommy for the deets. And a special thanks to Kys and Chief and Erin for making this look like so much fun in their previous posts, that I had to be a lemming. Thanks y'all!

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Saturday Recap

It's Saturday night, I just got back from seeing the Lion King on Broadway and I am going to open up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and tell you a couple of tidbits about my day. Oh, my god, the first sip was HEAVEN. If you have not tried CloudyBay Sauvignon Blanc, I will weep winey (or is that wino) tears until you do. Sip number two was glorious as well.

OK, so first off, I need to thank the SemiHippySingleMum for the Lovely Blog Award that you see above. And Nancy at If Evolution Really Works for the I Love Your Blog award. And Noelle at Elastic Waistbands and Comfortable Shoes (great name, right?) for the Lemonade award. Thank you ladies. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Please stop by and visit these wonderful ladies today! I in turn, offer these awards to all of you darling bloggies that are on my blogroll. Please grab the awards at your leisure.

Being that I am nerdtastically numbers oriented (bullshit cough), I thought that I would give you a couple of statistics from my trip into New York today -

  • 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.

That's it for tonight. Short and sweet. I am tired and I have all of your blog postings that I missed today, to read and comment on. I'll be back in a day or two with a meatier post. Have a fabulous weekend and a glass of Cloudy Bay!

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

It's the Great Blue Heron Charlie Brown

This morning as I was doing my pre-dawn blog reading, I saw something whoosh past my second story office window in the dim, gray morning light. It seemed to me like it might have been a piece of paper or garbage, though what that was doing falling out of the sky, I couldn't say. Not always sharply aware or even interested in what goes on outside of my little bubble, I ignored it.

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

I Have the Same One Only Bigger, Better, Newer, Faster and Smarter

I'm a pretty patient person. Really I am. Not prone to princess and the pea fuss-pot behavior or petty grievances, I let a whole lot of things go. But there is a woman who is working my last nerve so hard, that I might blow my kind (bats lashes innocently) facade and give her a piece of the imbroglio of bile that she creates in my stomach.

Here's how the story goes -

I work with a lovely man that I'll call Jake Ryan. That's not his real name, but since Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles was such a hotness monster, we'll use that name. Jake is a very smart and competent man at his job. He is a model employee, constantly furthering his education and making better every project that he lends his technical abilities to. To top it all off, he's a lovely, humble person, who is a true pleasure to work with. Sounds like a dream, right? So what could the problem be? His wife.

His wife and I are vague acquaintances. We know a couple of the same people and have been thrown together at events and such. When I first met her, I went out of my way to tell her what a lovely and talented person her husband was and to complement his accomplishments and the value he adds on the job. You would think that would suffice on the topic, right? In my opinion, all that was necessary in that scenario was to be gracious, say thank you and move on. Not this one. From that moment and every moment since that she has been thrust upon me (totally unwillingly, mind you), she has monopolized the conversation, basically reciting his resume in a unbearable brag fest. I don't know what she is trying to prove, but I am clearly well aware of his abilities, I have stated as much. This bitch is selling hard, way past the close.

I have tried very hard to understand what she is about. From what I can tell, she does not work, volunteer or have any kind of life outside of this man, so I suppose she is living vicariously through his achievements. I of course feel terribly sorry for what I perceive to be her own personal emptiness. However, I have heard enough. My patience is all but gone and my veneer of politeness is worn to a see-through state. It is all I can do to keep from stopping her mid-sentence and reciting his accomplishments to her. I've heard them umpteen times, I can quote them chapter and verse.

I guess what I am really wrestling with here is the bragging aspect of it. It makes me so uncomfortable, I just want to crawl out of my skin. It has never been something that I have been able to tolerate. Maybe I need take a good long look at what it is in my history that makes me so uncomfortable with people who engage in this behavior. Or maybe I need to gag her with a dirty sweat sock and some duct tape. Not really sure on this one.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Well, Scrippity Scrappity, I Do Declare.

Hip hip hooray for awards! I have been given an Honest Scrap award from Angel over at Singedwingedangel. Well thank ya! Thank ya very much. The rules of this here award are that I have to tell you ten honest things about myself and pass the award to seven other bloggers. Just to shake this up a little and make it fun, I decided that I would share ten things that I honestly hate:

1) Fish - If it has fins and gills, I'm out. I have made many valiant attempts to try different kinds over the years, but I just can't do it. Sorry to all you pescatarians out there.

2) Coconut - Almond Joy and Mounds are dang near religious experiences for some. For me, it's like chewing chocolate covered cardboard. As a matter of fact, I'd tuck into a shirt box before I'd tuck into shredded coconut. Now, fresh coconut, coconut milk and coconut rum different stories. I like them. They all contribute to splendid cocktails.

3) Nosiness - People who ask inappropriate questions and get all up in my business. I will share information with them as I see fit. If I want you to know my salary, how much I paid for my house or how often I get busy, I'd tell you (Those that know me well are snickering because they know that hell would freeze over before I'd divulge any of that information).

4) Ego trippin, power hungry PTA mothers - This position goes to the head of a certain type of woman and she becomes drunk with (perceived) power and completely unbearable. They're not all like this, but MANY are and it makes me completely unhinged. I avoid at all costs.

5) My memory - It sucks. It lets me down on a regular basis and as I hang out in the middle aged years, seems to get worse. I blog as much for the written memories as for the fun of it.

6) "Not my kid" mothers and fathers - Parents who think their child can do no wrong and blame all of the negative things that happen on their friends. Wake up. Shake the cobwebs out and take a good look at what is happening around you.

7) R.E.M and John Cougar Mellonhead, uh Mellencamp - I don't hate a lot of music. There is something about these two bands that makes me want to chew tinfoil rather than listen to them. I know. I know. You love them. You have all their CDs and concert tee shirts. I. Just. Can't.

8) Ironing, sewing, putting laundry away - Look up the word drudgery and you will find these three activities. And I am dangerous with an iron. I am the only person I know that irons in more wrinkles than she removes. I'd rather be a rumpled mess than fight with Suzy Homemaker's weapon of choice.

9) Crime Shows - Again, I know, you love CSI Miami, Cleveland, Hoboken, whatever. And while I am sure that Marg Helgenberger is a lovely woman, I don't care whether the perp had tobacco stained fingers and left traces of olefin fabric fibers at the crime scene. Again, given the choice between that and a snack of tinfoil, I'd have to spend some time deliberating.

10) News Talk Show Hosts - All of them are pushing an agenda and seem to be desperately clinging to that agenda at all costs, regardless of common sense. Regardless of political affiliation, I hate you all. Please go away.

OK, that was fun. Now I have to share the love with seven other worthy recipients (Lin, you can come out from hiding in that corner. I know you get wigged out by these things. I won't tag you. Promise.)

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

From Happy Halloween to Christmas for the Crazy

So from what I can tell from blog hopping, there seems to be trend toward sharing the post-Halloween play by play. I wasn't going to share, but rather than buck a trend, which would be much more my style, I am going to roll with it for a change. Here goes.

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.

Our demonic basketball hoop. A little one on one?

Anywho, there were fabulous elements to my Halloween, such as the cracktastic game of poker that we played until 2:00 am and the awesome costumes that my friends came in, including my husband who was hysterical as an iced-out pimp. One friend got so into her Coffin Witch costume that she actually found a coffin pocketbook somewhere on the Internet. Her husband joked that she spent more money on her costume than she did on her wedding dress. I have great friends that play along with all my silliness, much to my delight and appreciation. Brownie the Wonderdog even played along. She actually liked her costume and kept it on all day. I tried to get Spike the Hotness Monster to put on a costume, but he just gave me the finger and walked away.

MMMMMMMMMM Candy. And no, I am not a flower, I am a partially peeled banana and my hat fept falling off.

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

I Never Said I Was Donna Reed

There is a question that I get all the time that I absolutely HATE, and the time has come for me to let it out before I get all stabby. For over a year, my son's band has had a weekly band practice at our house. Without fail, the one question that I have gotten from every person that learns that I am doing this is "You don't mind them practicing in your house?" or worse yet, "You don't mind the noise?".

It's probably not the question itself that bugs me. I guess it's a fair question (sort of). But it's the incredulous way that it is asked and the patent disbelief of my answer, which is - "No way. I love it." This response is almost always met with "Really?" Now the way that I'd like to answer that follow up question is "No bitch, I'm telling you a lie just to F with you." or "Oooooh, turn around. You've got something poking out of your jeans. Oh never mind, it's just the stick up your ass.". But, I manage to calmly and rationally state my case for how amazing it is to have this talented group of kids playing awesome music in my den. This is response is often met with what I can only describe as "the poo face".

It seems that the majority of people would prefer to saw off their own heads with a dull butter knife than allow five teenagers to play music in their house. Well huddle up, because Diary is about to school you. Here's a little pop quiz:

1) Guess what I know?

I know where my kid is.

2) You know what else I know?

I know EXACTLY what he's doing.

3) One more thing that I know?

I know who he's with.


I like the music that they play. I don't consider it "noise" and I don't give a damn what the neighbors think.

So, guess who isn't getting the Mother of the Year award from her peers? And guess who isn't chummy with the PTA president? And guess who gets sideways looks from the nabes? You guessed it. But guess who doesn't give two nickels worth of squirrel farts?
See? You're smart. I didn't even have to give you a hint. YOU get an A+.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Behold, the Power of Music

Is this my future daughter-in-law?

Friday night, amidst all the crazed planning, cleaning and cooking that we were doing for Halloween, we were slated to attend Cabaret Night at my son's school. Cabaret Night is an annual event where teachers, students and parents perform for a paying audience of parents and classmates who get a catered dinner and the opportunity to buy tickets for various raffles. This is all done to raise money for the school. My son, one of his friends and one of his band mates had an act in the show. They played acoustic guitars and sang the Green Day song Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).

As they were announced and took the stage, there was a smattering of random cat calls and shout outs from teenage girls in the audience. Ho's (I kid, I kid. Just a mother tiger protecting her cub.) They played the song to thunderous applause as the teens in the audience seemed to really appreciate the more modern song amongst the show-tune heavy bill. Then the boys took their bow and and exited the stage. Great, only 17 more acts to go .

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.

I couldn't have walked into the auditorium any longer than 45 seconds after my son, but I could not spot him amidst the crowd. Just then the singer from his group walked by me and I grabbed the elbow of his shirt, congratulated him and asked where the boy was. He thanked me and pointed over to a corner at the end of a row of theater chairs, near the fire exit. There he was, sitting on the arm of the chair with his back to me, but I could see that he was playing his guitar. Leaning on the wall, directly across from him, also playing a guitar and singing, was his band mate. Around the two of them? A circle of girls, visibly swooning.

I stifled a laugh and congratulated the boys on a great show. He then informed me that he would be joining some friends for a post-show nosh at an ice cream joint and then he'd be home. My husband and I looked at each other and giggled and we went home, anxious to go back to the cooking and cleaning that we had left, in progress.

At about 1:00 am, my son walked in the door and came into the kitchen as I was pulling an apple pie out of the oven. We talked a little about the show and then I casually mentioned his post-show activities. He blushed a little, but ultimately seemed to be sort of pleased with himself. He poured himself a drink of water and he started toward the stairs to go to bed. Then he stopped and turned back to me an asked me if I would "mind" if he signed up for Theater Camp this summer. I tried to hide my immense glee at this concept and casually told him that it was fine with me. The next day I heard him talking with a friend about the camp. Seems he heard that there is a twenty to one ratio of girls to boys and I guess he recognized the target rich environment. It looks like he's learned the power that music has over women. In a couple of years that power will shift pretty radically. But for now, we'll just let him enjoy shooting fish in a barrel.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Raindrops Keep Fallin on my Halloween

Like most of you out there, I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of Halloween. As such, I have started my week long vigil of obsessively monitoring the weather on the Internet ( and Television - CBS, NBC, ABC News and if I get desperate, FOX 5 News. Remember the station where the news anchor accused his fellow newsman of effing chickens? Yeah, that FOX 5 News. So far the news is all bad. The forecast calls for rain.

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. . . .