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.