I love the smell of white boards in the morning

Three years and six months ago, I cast-off from corporate America, looking to make my way as a free-lance consultant. I had had it up to here with "the man." I was burnt-out on office-politics, the thankless tasks of middle-management and with hauling my patootie for a 3 hour round-trip to a glass office tower.
I wanted something different. Anything different. And I felt I had to whole-sale reject all the corporate trappings to pursue my true creative muse.
And now, I'm contemplating making a return trip.

What could possibly make me go back? Many things. As with most decisions, there's a push and a pull.

Consulting is lonely. For three of my years, I had the best of both worlds with a "Sugar Daddy" client. Two days in the office, two at home, one of pure freedom. The paycheck was solid and steady, the work compelling. My colleagues didn't really have the chance to become truly annoying before I'd have another break from them. A few colleagues rose to the annoyance challenge, but that is to be expected.

Now that I consult remotely, I find myself loathing my home office -- a laptop, desk & printer shoved in the corner of a guest-room. It's challenging to structure my day so that work gets done before midnight. Too many distractions. I am my own annoying colleague. Boy I can be a pain in my own ass.

I miss learning, bantering in the conference room and hashing out solutions in a group. I miss cracking wise with my peeps and killing in the hallway with my dead-on impressions of Senior Management.

I miss the routines, I miss the free coffee, and I miss the smell of fruit-scented magic markers. I miss commiserating and offering advice to quell the sting of petty office dramas. I miss buying Girl Scout cookies in the spring. I miss those huge vats of bad caramel corn that comprise 2 of my 3 daily meals for months after the holidays.

I miss crazy off-sites where we endure forced bonding and think big thoughts on flip-chart paper that never gets looked at again.

I miss feeling "mue importante" when people bring me tough problems to solve. I miss "being the client" and getting my bootie kissed by potential vendors with the odd pair of Red Sox home game tickets.

I miss dumb jokes, dispatches from the Onion sent from bored colleagues, and huddling around an office computer to watch wildly inappropriate YouTube videos.

I miss sharpening my pop-culture references and musical knowledge by bantering with the 20-somethings and burnishing my political and cultural opinions by talking them through before meetings begin.

I miss the ribbing of the sweet, funny, English-challenged parking garage attendants and making the lunch lady giggle and blush by complimenting her bling.

Sock puppets don't have the same effect. The 'interweb' doesn't satisfy my need for contact. I'm just not being all I can be sitting by myself in front of the laptop screen in my room. My chair's not ergonomic, my time-management is shot, and my hairdo is suffering from severe lack of effort.

The grass is always greener I suppose. How quickly I forget the grind part of the daily grind. I am sure I would cringe if I re-read my diaries from the last year before I 'left-office'.

I wouldn't trade a moment of the last 3 1/2 years of creative self-discovery. It has been an exciting and wild ride. I don't know for sure that I'd give it all up ... but I have rediscovered some of the small pleasures of office co-habitation. That would get me through the first 3 days back at least.

Fair Enough

The Marshfield Fair www.marshfieldfair.org completed its 141st run and left town nearly two weeks ago ... and yet, the controversy continues.

Carnies.

Each year the Fair comes to down, there's one carny drama or another. Last year two carnies got married under the Ferris wheel. Awwwwww. They had something like 12 children between them. That's one big trailer.

This year, an 18 year old carny was accused of raping a 13 year old girl and her 14 year old friend. Things weren't looking too rosy for this young man, until it was revealed that these girls had gone to the Fair with the specific goal of seducing a carny.

What little girl doesn't dream of that?

Carnies simultaneously fascinate and disgust most of us. The disgust is clear -- B.O., "summer teeth" and facial tattoos -- but why the fascination?

I think the alternative outlaw carny lifestyle is the draw. Think about it, all the fried dough you can eat, the opportunity to find out how the games are rigged, unlimited turns on thrill rides which (as my two boys describe) "make your penis tingle." It doesn't get much better than that.

People yearn for this kind of fun. Its why middle-aged bankers are now sporting so many tattoos its hard to pick the real carnies out of the crowd. Now carnies have to wear uniforms.

Personally, I have never dreamt of seducing a carny, but I have toyed with the idea of becoming one. Just for a week. I'd be a carny temp, just to see what it was like hanging in the Airstream village after-hours. Oh, like you're not a little curious?

Once, I almost completed an application when I saw a sign posted on the Zipper ride. It read, "Help Wanted: Must Love Travle." I love Travle. I think. I decided not to gamble, just in case "travle" is some euphemism for corn liquor-fueled bestiality. You can't be too careful.

I'm curious about the job interview process. I imagine it might go something like this:
Me: "I'm here about the carnival job, I love travle."
A carny boss throws a wrench at me. I pick it up off the ground.
"Be here at 11!" He yells.
I am now in charge of assembling and running the Bumper Cars.

I'd be low on the carny totem pole until I had proven myself at 3 card Monte while doing Jack Daniels shots.

The carnies who really fascinate me are the professional-grade carnies. At our Fair, there is a duo: Lance Gifford and his ambiguously sexual partner Jarrod www.fairentertainer.com . Not only are Lance and Jarrod a class A magic act ... they moonlight running the pig races. Each day they perform 8 - 10 shows, racing from one end of the Fairgrounds to the other, stripping out of their glittered attire to don overalls and straw-filled hats to transform themselves into Granny's champion pig callers.

One year my eldest son recognized Jarrod from his earlier gig and yelled, "Hey, its the magic man!" while pointing enthusiastically. Jarrod momentarily looked panicked and quickly shoved a whistle in my boy's mouth and deputized him as Assistant Pig Caller. Identity crisis averted.

I wondered if my magic men were perhaps double-dipping without Fair management permission? It didn't seem too necessary to preserve the illusion of being only a magician or only a pig caller -- a pig-calling magician is a pretty solid act.

I read in Lance Gifford's online bio that he left home at 16 and travels regularly with the Fair. He has a pretty plush stage & all those pigs. I wonder if he has a grade A RV in the lot, or if he bunks in a hotel. He and Jarrod are like the kings of carny world. They look like they are having a blast. Maybe its all the travle ... or maybe their penises just tingle, magically.

Square Peg at the Playground

Today we had a pre-first grade playdate with all the other kiddies & mommies at the playground. I was reminded, again, of how much I don't fit in with the stay-at-home crowd.

Oh, I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover and you never know how alike you may be deep down ... but I'm pretty sure my kid was the only one who was eating a frozen pancake while wearing a tin-foil hat on the way over.

The frozen pancake honestly can't be chalked up to negligent parenting; my boy prefers them frozen. And the tin foil hat -- hand made. I don't think he's schizophrenic, though maybe I'll have him checked. He does commune with aliens, but we've been chalking that up to a colorful imagination. At what point does that veer into diagnosable mental illness?

I guess tin foil hats, like chubby dimpled thighs, are cute until 5th grade - and then you're just fat and creepy. Pity the kid who is sporting both.

Once we arrived at the playground, we left the foil hat in the car and joined our playmates and play mommies.

Some of the other moms are neighbors and I was glad to chat with them since I always feel slightly guilty and sad that I don't know them better. They seem to have their own stay-at-home clique and, as a worker-bee, I'm usually excluded.

I work from home many days, but I can see the full-timer moms are wary of committing their energies to me, sensing that I might turn on my high-heel any time, grab my briefcase and leave them high & dry on the day its my turn to host coffee.

They sense I'm a love 'em & leave 'em play-date player, apt to mosy on as soon as I got a better offer in a conference room with Powerpoint. True dat.

What can I say? I'm just not cut of the same cloth. I don't care that much about organic cleaning supplies, who's had BoTox, or what's on sale at the Christmas Tree Shop. OK, I totally want to know about the BoTox, but I don't know who they are gossiping about.

I don't apply the same level of energy to analyzing the first grade teachers, classroom composition or anticipating the homework amounts. FT moms think about these things ... a LOT. They apply a level of strategic thinking I've seen only on reality TV shows, and in the office. I was impressed, and yet bored. I was boredpressed.

Fortunately, there was a crisis to divert my attention. The FT moms had all thought ahead to pack coolers full of snacks and beverages. I did not. It was a 10:30 playdate -- that's between meals!

My boy was unpsyched. "I'm hungry and thirsty!" He yelled. "Ummm, you have any of that frozen pancake left in the car?" I asked. I got an eye-roll.

All around me, moms were plying their children with whole-grain crackers, fruit juice sweetened cookies, and juice boxes. I got the pity offer from a couple moms. "We have some extra, if your son needs a snack."

Instead, I whisked him off the playground to the nearby French bakery where Captain Fancypants eyed all the treats, settling on an Orangina, a Quiche Lorraine and a mini-eclair -packaged elegantly to-go.

We made quite the return entrance as Andrew marched back to the picnic table and set out his array of delights. The other kids oohed and ahhed and immediately started demanding better snacks like Andrew's. He gloried in his fancy treats while the other kids simmered and the mothers rolled their eyes.

I just shrugged and smiled apologetically and then began checking my Blackberry, like a nervous tick.

On the way home I wore the tin foil hat. Who knows, maybe the aliens are more my cup of tea.

Movie Night

I don't get out to see too many movies with a rating above PG these days . It just goes with the parenting territory. I get all tingly when we choose something with live action.

Last night, we had grand plans to go see Wall-E. Unfortunately, it was "War Games" night at the theater and they had no screenings.

We had to settle for 2nd choice: "Space Chimps"

Today I told a girlfriend that I saw an accidental movie that was better than expected. When I told her it was "Space Chimps," she asked deadpan -- "So, did you see with subtitles, or in the original French?"

I spit Diet Coke all over my shirt. Such is my life. Mon Dieu (ooh, ooh, ahh, ahh)

A dip and a plunge

When I was a kid, my favorite season was Autumn. Here in New England, that means apple cider, apple cider donuts, apple pie, apple crisp ... notice a theme? Today, however, I am a seasonal turncoat -- trading in the Autumn apple of my eye for a new sizzlin' season ... Summer.

It was inevitable. I live in a beach town and I own a pool. What's not to love? Growing up, I was pool-less but I didn't see myself as aquatically-disadvantaged. There were only one or two families with pools in our neighborhood of 42 houses (I recall the exact number houses from my paper-route). Pool scarcity provoked our creativity. We pool-less souls invented excuses to loiter on front lawns looking terribly parched while conveying the impression we'd be far more fun to play with if properly re-hydrated.
The pool moms would absent-mindedly supervise our swimming while sunbathing in baby oil -- smoking their Virginia Slims and drinking a couple high-balls on the patio. We were mainly a gaggle of girls and our high-jinks wouldn't exactly make your adrenaline rush. Our big thrills were making a giant whirlpool around by speed walking in unison and then swimming back against the tide. If we were feeling particularly Evil Kneivelish, we'd repeatedly fall backwards into the pool off the deck to "take the Nestea plunge."

My how times have changed as a pool-mom in Testosterone town. As the mother of rambunctious boys, who seem to collect more boys wherever they go... my voice is hoarse -- not from Virginia slims, but from screaming "That's not safe!" about 411 times in any single afternoon.

The same boys who have just barely mastered shoe tying suddenly morph into little MaGuyvers when touched by chlorine. They assemble vast contraptions of pool toys, floats, lawn furniture and playground equipment to better catapult themselves into the water. They have chicken fights, leap and push each other in every conceivable direction and shove one another off the diving board. I wince so frequently I look as though I have a facial tick.

They think this is funny. "Oh mom, Relax" they call. "Yeah, easy to say when you haven't read the liability insurance rider on our home owner's policy," I shout back.

Good gravy. Who am I becoming?

Later that afternoon, I decide to rekindle the fun by offering a thrill suggestion of my own. Over dinner I ask "So, you ever skinny dip?" Both boys eyes widen and they look at each other and say "no," breaking into fits of giggles. "Want to skinny dip tonight?" I ask.

"Yeah!" screams my youngest.
"OK." shrugs my oldest (he's a dude).

That night, we turn on the pool light and turn off the outdoor lights. My 6-year-old little guy is nearly stripped clean before he hits the deck. My 9-year old glances around furtively and sinks below the surface of the water before taking off his bathing suit. I jump in (with my suit on). I'm not creepy.

Suddenly the exhilaration sets in. They both start shrieking with delight and swimming around like little fish. They climb out of the pool showing two little white moons and decide to try the slide au natural. Bare bottoms give a distinct slippery speed advantage and they shoot off the bottom of the slide like little rockets into the night, squealing all the way.

My coolness factor has risen considerably and I am thrilled to find a something fun, safe and exhilarating to do in the pool.

The next day, we go to a water park -- oddly enough named "Water Wizz." I'd like to meet those marketing geniuses. What was rejected? "Poopy pools"?

Naming aside, I do love me a water park. Mmmm, mmm. One of the top three reasons I had children was so that I could continue to frequent water parks without looking like a pedophile. For years my husband and I would go every summer. We'd look freaky I guess -- much older than the teenagers & yet with no children of our own. We came to know park security quite well.

On this day, we have our child accessories and are thrilled to learn that our youngest is now tall enough (48") to ride the thrill rides. Hooray! We immediately set off for some of our old favorite tube slides. Next, we ascend "water mountain" -- an area of the park we have never been to, since the 'little anchor' had held us back. On water mountain, there are high-speed hills you can race down, luge like, on little mats. There are several high-speed inner tube rides and finally, there is the centerpiece attraction -- the Pirate's Plunge.

The Pirate's Plunge is a giant, fully-enclosed black tube, raked at an 80 degree angle. It juts out at a perpendicular angle half way through, and then continues straight down into a water gully that slows riders down, drag race style, until they hit the lazy river. There is an observation deck that straddles the water gully so that park guests can watch and laugh at the unfortunate Pirate plungers who are receiving the water wedgie of a lifetime.

I start suggesting we should try the plunge, believing, in my heart of hearts, that my 9 year old will be too chicken. He is a mini me. He will talk a great game and then find some excuse - a sore foot, belly-ache, mad desire to try another ride - to prevent our going on the plunge. I feel safe talking it up, until he says "Ok, let's do it!" I did not expect to have my bluff called.

We start to ascend the stairs -- many, many, many stairs -- and the pounding in my chest is not just aerobic. I am scared to death. I did not think we'd go through with it. My husband is calm and my 6 year old is dancing with glee. That kid would bungee jump without a second thought. The teen years should be fun.

I decide to try to reason with my 9 year old, making him my 'out'. "That thing looks pretty scary and like it would give you a wicked wedgie," I say. "We can go do something different if you want. We don't have to take the plunge." I see him look at me with what I mistake for gratitude for providing a graceful excuse.

It turns out he's looking over my shoulder at a 4 year old wearing an orange life jacket. This kid is bounding up the steps for his third plunge. My guy lights up. "No mom, let's do it -- that little kid has already done it twice!"
Crap. I think about telling him that a 4 year old doesn't have the sense God gave eggplant, but I know if will fall on deaf ears. Suddenly all three of my boys (husband included) start chanting "Do it, do it, do it!, do it" I am out manned.
My 6 year old starts trash-talking me. "You're a scaredy cat, even a kindergartner takes the plunge!" I redden. Then it starts. They start making the chicken noises, accompanied by the chicken dance. I can't handle that the whole ride home, so -- against my own wisdom -- I agree to plunge.

My little guys goes first, screaming all the way. Not confidence inspiring. Next, my 9 year old takes the plunge, walking a little funny after the dismount, but walking all the same.

I offer for my husband to go next, but he shakes his head. "I want to make sure you don't chicken out." He smiles. That's the problem with twenty-three years -- they allow you to know a person too well.

I step up to the pool platform. It is dark, pitch black in that tube. The only sound is a vague echo of all the water rushing down the super steep incline. I make the sign of the cross and climb in, pulling myself forward with an overhead bar.

Suddenly, I'm free falling with my eyes shut. I hit the midpoint and surprisingly speed up when the water hits my back. In no time, I'm in day light with a wall of water rushing up from my feet to slow me down. I look up and see three sets of hands clapping over my head. "You did it!" they cheer in unison.

Yes I did! I feel scared, proud ... exhilarated. Once I bit the bullet, it was really fun.

That is what summer is all about -- gettin' a little crazy, trying something new, pushing a comfort zone for the story value on the ride home. Over ice cream, we all agreed the Pirate Plunge was the best part of the day, then the boys begged to skinny dip at home.

I feel 10 years old all over again.

Perhaps in my younger days

Years ago, Saturday Night Live had a fantastic skit featuring Bill Murray as the middle-aged Hercules. In the skit, King David would be incredibly thrilled to meet his hero and would set up a recreation of the 'Labors of Hercules.' The Colosseum crowd would be jacked beyond belief to watch Hercules dazzle them with his powers, when ol' Herc would say (in his deep booming voice).
"No, I am sorry. I cannot lift a rock that large. Perhaps I could in my younger days." There would be a long disappointed pause until Hercules would offer, "Perhaps I could lift a smaller one," hoisting up a small stone about the size of a paperweight. The crowd would then golf-clap and roll their eyes.

And so it goes. I totally get it. This week, I had a wild and crazy night planned in NYC with my brother-in-law. Along with another friend, we went to go see the 80's techno-synth band Yaz (nee Yazoo). These guys have not toured or released a record in about 23 years and have sunk into almost total obscurity.

All during the day, I was in business meetings feeling somewhat smug that I was going out to a concert that night. I'd find ways to casually drop it into conversation, thinking "I'm not going to some boring wine dinner -- I'm going out to see Yaz .... Boo Yeah, I'm bad!"
The only problem was, no-one knows who Yaz is http://www.yazooinfo.com/and its incredibly difficult to 'hum a few bars' from a techno-band's few mainstream hits. "Deep deep deep, boop yeooooow, booop, boop boop wow, wonk wa." Pity the fool who picks Yaz on 'Name That Tune'. Its Turtle Wax and Rice-A-Roni time.

That night, we changed into our club clothes. Black remains an evergreen choice for any decade.
As we made our way up the West Side to the new club, "Terminal 5", we realized that there we not going to be any seats at this venue. This was a standing-room-only concert. A collective groan went up in the back of the cab.

I am at the age where seats make all the difference to the evening. We can head out to the coolest, hippest bar in the universe and -- if I'm standing -- its going to be a short night. In this, I am not alone. A group of us will be standing together in a bar, half-listening and looking over one anothers' shoulders to see if we can pounce on empty seats. One-by-one, we're fooled by table sitter's periodic trips to the bathroom until we give up & go somewhere less hip where we can rest our sore hips on plush seating.

At the concert, it seems Yaz was feeling the same way. Vince Clarke must have spent all his energy during his Depeche Mode and Erasure years. He stood almost motionless behind several Laptop computers and pressed keys periodically. We joked that the music had been pre-recorded and he was just checking his email.

Alison Moyet also seemed to be downshifting her energy this decade. She wore a simple black outfit and New Balance sneakers with orthotics. We couldn't technically "see" the orthotics, but she was clearly favoring comfort over style.

In fairness, Alison is not a small girl and she was belting out the tunes and working some of her 80s dance moves. (Note: How I wish there were an 80s dance move exercise class!)

There were fairly long rest breaks throughout their hour-long set and, at one point, Alison returned to the stage with her own Barcalounger as she sang a song about "sitting too low in her chair." Too low my ass. I was jealous, since by this time, my own knees were throbbing in time with my lower back.

I'm not saying we did not have an excellent time, only that a chair would have magnified my enjoyment tenfold!

On the way out of the show, we ran into one of my brother-in-law's friends who was bursting with verve and enthusiasm. "Wasn't that show just amazing?!" He asked. "Oh my god, there's such amazing music here this summer. Just this weekend, there's the Coco-Puffs, The Criminally Insane, Biscuit Cutie, The Nuggetrons, Noodle McBoodle, The Skeevemeisters and Tilly And The Wall."
Only the last name is a real bandhttp://tillyandthewall.com/, memorable to me because they tapdance while singing.

At the end of the enthusiastic concert-listing fire hose blast, Tom and I just looked at each other pie-eyed. We were shocked that neither of us had any idea about any of the bands this guy was raving about. We fondly recalled the time when we would have been utterly plugged in. Tonight, our ankles hurt and we were dying to sit down and have an Italian Ice. Cool has taken on a whole new meaning.
Perhaps in my younger days ...

Is this how Donald Trump got started?

My nine-year-old son has been obsessed with money for as long as I can recall.
"Keep your eyes on the ground and you'll always find money," he used to say. He was right. On every outing, he found -- not pennies -- but dimes, quarters and even dollar coins.

When he was 4, we once went to the beach at sunset and he found $80 (four $20 bills) floating in the surf. No kidding. He saves all this money and has me periodically take it to the bank to be converted into $100 bills for which he holds public showings in his bedroom. The neighborhood boys line up to ooh and ahh at his Benjamins. I am only surprised he doesn't charge admission.

This Halloween, he chose to go out as "Mr. Crabs" from Sponge Bob, going door-to-door announcing "Trick or Treat -- I LOVE MONEY!" The kid has a theme.

I wonder what career he'll pursue when he's older. Lucky him -- he won't have to choose between love or money, because for him -- where's the choice? His stated career aspirations today are: Major League Baseball player, comedian, and the scientist who invents a car which runs on salt water.

I'm thinking he might want to add "securities trader" to that list, since every day I am incessantly peppered with about 76,283 questions of "How much is that worth?" If I show him a picture of a friend's artwork, his reply "How much is that worth?" If I buy him a shirt, "How much is that worth?" If I receive a check in the mail, he asks "How much did you get?" The question is so automatic, I am ashamed to say -- I usually tell him without thinking.

More than occasionally, he stumps me. The other day he threw this curve ball.
"What would be worth more -- An original copy of the Declaration of Independence or The Holy Grail?"
"Umm ...," I replied. "The Holy Grail because that is globally-valued where the Declaration of Independence would be primarily valuable to Americans." I was so proud of my thoughtful answer.
"You think I could get $50 Billion for the Holy Grail?" He asked.
"Is there something you want to tell me? I haven't ventured under your bed in some time, did you find treasure there?"
We talked some more about potential buyers and whether Bill Gates or the Catholic church would cough up the most dough for the Grail. I thought we were done when he launched his follow-up line of questioning.
"If I found the Grail all by myself and sold it all by myself, would it be my money or the family's money?"
I said, "If you find and sell the Holy Grail all by yourself - its all yours." A big smile settled over his face.
"What if Teddy helped me dig it up with his paws?" At that point, our mini Golden Doodle trotted over to the conversation, evidently to make sure he'd get his cut of the action with this Grail business.
"If Teddy helps you dig -- you gotta hook him up," I said.
"Hmmm, how much would I have to give him?"
"Well, there's no rule, but Leona Helmsley just left her dog $12Million." We talked some more about how Leona's dog spends that money. I had just read an itemized accounting of this in New York magazine, so I could speak with authority.
"I'd buy us four jet-skis," he said. "And a side-car for Teddy so he could ride alongside me with his tongue hanging out."
Cam and I just sat there for a minute, smiling at the idea of us riding our four Grail-money jet skis with Teddy alongside. Teddy licked his approval for the plan.
Guess we better get digging.