Parton me, that's inappropriate

When my boys are eager to learn, it lights me up. At heart, I am an educator, driven to share all the wisdom the universe has provided.

It warmed my heart when my youngest came to me, cradling a calculator, with earnest desire for knowledge burning bright in his young eyes.

"Mom, can you show me the Dolly Parton thing again?"

I forgot that I had shared this little jewel, once again forgoing appropriateness for the cheap laugh.

"Sure -- Dolly Parton went to a Doctor who was 69 years old and told him her boobs were 222 big."

* A flurry of giggles here* (mostly mine)

"So he gave her 51 pills and told her to take them over 8 days (X8)."

And then she was .....

BOOBLESS

That little ditty has killed with 2nd graders for 30 years. Does anyone even know who Dolly Parton is anymore?

It's fashion, baby

I subscribe to several casting call email lists. I'm not sure why. I don't act, and I doubt the Ford Agency is going to launch a search for a "40-something blonde with just the right combo of freckles and wrinkles who can peel a banana with her toes." You never know though. Lately, I've been seeing more specific casting calls, like:
- hair models - especially silver and salt & pepper
- hand models - especially Asian
- and LOTS of calls for baby models

I wonder if there are baby hand models. That casting call would be awesome.
"M'am ... your baby has a face for radio ... but those chubby little knuckles are cherubic. Can you have her hold the Gerber's jar in front of her while covering her head with a blanket?"

I think I'm going to put "baby hand model" on my resume. Who'd know?

One little volcano can ruin your whole day

The last several days, I've been leading a double life. While attending a humor workshop, a First Communion, flying to New York and driving to Boston, I have had to repeatedly answer the bleating electronic panic button. I have been continuously summoned to write Urgent...Urgent...Emergency (Sorry, I started channeling Foreigner for a minute) client web copy.

What is so important that I interrupt my life every 6 minutes to retrieve desperate requests for instant pithy content? Well, Wednesday kicks off the International Swaps and Derivatives Association conference. Surely you've been tracking the frenzied Twitter stream and counting the hours. ISDA is like Woodstock for puffy, middle-aged, white guys who favor hand sewn loafers and Thomas Pink shirts. We have to rush, in order to announce (dry-ice please) the latest derivatives collateral management workflow solutionzzzz. Whoops, there's the narcolepsy again. This time, I think I even drooled a little.

Since Thursday, I have been playing freeze tag -- cutting my activities short to stop, drop & type. Type what? Gobbldygook. No one actually reads this stuff. And because I don't have the sense god gave grapefruit -- I missed cocktails, nearly missed a flight and pulled the car over in front of a Sabrett hot dog stand on 49th & Park today to hold my computer out the window ... just to get those words out on deadline.

I made it, and I felt smug about for two hours, until I heard the news. "Due to the situation in Iceland, the conference looks to be a disappointment, and the copy will not be used."

Stupid volcano.

Actually, its pretty dang hilarious that my day was ruined by a volcano. I think volcanos are my favorite new excuse.

"The volcano made me do it."

"Due to the situation in Iceland ... I cannot come to spin class, or the neighborhood Creative Memories shakedown (I mean party)"

"How can you expect me to make it into work? There's a volcano. Did you not hear the volcano cancellations on the radio?"

Tomorrow looks to be a no-schools/all-schools Volcano kind of day. I may just have to invent a cocktail in its honor.

Ingredient suggestions?